The Quiet Fire
“But if I say, “I will not mention his word
or speak anymore in his name,”
his word is in my heart like a fire,
a fire shut up in my bones.
I am weary of holding it in;
indeed, I cannot.”
I’m not especially known for subtlety. In my passion for justice and equal rights for women and those who are typically left out on the edges, I find myself frequently alone, misunderstood, or downright disregarded.
I speak especially of my fundamentalist upbringing, where women reigned in the kitchen and children were to be silent unless spoken to. I have since realized that I come from an extended line of women who pushed back on the edges of their conservative, upright upbringing: my grandmothers worked outside the home to provide for their families as partners to their spouses (unheard of!), and my mother was (and is) far more interested in discussing politics or hockey with her male counterparts than cleaning and gossiping in the kitchen, and when she found herself being excluded from business in our small town on more than one occasion because she was a woman, she knocked the dust of the establishment off her shoes and hardly looked back.
I may have grown up in a rigid patriarchal culture, but I was never told by my parents that I couldn’t do anything because I was a girl. I climbed trees with the best of the boys, wore gym shorts and tear-away pants when all the girls wore trendy jeans, and preferred a hockey stick or basketball in my hand to a curling iron.
It shouldn’t have been surprising, then, that I preached hellfire sermons to my stuffed animals following a series of revival meetings. The fire of the Spirit burned in my bones, and I wanted everyone to know.
Constrained as I was by staticky skirts and skin-crawling pantyhose every time I went to church, I wondered why on earth the female pianist or guitarist had to play from the floor instead of on the stage with the men; I didn’t understand why women could share stories of their faith, poetry, or songs on special holidays but not on ordinary Sundays.
The fire within me burned, satisfied only by voraciously reading my Bible and finally being able to lead Bible studies when I turned fifteen—to girls only, of course. I chafed within my bonds, longing to tell others about this fire kindled by the Spirit. Didn’t they want to know about it? Could I tell them?
It wasn’t until my late twenties, following several other frustrating church experiences involving what women can or can’t do, that I finally recognized the call that had been there my entire life: I was called, like Jeremiah, to speak the words of God, and it was a fire in my bones that I could not shut up.
But I couldn’t? Could I? I, a woman, could not speak, preach, or teach the Scriptures to a mixed group of men and women, certainly not from a pulpit on Sunday morning! But… why not? Why could I not, when the good news—the Gospel!—of Jesus was preached by women on that first Easter Sunday?
Upon closer inspection, I found that the Bible was riddled with women who were brave to speak and act for the sake of their God: Miriam, a prophet and leader with Moses; Deborah, a married prophet and judicial leader in Israel; Jael, who decisively crushed the oppressor’s head with the tools at her disposal; Hannah, who prayed boldly and sang a song of justice to upset the status quo upon the birth of her long-awaited son; Huldah, who spoke God’s words to King Josiah when no one else would; Mary, who said, “Let it be so, Lord”; Lydia, who hosted and led her home church in Philippi; Priscilla, who with her husband as her partner, taught Apollos everything she knew from the Scriptures; Phoebe, a minister of her church; and Junia, who was recorded as “greatest among the apostles.”
The fire, it seems, would not be put out by these women, not when the seas crashed around them, or enemies surrounded them, not when everyone around them was worshipping idols and they were utterly alone, not when their husbands were unfaithful to God or even if they had a faithful spouse as a partner with them. They burned brightly, a city on a hilltop that would not—could not—be put out.
The light of women is no shame to our men. It is not us or them. It is not a competition; it is a partnership. In the garden—ah, how beautiful it must have been!—man and woman worked together to till and keep it. They pulled together, not apart.
The man saw the woman, made from his rib, and said, “This one is like me.” (Gen 2:23) This is not, as some complementarian scholars suggest, an assertion of man’s dominance over woman. That came later, after that dreadful rebellion with the serpent and the fruit, with devastating effects. Instead, this man identifies like to like in a way that none of the other creatures could satisfy.
A tiger? No, not like me. A whale? Not like me. A frog? Not like me. Ah, the woman! She is like me.
Like to like. Why, then, have we spent our entire human existence identifying where men and women are different instead of identifying where we are alike? We are humans; we pull together; we are the same, not in gender, but in species and in our purpose as image bearers of God.
With the support and encouragement of key men in my life, I began to speak. God’s calling of preaching and teaching on my life was affirmed again and again by my local church. This is not heresy; it is not blasphemy. If the gospel of Jesus Christ is preached, does it matter who speaks it? Paul certainly thought not, even proclaiming blessings on his adversaries for advancing the gospel inadvertently during his imprisonment (Phil 1:12).
I speak because I must. I write because I must. To stay silent is to keep a fire shut up within my bones. I fear what might happen if I do not (my husband surely will not thank you for it).
I get sideways looks for it. My vocation as a pastor might make some uncomfortable and cause awkward silences. I can explain the variations of interpretations in the “challenge” texts of 1 Corinthians 11, 1 Timothy 2, and Ephesians 5. I can explain the hermeneutical difficulties of these passages, the intricacies of the language, and the essential background context that is crucial for understanding the role of women in the first century. I won’t, though, unless you ask.
I don’t wish to cause controversy; divisiveness is no spirit of God. I only wish to preach the gospel to all who will listen: a gospel of equality, justice, and inclusion for all people, granted by the God who breathed his life into us by his grace. I grow weary of holding it in; indeed, I cannot.
