Tuesday, January 14, 2014


Seven years ago I worked really hard to prove my call was endorsed by every Biblical scene. I have books dedicated to feminist interpretations of the messy stories theologians and busybodies use to prove women can't be pastors. My books existed to demonstrate they could. The Syrophoenician Woman . . . no problem. Jesus was trying to teach his disciples a lesson. Hagar, Tamar and the Daughter of Jephthah, I had explanations that encouraged finding hope in those passages. Really, hope in the victimization of Hagar and the dismemberment of the nameless? 
That was then. About one year ago I realized I didn't have to make my story fit within the purview of   the Bible. I labored to squeeze myself into passages where I simply did not fit. In my moment of realization I breathed deeply knowing there was room for me in the margins. I like the margins, I would rather be there anyway.

In seminary I learned to weigh biblical truths against the whole of the Bible. I was to read scripture in context and against a backdrop stretched from Genesis to Revelation. Even still, that canvas is bloody and often excludes women. Regardless, my story, my call, my Imago Dei is not solely defined by archaic texts written by mere mortals. This makes me heretical. This makes me happy. This is now. 


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