Feminism and Religion

Noah’s Garden by Sara Stein, book review by Janet Rudolph

“People spend so much time mocking Trump or waiting for him to be impeached. And the danger with that kind of obsession with a single person is that you don’t see the system that produced him.”
Arundhati Roy

Here at FAR, along with many other venues, we have borne witness to the depravities of this administration. This is important work as it is a main component of the mop-up that will eventually and hopefully lead to accountability and meaningful change. This post and the following one looks at the route of how we got here. I have long pursued this theme using the Bible as the foundational belief system underlying our culture. I love to explore how typical translations undermined older beliefs that connected traditions and peoples. In this post and the next I will look at some of the stops we’ve made along with way here in the US to get here to the present day. I will do this by looking at two books I read many years ago that have stayed with me for their poignance and revelations.

The first is Noah’s Garden by Sara Stein. The subtitle is “Restoring the Ecology of Our Own Backyards.” It was published in 1993.

This book really hits home for me because I live in ecologically sterile suburbs which are satellite to New York City. It pains me to see the lawns in my community which are not only all the same but lay outside the fronts doors like they were indoor carpeting. In other words, LIFELESS! Stein writes, “We spend $25 billion a year coddling this carpet that on an August day lies sprawled over 30 million acres of America, stupefied in the sun.”(151). As these figures are from over 30 years ago, I can say with confidence that the numbers of money and acreage are vastly larger today.

Seaside Poems by Elanur Williams

These poems mark the passage into my 30s, tracing the space between who I was before and who I am becoming. The final poem is for my daughter, inspired by our coastal walks together and her habit of searching the water for boats, whales, and hidden sea life. The series is also a tribute to FAR, and how the community has held me during times of change and transition.

Low Tide

leaves bare:
a stretch

of sand
pulled into

night.
What is left:

gull-cries
of memories,

fears,
abandoned

shells of intentions.
The shape I take

when no one
sees: a thin seam

of light, caught
between silt.

The Goddess is a Beak by Sara Wright

The Goddess
is a beak
without mercy
piercing my brain
pecking me apart
in self
hate
disgust
really?
Numbness turns
the world into
Gold Lead
my beloved
earth – dead
all but One
gift from
Beyond
monochromatic
on the brightest fall
days
not a word
from the trees
dull stupid
Backwards brain
twisted body
Backwards brain
Forward
Inside out
Upside
Down
Inside out
Brain
spewing
coiled
Serpents
through tortured
body
what
hellish fury
awaits
me beyond
the next gate
I curl
cringe inward
belly to fur
Stay your Poison
Once out of joy
I birthed a
Bird goddess
I sculpted her
holy
serpent hisses
withers my guts
fangs drip blood
squeeze
breath
from old lung
razor sharp
talons
crush
beating
red heart
Devourer
strips
bone to
bone
stretching sinew
to pain
(have I not loved
you enough?)
why wield
a silver
scythe?
You already
own me
choking on
disorientation
Jingled
to crazy
Winged Nightmare
splinters each night
paralyzes
Light…

The Legacy of Carol P. Christ: Relationship, Freedom, Change, and Interdependence in the Web of Life

Marjorie Suchocki says that feminist theology needs a metaphysics, a coherent world view that can hold together what we might otherwise be seen as a series of unrelated assertions made by feminists. Metaphysics is one of those terms that make most people cringe. If they have any idea at all what the word means, they might categorize metaphysics as the most abstract and out of touch with reality aspect of philosophy. In the Platonic tradition where ideas precede reality, metaphysical truths are revealed by rational contemplation of transcendent principles that precede the world. “I think, therefore, I am,” Descartes said. This notion of metaphysics makes me cringe too.

In process philosophy metaphysics refers to the fact that the world is governed by and expresses certain fundamental principles. This does not mean that ideas are more important than reality. Quite the opposite, metaphysical principles are conclusions reached through paying close attention to the world.

From the Archives: “The Mixed Bag that is Toldot.”

Author’s Note: As I mentioned in last month’s blog, I am taking some time off of writing new material on feminismandreligion.com to concentrate on writing a book. In the meantime, I hope that you enjoy some of my past blog posts.

See you sometime in 2027.

This post was first published on 13 November 2022. This year, 5878, Toldot is read in synagogues on 14 November.

The parshah for November 26th is Toldot, Genesis 25:19-28:9. In it, we have the struggles of Isaac and Rebecca to conceive, the relations between Abimelech and Isaac’s family, the birth of Esau and Jacob, and the loss of Esau’s birthright and his father’s blessing. As we will see, this is a tricky portion from a feminist perspective because of Rebecca, yet, from an ecofeminist perspective, I find the way in which the portion discusses the interconnection between the water, the land, and divinity helpful.

Let me begin with the water and then we will look at Rebecca. Toldot takes place in and around the city of Gerar in Philistine territory, while Abimelech ruled. Isaac and his family travel through the land quite a bit between verses 26:16 and 26:32. Most of this section pertains to them moving and then digging new wells, the covering of wells, and the finding of water. What I find particularly interesting here is the way in which water and peace seem to go together. For example, in 26:20-21, Isaac and his family have constructed a well but it is causing them to have troubles with the locals. Isaac seeks peace and thus leaves. In verse 26:26, Isaac is visited by Abimelech and eventually a formal peace is declared. This is followed in 26:32 by Isaac’s servants finding water in a freshly dug well. In other words, Isaac is willing to uproot his family time and again to cultivate peace; he is not willing to go to war over what in the desert really is a quite limited resource.

How Women’s Ritual Dances Help Heal the Trauma of Patriarchy

In the northern hemisphere we have entered the final phase of waxing darkness before the winter solstice, the yearly gift which invites us to rest, renew, and heal. Yet so many of us lead such full and active lives, how do we find time for essential being amid all of our essential doing?

Since Neolithic times at least, women have gathered in sacred circles to sing and dance together. Regular circle dance offers mini-opportunities to rest and renew, as we take time out from our busy daily lives and allow ourselves to be held by the larger circle.

While our bodies move, our minds rest, and our spirits become refreshed. We follow in the footsteps of the ancestors of the human family, connecting with ourselves, each other, and universal themes of life, release and regeneration.

*Women’s circle dance. Terracotta, Palaikastro, Crete,*
*1350–1300 BCE. Heraklion Archaeological Museum, Crete.*
*Photo: Laura Shannon.*

Poems for My Motherline by Carolyn Lee Boyd

November is a time when the veil is thin between the worlds of the living and the dead. As I slip into the magic of this time of year, I think about my motherline: my mother, my mother’s mother, my mother’s mother’s mother, and so on down myriad generations to the beginning of humanity. I am lucky that I am able to trace my motherline back to 15th century England and discover some of the stories of these women whose labor and sacrifice gave me life. These three poems are some of the thoughts turned into poetry that I have had about my motherline over the years. They are chronological, beginning with my experience of being at my mother’s bedside as she died. Next is an ode to the generations of my motherline who migrated over and over again, seeking homes where they could find well being and peace for themselves and their children (while acknowledging in this note that, with each migration, they displaced people already living there, destroying their well being and peace). Finally, a poem about our generation’s place between those who lived before us and those who will live after us and what we have to offer each other. May we all gaze through the thin veil at one another, no matter which generation we are, with compassion and love..

Gratitudes by Beth Bartlett

After several stressful and demanding weeks, I had five days ahead of me with no responsibilities except to my dog, who gives as much if not more than he gets. I had a long drive ahead of me, but it was the peak of the autumnal bouquet that filled nearly every moment of the ten-hour drive. Plus, I was headed to my soul’s resting place. Only an hour into my drive I could feel the tension in my bodymind melt away. I actually felt lighter. The spaciousness of the days ahead emptied me of every bit of negativity and in its place — gratitudes.

This was not the practice of recognizing and writing down three things I was grateful for at the end of the day, something I have practiced as a discipline off and on for many years. It was instead much more spontaneous and spirit-filled. Throughout the day the gratitudes simply arose in my being.

The audiobook I was listening to filled me with appreciation for all the people in my former workplace who had done all the unseen work for the decades I had worked there – the ones who did the bookkeeping for my paychecks, my retirement fund, my healthcare; the ones who helped keep my computer running and the heat and lights on; the ones who cleaned the hallways and the classrooms; the ones who plowed the parking lots.

Ex-Good Wife Adventures by Laura Montoya

I had a severe mental breakdown last Tuesday after learning that my romantic interest—the most fictional, imagined, and fleeting of them all—had started a relationship with a fantastic woman. I found out he had a girlfriend in the middle of a brownie party, dressed in leather and holding a helium balloon. So, I approached him and asked him why the hell he’d ghosted me. He’d started a relationship with the Italian diva after categorically rejecting the idea of us ever having a serious relationship. “I’m not ready for a serious relationship at this point in my life,” he’d repeatedly told me during our dates-not-dates, only to find him again two months later in a seemingly very committed romantic venture with the curly-haired European beauty. I don’t blame him; she’s wonderful, and I wish them the best, sincerely, bitterly, but sincerely.

But beyond the characters in this temporary teenage story in my 35s, I remember realizing that day that I wasn’t going to blame anyone but myself. It was my fault again, for being naive, for being infatuated so fast, for waiting for a man to see me and appreciate me. So, I sank into the depths of guilt and the “why me, God?” Why me? (Insert here tears, mucus, babas, and a scream, with your imagination) The male God looked at me, smirking, and asked, “Do I know you?” But seriously, why can’t any man take me seriously? I asked God why I wasn’t attractive enough for someone to risk everything for me.

The Grandmother Way by Sara Wright

The last day of August is upon us. It’s so cool here in the hollow that I decide to winnow the second batch of my elderberries sitting outdoors where Coalie can keep a sharp eye on me from her dog bed on the porch. I note that hummingbirds are thinning out. As I begin this separation of berry from stem, I imagine that I am connected to all women everywhere through what is often called (pejoratively) ‘woman’s work’. Women who were the first seed keepers and berry winnowers like today’s Indigenous peoples that still follow the old ways. Oh, I am grateful to be sitting among them in my imagination. Still, I yearn. I wish I could share this task with just one other woman, and for a moment sink into that familiar loneliness. As I look at my purple stained fingers reflecting on how exquisite a natural dye this must make, I think I might try to collect another batch of berries to experiment with.

I am not sure just when all thought ceased but every year, I experience this phenomenon while plucking purple elderberries with my fingers… and then? Two hours later the winnowing is done, just as I begin to lose the sun. Returning to the house I finish my tinctures in minutes, pouring amethyst berries into jars and covering them with alcohol. After steeping for six weeks this medicine will help me ward off colds and flu. Covid too. I am mindful that elderberries are a gift from nature that I receive each year. Gratitude overflows at this time of the ‘Gathering In’.