Recently, I saw the following line in a promotion for a book to which I contributed: “This volume includes voices from Christianity, Judaism, goddess religion, the Black church, and indigenous religions.” The editors of this book are to be strongly commended for expanding the dialogue in feminism and religion beyond the confines of the Christian hegemony in which it is still all too often framed. Nonetheless, I felt hurt and offended. I immediately wrote to the editors asking how they would feel if a book were promoted using the words: “This volume includes voices from Goddess religion and god traditions such as judaism and christianity.”
Actually it comes twice, once in midsummer, the longest day of the year, and once in midwinter, the longest night. Winter Solstice is also known as the first day of winter.
For those of us attuned to the cycles of Mother Earth, Winter Solstice is a time to celebrate the dark and the transformations that come in the dark. Many of the customs associated with Christmas and Hannukah, including candles, Yule logs, and trees decorated with lights were originally associated with Winter Solstice. The extra pounds put on during winter feasting were insulation against the cold winter nights.
Those who fear that many of the customs of the Christmas season might be pagan are right. As we learn again to honor our place within the cycles of birth, death, and regeneration, we can return these customs to their roots in the circle of life.
The collision of the 2023 Christian liturgical season of Advent with American reproductive politics has been jarring. Feminist religious critique and transformative activism are imperative.
With the Texas Supreme Court decision on a dire abortion case, alongside increasing criminalization of women having miscarriages, we are witnessing the principle of patriarchal dominance of female reproductive capacity and the denigration of women’s full, equal personhood pushed to the extreme. In part, this barbarity is perpetuated by Christianity. Even though this tradition often challenges social systems of injustice, and it does not actually support their hollow theology of “life at conception,” misogynist oppressors have plenty of Christian religiosity to stand on.
I have just recently taken on debt with the divine feminine app. I made the decision to go to the Parliament of World Religions. We added a weekly email feature and an affiliate program. I have been investing in some other features in an attempt to make the app sustainable. I find myself $13,000 in debt.
And I’m not done. Both the Operating System that the app is built on and the smartphone apps need to be updated. In technological terms, they are ancient, and we are starting to have different issues pop up with them.
If I am lucky and continue to work without a paycheck as I have the past ten years and with the company in India who is about 1/8 the cost of doing this state side, this will cost us about $7,000.
“The driver…falls back like a racing charioteer at the barrier, and with a still more violent backward pull jerks the bit from between the teeth of the lustful horse, drenches his abusive tongue and jaws with blood, and forcing his legs and haunches against the ground reduces him to torment. Finally, after several repetitions of this treatment, the wicked horse abandons his lustful ways; meekly now he executes the wishes of his driver, and when he catches sight of the loved one [i.e. his master] is ready to die of fear.”
I can’t seem to get this image from Plato’sPhaedrus quoted in Val Plumwood’sFeminism and the Mastery of Natureout of my mind or my body these days. The other day I tried to read the above passage to a friend and my body became so tense that I accidentally cut off the phone connection—twice. Now while I am writing my muscles are tight, and I am beginning to get a headache. I cannot get the image of the black horse out of my mind because “she” (I know that Plato’s horse was a “he”) has lived in my body for as long as I remember. She probably first took root in my body when I began to fear my father’s discipline. She became bigger and stronger every time someone or something in culture told me that my body and the feelings of my body were bad, that I as a girl or woman was unworthy, that the things I cared about were not important, that my thoughts were wrong.
Part 1 was posted yesterday, you can read it here.
Stage Nine – Reward (Seizing the Sword) – Healing the Mother/Daughter Split
Some contemporary versions of the Heroine’s Journey have the heroine or hero seizing the sword quite dramatically. She takes possession of the treasure ‘sword’ as knowledge, experience, or greater understanding. My reward was more subtle but deeply profound. It took Her awhile to help me understand but eventually I stopped fighting and leaned into Mother Mountain. When I was calmer, when I became still, stopped trying so hard … when I finally surrendered I was able to ask Her why.
Why Mother Mountain? Why COVID? Why now?
Her response was as clear as though She was speaking in my ear:
“It was the only way we could meet each other. Every step you have taken up to now has led you to this sacred moment.”
Queer Chicana feminist author, Gloria Anzaldúa, once claimed, “The world I create in my writing compensates for what the real world does not give me.” I’ve long connected with the revolutionary Anzaldúa, believing in the prophetic power of the written word to create new worlds, worlds big and wide and just and beautiful enough for all people. Worlds where the perspectives of the marginalized are brought to the center.
This is what I aim to do as a publisher and writer myself. It was a meandering path to get here, but on the cusp of a new year, I find myself finally in place with my calling and vocation where all my skills as an activist, writer, professor, artist, and pastoral presence are coming together.
My daughter used to love Dr. Seuss’s book Wacky Wednesday. The premise of the book is that you are supposed to find the things that are off in the picture: an upside down picture, a tiger instead of a baby in the stroller and steps leading up to a house with no door.
My daughter was always so excited to find these anomalies: giggling and pointing them out.
‘See, the world makes sense! But this doesn’t. And this doesn’t either.’
It seems that the hearts of the whole world, and especially the hearts of women, are grieving now, as war and warmongering take over more and more of the Earth. Patriarchy rages on, like a monster in its death throes, and we wonder, “will they take us all down with them?” It is my hope that these poems will help us to keep on keeping on, keep on loving Her.
My grief, my love for the world
I watch the dancer, one arm framing her face, one hip drawing upward in the belly’s rhythm. The dance of mature women, Raqs Sharqi born of the sensuous music of the Middle East. Her hips pull us into infinity, an inward-outward shout of beauty and desire.
Feminism and Religion 