women’s journeys – Feminism and Religion

Roots in the Air by Sara Wright

I am a plant woman, that is a woman who has an intimate relationship with plants. As an ecofeminist writer I believe that women and plants have a ‘natural’ connection to one another. We see this mythologically as women turn into trees, hold ceremonies under trees, listen to them for wisdom, take comfort from them in distress.

Why do we look to the stars for direction and ignore the urgent messages about interspecies communication that trees and plants convey to us here on earth?

I think this is a very important question to be asking when our planet is facing ecological collapse.

What follows is one woman’s story.

Tripping Together by Esther Nelson

I recently returned home from a two-week visit to Buenos Aires, Argentina—a trip I took with my eldest son, Mike, who throughout the years has expressed an interest in my birthplace. He has an avid interest in history, geography, and economics. It was like putting puzzle pieces together for him—attempting to understand the various aspects of Argentina in light of my experience. What was it like living in a “foreign” country? Did I have friends? Who were they? What were they like? How did we, the family (parents, 4 children—the 5^th was born much later), get along?

My parents were American, Protestant missionaries. They met at Moody Bible Institute, Chicago, Illinois, in the early 1940s. My mother was a Registered Nurse. My father had been recently discharged from the U.S. Navy. Both of them were eager to do the “Lord’s work.” For them, that meant serving the Lord as missionaries. They felt “called” to go to Argentina and preach the gospel mainly to Jews, God’s “chosen people.”

In Argentina, my parents struggled financially. Their mantra (especially my mother’s) was “God will provide.” That translated in my mind to “don’t ask for anything we cannot afford.” My parents’ income depended on God placing our needs on the hearts of people (mainly in the U.S.) who would then be moved to support our mission—the New Testament Missionary Union. Funds were divided among all the missionaries in the organization equitably, meaning the more children you had, the greater percentage of the available funds you received. It was never enough. My maternal grandmother, Jessie, often supplemented our income. I don’t remember ever going hungry, but I do recall appearing slovenly and disheveled—always an embarrassment. Except for my school uniform, the only clothes I wore were hand-me-downs or the ones Jessie sent from the U.S.

Mountain Mother by Sara Wright

When I picked berries in the mountain field that first summer, I could sense wave after wave of feeling rising up – seeping into my feet from the ground below. The sun spread blue heat over the hills, and I bathed in summer’s glow. For the first time in my life I felt visible, witnessed for who I really was and accepted: I was loved –unconditionally loved by a Mother. That She was a mountain field didn’t seem odd at all. I loved her back – fiercely. I marveled. To be in love with my goddess, the one that lived in this field, brook, young forest, the one who inhabited each of these rolling hills and mountains seemed so natural. Remarkably, She celebrated my presence not only by gifting me with a love that ran like a great underground river beneath me but because She created a palpable sense of belonging. I belonged to Her. She loved me just because I was. I couldn’t get over it. My gratitude knew no bounds. All I wanted to do was to serve her…

She was visible in so many ways – in the riot of purple and green jack in the pulpits that sprung out of the sphagnum moss behind the camp in the moist valley that often filled with water, through the solitary pink lady slipper that appeared by the bridge that crossed the brook, the tiny white swamp violets, the blue fringed gentians and pearl-white turtleheads that popped up in the meadow fed by it’s own spring in the center of the field.

I glimpsed her face in the cedar that sprung to life in the rich wooded soil that bordered the brook, she sang to me from the wild apple branches that bowed over rippling water, she blinked through each firefly night, burst into a “high” when thunder and lightening churned up the waters and the brook overflowed – White Fire crackling out of her clouds and slamming into me.

Invocation to Shekhinah-Lilith-Ishtar … By D’vorah Grenn, PhD

Moderator’s Note: This beautiful invocation appeared on the Lilith Institute’s website on February Feb 19, 2024. If you would like to learn more or see this invocation on their website, click here.

She of all knowing, dark wisdom … She of the deep abyss, snake’s descent, owl’s knowing … woman of the dark, the light.

We praise You, we stand in awe, marveling at the myriad surprises you hold in store for us always respectful of your power, your M/mystery.

Shekhinah-Lilith-Ishtar, we worship you, in all your aspects; we sing your name.

Walk with us as we yearn to see you, to feel you, to exchange the divine sparks we both need to live … Never let us forget your P/presence in, around and through us, as we seek to proclaim and praise you in every corner of the world, in your many guises, by every name.

Walk with us as we love you, when we are angered by you, when we fail to comprehend you and when we renew our resolve to serve …

Be patient with us as we must be with ourselves, and each other, holding your Presence even when we are in doubt or despair.

MaVynee Betsch: Preserving History and the Environment by Maria Dintino

Moderator’s Note: This piece is in co-operation with The Nasty Women Writers Project, a site dedicated to highlighting and amplifying the voices and visions of powerful women. The site was founded by sisters Theresa and Maria Dintino. To quote Theresa, “by doing this work we are expanding our own writer’s web for nourishment and support.” This was originally posted on their site on Feb 18, 2025. You can see more of their posts here.

“It’s history and nature all wrapped together, baby.” -MaVynee Betsch

Recently I visited the Best Richardson African Diaspora Literature & Culture Museum (BRADLC Museum) in St. Augustine, Florida. On our tour with owner Gigi Best-Richardson, I was captivated by the stunning cover of a children’s book on display, Saving American Beach: The Biography of African American Environmentalist MaVynee Betsch, written by Heidi Tyline King and illustrated by Ekua Holmes.

I had heard of MaVynee’s great-grandfather, Abraham Lincoln Lewis (1864-1947), one of the founders of the Afro-American Life Insurance Company in Jacksonville, Florida during the Jim Crow era. Lewis became Florida’s first Black millionaire.

Ariadne & Me – Betrayers by Arianne MacBean

Two of the most well-known aspects of mythical Ariadne are the way she betrays and is betrayed. Hers is the ultimate ancient Greek karma story. She casts off the burden of her father’s narcissism, her mother’s bewitchment, her half-brother’s torment. No one thinks she has it in her. But she does. In the thick night, she holds the thread for her lover while he makes his kill and flees with him into the dark open sea. Then, in the most vulnerable space between sleep and wakefulness, she finds herself abandoned. Here, on an island in the middle of nowhere, she cries out and is moved. Did the ancient Greeks tell this tale as warning for women, or advice?

What kind of woman would do what Ariadne did – leave everything – her inheritance, her kingdom, her role as a priestess – for the unknown other? Why would a daughter do that?

She wanted to exist.

Dancing with the Divine by Rabbi Nadya Gross

Moderator’s Note: The first part of this blog first appeared on the Yerusha website on Sept. 29, 2025. You can see it here.

From my earliest memories, I saw things others didn’t see and knew things I had no business knowing. I thought everyone noticed the dance of light around bodies, or the tiny life forms at the base of trees. I assumed everyone could feel another’s emotions as vividly as their own.

That illusion ended when my grandmother—my Savta—took me into the kitchen (where everything important happened), closed the door, and said: “Never speak of these things to anyone but me.” And so, my training began.

Savta’s gifts were different from mine. She had grown up in a circle of women and their daughters—a circle where wisdom was passed from generation to generation. In that circle, women taught each other, shared their insights, cultivated their gifts and skills, and preserved a legacy of sacred knowing.

The wisdom she shared with me was as ancient as the land itself. We began with reverence for the Earth and her elements—echoes of pre-patriarchal Goddess traditions. She taught me that everything is interconnected: harm to a tree, insect, or stream is harm to us. Respect is not something to demand, but to embody. I learned to ask permission before lifting a stone from its resting place, to give thanks to the fruit-bearing trees in my grandparents’ yard when I plucked the ripened fruit, and to recognize Creation as a web of relationship.

Standing On the Edge: Flipping the Goddess Community & Bringing Her Back by Caryn MacGrandle

As the creator of the divine feminine app, an online platform to find circles, events and resources to which an average of three women a day have found their way to for the past decade, I have been privy to quite a few opinions.

A large majority of the 12,000 women who have registered on the app are Circle hosts, course creators, retreat organizers, book authors, singers, product sellers and others that ‘She’ has tapped on the shoulder.

And I hear quite a lot.

‘Be careful about her.’ ‘Do you know what she did?’ ‘I would watch your back.’

‘Why do you have her work on your app?’

Ariadne & Me – daughters of narcissist fathers by Arianne MacBean

Portrait of Minos, king of Crete, from the Promptuarium Iconum Insigniorum

As the Ancient Greek myth is told, Ariadne’s father, Minos, is a powerful brute. The offspring of rape by the God Zeus of the Phoenician Princess, Europa, Minos’ violent origins reflect his development as a man, ruler, and father. He conquers and plunders while harboring secrets and wreaking havoc on his family. In the mythic world he is the definition of a victorious king. In today’s world, we call Minos a narcissist.

Half divine and half mortal, Minos moves between sacred and profane spaces to his advantage. He gains his throne as King of Crete with the support of the Sea God, Poseidon. When given a giant white bull as a congratulatory gift, Minos chooses not to sacrifice the bull as he promises Poseidon, but to keep it for himself. It is this choice that reveals Minos’ shadow narcissism. To Minos, the bull is his greatness, not a symbol of it. In a rage, Poseidon punishes Minos for his choice by cursing his wife, Pasiphaë, to become enraptured with the magic bull. While Minos is away from Crete conquering other lands and other women (he fathered several children outside his marriage), Pasiphaë under possession of Poseidon’s spell, convinces the inventor, Daedalus, to build a contraption to lure the bull into her. Ariadne’s half-brother, the Minotaur, is born out of this union.

The pre-Christian Roots of Purity Culture by Victoria Alvear

Published by Hypatia Press, *The Cleansing* deconstructs the roots of religious-based misogyny and purity culture through the real story of a Vestal Virgin accused of breaking her vow of chastity. Midwest Book Review called the novel, “Original, exceptional, deftly crafted and a simply riveting read from cover to cover.”

Writing a novel about the persecution of a Vestal Virgin priestess in ancient Rome really brought home for me just how deep the religious roots of misogyny and purity culture go. In my novel, The Cleansing I focused on the true story of a Vestal accused of having sex and being blamed for the massacre of 50,000 men in one battle.

Two hundred years before Christianity, Rome’s religious leaders claimed only a “crime” of that magnitude—of one of their sacred virgins breaking their vows—could have “disgusted” the gods enough to cause them to turn their backs on Rome. The Vestal faced a death sentence—being buried alive—for this so-called “crime.”

Meanwhile, the general who made a massive strategic error in battle, the man responsible for marching tens of thousands of soldiers into a trap, walked away scot-free.

It seemed unbelievable to me that they truly believed a woman’s sexual conduct could have that much influence and power. And yet they did, as evidenced by the fact that the Romans buried alive two dozen Vestal Virgin priestesses (that we know of) during Rome’s existence. When a tragedy occurred—war, famine, pestilence—the head priest of Rome, the pontifex Maximus, and the Collegium of priests often claimed that one or more of their six Vestal priestesses “had” to have had sex to explain away the tragedy.