So last week I look through my twitter feed, and come across a ton of articles on feminism and exploring what it means to be a woman. I discovered information about Sarah Bessey's soon coming book Jesus Feminist. I read a very insightful article on feminism by Bell Hooks critiquing Sheryl Sandberg's claim that Lean In is "a (sort of) feminist manifesto," a book I thoroughly enjoyed but would not call a feminist manifesto. I also saw this piece by Osheta Moore called we are pierced women, and this piece called Dear Patriarchy by Idelette McVicker. Then I ended the week unpacking evidence of white, male privilege in the church with a girlfriend. Its been quite a week!

After all of this, here is an incredibly simple conclusion I've come to: patriarchy is not the obvious purple dragon I want it to be. Instead it is subtle, insidious and often resides just under the surface. It is only occasionally overt and mean-spirited. In the evangelical church I have found that the "he-man-woman-haters club" has adopted some much subtler language.  

When I was a child, I remember attending churches where women were not permitted to preach or teach, being relegated to the kitchen and nursery room. There were churches who would not allow ordained women to sit in the pulpit, instead deciding the first row is as close to the cross as we were allowed. While I am aware that these churches and these rules still exist, the kind of patriarchy I find myself casting off now just isn't so clear.

Instead the patriarchy I am encountering doesn't tell me that I am not permitted to teach, only that my style is not as familiar, captivating, or desirable as my male counterparts. It makes men the standard for my success. 

It includes me in the speaker line-up at conferences, the elders in leadership, the voices leading worship but not with any conviction. My presence is little more than an effort to stay out of trouble. The voices of women are not sought after, pursued, or chased.

It doesn't tell me that an all-male line up is acceptable, but that I only need one female representative at the podium, the table, the microphone.  After all, there were many sessions, meetings, and emails trying to find that one woman. Our names, our efforts, our experiences don't easily come to mind. In order to find us there must be twitter shout-outs, google searches, combing the websites of other churches to find someone who can represent that elusive female voice. 

Its in the music- God as male, masculine, fighting, battling, winning  

Its in the prayers- God as male, masculine, fighting, battling, winning  

Its in the sermons- God as male, masculine, fighting, battling, winning

It doesn't ban me from leading, but it often questions my authority, always looking for the wizard pulling the levers behind me. It asks insulting questions like, "Who is really in charge here?" or "Who should I really be talking to?"

 It thinks my ideas are truly brilliant, but only after being repeated by a man.  

It doesn't tell me I won't be successful, but it needs to protect me from myself because I am, of course, incapable of success without it. I am too emotional, trusting, and inexperienced  to make it on my own. 

Here's the kicker, my complexion only complicates things further. I must also work around its whiteness, affluence, assumptions. I must hold my culture in tension. I'll bring that "black mysticism" to the table- the eternal prophetess of the Matrix, handing you all the insight you need to succeed, but I won't go overboard. I  wouldn't want to make our largely white audience uncomfortable with my blackness.

So best not be too sing-songy, too loud, too outgoing. I won't talk directly about race or anything that might be code for race- you know words like "hip-hop" and "urban" and "collard greens"… really black things. I mean, who can relate to any of that?

I'll be mindful about my language, too. I wouldn't want to get on stage and "sound white" so its really important that I use just a dash of ebonics, so that people can see I really represent the black voice. But its also important I sound educated (whether or not I am is of little importance), here it is all about the privilege of affluence. So many rules.

And I promise not to forget about style… I mean there is only one black style, right, so I had better get that right, too. 

No, this is no dragon. It's a slow and steady poison that will produce symptoms of insecurity and indentity crises so large that losing oneself, hating oneself is a real possibility. As much as I want to break out a sword to slay this thing, I have come to realize that the only anti-potion for this poison is the truth. 

So, Sarah Bessey, keep reframing our place in the gospel story. Bell Hooks, challenge us to always analyze the system. Sheryl Sandburg, call us to claim our space. Osheta Moore, remind us how we've been pierced. Idelette McVicker, keep challenging patriarchy. And to all my girlfriends, I am so grateful for the ways you have spoken truth with me; perhaps one day the truth will set all of humanity free. 

Over the weekend I went to see 12 Years A Slave. I thought I was ready. I went with friends- friends who talk about race and justice on a regular basis. I refused to listen to any interviews by actors or producers so as to not give any scenes away. Other than short "reviews" from friends on Facebook, I didn't indulge in any blog posts about the movie, even from people I adore like Christena Cleveland's post here and Lisa Sharon Harper's post here. I wanted to go into it with no one else's thoughts except my own, sitting beside friends I trusted with any emotional reaction I might have during the film. 

I also didnt indulge my desire to hear other's thoughts after I saw it. I didnt talk about it. I didnt read about it. I didnt even tell my husband the storyline when I got home. I decided to just sit with it in order to see what would bubble to the surface most often.  Now, after more than 60 hours of simply calling the movie intense, there is another word I would like to use: torturous. 

I mean that word in the best possible way, but there is no getting around that the movie was torturous for me. Honestly, that shouldn't be surprising. It makes sense that slavery, the n-word, the violence- everything you would expect in a movie called 12 Years A Slave might be difficult to sit through! But it wasnt those moments that I found the most torturous; it was the moments of waiting. So many moments of just waiting. Waiting to get to the next scene, waiting for relief, waiting for something- anything to happen. For all their beauty, there were so many scenes in this movie of stillness, when hardly anything or anyone moved, when little changed, when things werent moving forward. And it was so very uncomfortable. So very intense. So very excruciating. 

And here is what made me drive to McDonalds at midnight to get a large fry for some sense of comfort after this film- my ancestors have endured a lot of excruciating waiting. They waited in slave houses before being forced to board ships that would carry them across the Atlantic. They waited on ships that cut through the waves of the ocean, piled on top one another, chained to the ships core. They waited on auction blocks, naked, confused, angry. They waited on plantations, to plant and to harvest, to plant and to harvest, to plant and to harvest. Some waited to run, waited to read, waited for a signal, waited in the underground. Some waited for freedom. But not all. For some the only notion of freedom came with a spiritual waiting- for Christ to return, for the master to die, for an escape from this life, for entrance into eternal life. For centuries my ancestors waited in the institution of slavery. 

And even when slavery was abolished, there was more waiting. Waiting to be considered more than 3/5ths human. Waiting to be able to move about freely. Waiting for access: to public bathrooms, to movie theaters, to education, to hotels, to restaurants, to stores, to water fountains, to churches. They also waited to be lynched, to be accused, to be declared too dangerous to live. Some preached while they waited. Some sang. Some advocated. Some voted. Some met and marched and waited for something to change, for the scene to move on, for the background to change, for relief to come. For decades my ancestors waited... my great great grandfathers, my great grandfathers, my grandfathers waited. My great great grandmothers, my great grandmothers, my grandmothers waited. My parents waited in cars on the road when hotels weren't an option. My parents waited for the riots to end when MLK was assassinated. My parents waited for their schools to be integrated. My parents waited for white flight to end and the promise of equality to begin.  The waiting was not as long ago, as distant as we would have ourselves believe. It is close. It is personal.  

You see, the reason I had to eat seriously salty, warm McDonalds french fries is because we are still waiting. Never mind the inequality in the school system, health system, housing system, food system or justice system. Never mind the inequality in employment, income, and wealth. Never mind the waiting for equity in large institutional and structural systems.

We are still waiting for churches to expand their leadership.     

We are still waiting for Christian bookstores to reflect our intellect.  

We are still waiting for cultural costumes to be considered unacceptable.  

We are still waiting for white people to stop desiring to say the n-word.  

We are still waiting for shops to stop assuming we cant afford anything costly.  

We are still waiting for folks to keep their hands out of our hair- literally. 

We are still waiting for simple freedoms.  

We are still waiting for America to realize that slavery didn't initiate racism but that slavery, Jim Crow and our current inequities are results of racism. Racism is the seed that has allowed all these inequities to exist, and not until this seed is rooted out will we stop waiting.for.freedom. 

And the waiting is excruciating.  

*I apologize for any typos in the piece. This is so personal, I am having trouble editing myself. Please forgive any obvious mistakes, as there may be many. I'm going to go read the posts of Ms. Cleveland and Ms. Harper. You should, too. 

Have you ever had a conversation with someone about race, and it seemed like our Christian language was doing more harm than good by preventing the conversation from going to deeper levels of truthfulness and vulnerability? You know... someone risks tiptoeing into the murky waters by sharing a personal frustration about race relations, and all of a sudden the next person to speak is erasing the significance of the story by reciting Galatians 3:28.  

Too often, rather than propel us forward into our shared pain, Christian quick-fixes serve to insulate and isolate. In recent years, I think a lot of work has been done to make us challenge these surface responses. Some great theologians, pastors, writers, and teachers have reframed many of these verses, offering a more arduous but adventurous way. Taking Galatians 3:28 for example, rather than using it to suggest God doesn't care about culture and neither should we, we can take a closer look. Isn't it strange that we are all too willing to erase the cultural element (Jews and Greeks), but we continue to explore our differences as male and female quite openly? Instead of using this verse as a blanket to cover up, diminish, or erase altogether our cultural differences, we can use the verse to propel us out of our comfort zone, to challenge the power dynamics and hierarchy between all the groups listed. What if we analyzed our own churches and asked ourselves, if Paul walked into our church on Sunday, would he still see a hierarchy of one culture over another, of one gender over another, of one class over another? Much harder, right? 

While there has been much written (and spoken) on this and other verses that traditionally have been recited to tranquilize rather then agitate us into action, I think there is more "Christian-language" that we really need to work on challenging, particularly in our churches that are seeking to be multicultural. 

One that I'd like to focus our attention on today is what we call a "blessing" from God, but is actually (or also) privilege at work. Sometimes when opportunity routinely comes our way, we can ask ourselves, "Is my voice continuing to reinforce the dominant culture?" Often times our reasoning that God has given us an opportunity relieves us of our responsibility to seek space for other's voices to be heard, too. 

Lets look at Christian conferences. How often have you been to a conference, and more than 80% of the speakers and presenters are white (and male)? If you are one of the presenters who has routinely been invited to this conference, what might it look like for you to invite the planners to seek more voices? What if you as a presenter said, "I would love to talk about this again at your conference, but I have a friend who is also an expert in this field. She is a young, Asian American woman and her philosophy around this topic would be of tremendous value to attenders." Its a thin line between what could be another great blessing for you, and what could be an opportunity to lend your privilege to another voice. 

I use conferences as an example but consider where you can release a little of your privilege and bless someone else- worship leaders, preachers, teachers, writers, musicians etc... Just to be clear, I am not suggesting that every time an opportunity comes it must be given away. I am asking that you consider lending your credibility to another voice, and to do so creatively. Can you co-present? Can you feature another voice or new style? Can you promote someone else?

Rather than leading with the assumption that God is just blessing us, might we ask ourselves if privilege is at play, and how we might give that away. 

The book of Esther contains two queens. The first is Vashti. While her husband the king gives a party, she, too, is entertaining her female guests. After becoming drunk, the king decides to put Vashti on display. She says, "no." I dont know if Vashti refused out of dignity for her body or respect for her guests. I dont really care. I respect either one. When Vashti refuses, she is ousted. Then there is Esther. Esther replaced Vashti as queen after a long competition. Though Esther appears to be settling in quite nicely, it is not long before she, too, must use her voice. Esther must go before the king uninvited, reveal her identity as a member of those to be slaughtered, tell on her mortal enemy (a trusted member of the kings court) and ask that the fate of her people be reversed. Yep. That sounds like fun. And surely Esther is aware of the fate of the woman who came before her. She speaks anyway. The King embraces her and her request. She is spared.  

Here is the truth, when you speak truth to power, I don't know which result you will be given. I do not know if you will be ousted or if you will be spared. You may be like Esther- praised, adored, saved. But you may be like Vashti- disposed, feared, alone. As much as I want to paint a beautiful picture of speaking out, of raising a fuss, of standing up... the truth is I don't know what will happen to your position when you do. 

But if there be any comfort, let it be this, I am certain about your place. Vashti was removed from her position, but forever her place as queen who demanded more is forever secured in Scripture. (And I like to imagine the women at the party, who heard her say no, were never the same!) Esther kept her position as queen, but this is not why we celebrate her. We celebrate her for her place of courage in saving the Jewish nation. You may risk your position, but with God and your fellow advocates, you will never lose your place. 

Let God take care of your position.  

Use your voice to speak truth to power. 

Take your place. 

Let me close by saying that I know this is so much easier to write than to live. Giving voice to injustice, telling an institution there is more work to do, confronting the painful actions of others- never easy. But we need your voice. And truth be told- you need your voice. Vashti lost her position but she carried her dignity with her. Esther is tempted to stay silent, but her uncle warns, "Don't think you'll be the one person to escape if the slaughter happens" (paraphrasing, of course). Both women weren't just giving voice for others. They were giving voice for themselves.

May we have the courage to do the same.