I don’t know that there’s anything particularly new or interesting here, but an Evanston, IL Roman Catholic parish is in the news for its discussion of the possibility of ordaining women to the permanent diaconate. Such a possibility has not been formally closed by the Vatican. There’s an informative discussion on the matter at PrayTell, with reference to the stance of the Eastern Orthodox.
Women and the Roman Catholic Diaconate in the News
Posted in Uncategorized | Tags: ordination, diaconate
Dia de los Muertos: A Day for Dangerous Memories
Today is Dia de los Muertos. While my family does not celebrate Dia de los Muertos, the importance of this holiday to so many Catholics—especially so many Catholics living in the United States—makes it a day of importance to me as well.
Inspired by the example of those for whom today is a day of remembering and honoring their beloved dead, I am thinking a lot about our collective memory not just as Catholics but also as persons living in the United States. I am thinking about what it would look like for the Church to truly embody Metz’s desire for it to be the institutional bearer of the dangerous memory not just of Christ’s crucifixion, but also of the suffering of the living and the dead. I am thinking about how we should be accountable to the memory not just of those whose names we knew, but also of those whose names have been forgotten and all but erased from consciousness. What would it mean for the Church to be a body that remembers those whom the “official” histories of progress and patriotism forget? To be a body that remembers the “crucified peoples” of history? On Dia de los Muertos, I think it is especially important to ask these questions in light of the nearly forgotten fact of the lynching of Mexican-descended persons at the hands of white mobs and governmental bodies. We have forgotten both that this happened and that such events were vitally important to the establishment both of U.S. borders and of U.S. identity. Even worse, we have forgotten how much these victims of lynching resemble the suffering of Christ on the cross.
It would be beyond the scope of this post to chronicle the history of such lynchings in full. My aim here will therefore be merely to provide a brief outline of this forgotten segment of U.S. and Catholic history. Between 1848 and 1928 white mobs in the American southwest lynched at least 597 Mexicans. Certainly, the overall number of Mexicans who died in this way is much smaller than the number of African-Americans who were victims of lynching: in between 1882 and 1930, at least 3,386 African-Americans were lynched. However, it is important to note that Mexican-Americans faced an equal and sometimes even greater risk of being lynched than did African-Americans. In between 1880 and 1930, the period in the South in which mob violence was most prominent, the highest lynching rate for African-Americans was found in Mississippi at 52.8 victims per 100,000 population. This is a truly ghastly statistic that is inconceivably surpassed by the suffering of Mexicans living in the Southwest: according to scholarly estimates, at an earlier time in American history, 1848 to 1879, the time of “the Wild West,” Mexican-Americans were lynched at a rate of 473 per 100,000 of population.
As with the lynching of African-Americans in the south and Midwest, the lynching of Mexican-Americans in the Southwest was done with tacit approval from and sometimes even outright cooperation with the police. In both cases, the victims were murdered to serve as a type of example to other African-Americans and Mexican-Americans, a way to keep people in their place, a way to assert the unquestioned dominance of white power. In both cases, the message sent by whites to was clear: this land is our land; if you continue to live here, you will do so only on our terms. Certainly, this sounds hauntingly familiar to the way that crucifixion functioned in ancient Rome. Like Jesus, these victims were mutilated, tortured, and left to rot. Also like Jesus, they were not considered worthy even of burial.
Metz implores us to remember the suffering not just of the dead but also of the living. He points to the way that the dangerous memories can interrupt and subvert the oppressive regimes of the present. Today, we should not just remember Mexican victims of white lynch mobs, we should also look at our present day racial situation in light of these memories. In other words, we should be disturbed. We should look at Arizona 1070 as more of the same horrible past that came before. We should look at the Florida bill that would give police permission to question anyone they had a reasonable suspicion to believe was in the country without papers, unless this person is from one of 32 Western European nations and one of 4 Asian nations (Singapore, South Korea, Brunei, or Japan) as a continuation of the same old struggle to impose and maintain white supremacy.
Let us be both haunted and disturbed.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tags: mourning, metz, racism, white privilege, memory, James Cone, the cross
St. Wilgefortis
I have to admit: I didn’t originally find this. It was a facebook share between fellow WITs Bridget and Julia. However, I really enjoy it, and I remembered it due to Bridget’s fantastic post on women saints. (Which if you haven’t read you certainly owe it to yourself: Read it.)
Turns out, despite her popularity in the 15th and 16th centuries, St. Wilgefortis did not in fact exist. Still, I like her, and I like the video too.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tags: saints
Happy belated Reformation Day
This is not in any way about women or feminism (I suppose I could ask why Katharina seems to be beheaded in this video… because beheading is more exciting than trying to eek out an existence in the midst of poverty and then dying from a cart accident? Huh… maybe one could make a feminist post out of this…) but I’m posting it anyway, because I think it’s amusing.
I Got 95 Theses, but the Pope Ain’t One:
Posted in Uncategorized | Tags: humor
Childhood Stories and Women Saints
We at WIT are aiming for a balance in tone between the academic and the personal.
So, this is a more personal post, of the “what forms the background for an interest in feminist theology, anyway?” sort. Like much, but not all, that has been posted thus far, it’s fairly Roman Catholic. I’ll get back to mourning soon…
When I was in first grade, the students at my Catholic parochial school weren’t allowed to wear our Halloween costumes to school (I’m pretty sure I was a unicorn that year. My mother has always been impressively crafty.) — but we were allowed to come in costume on November 1, as long as we dressed up as our patron saint–in my case, Brigid of Kildare.
I remember both thinking and really wanting not to think that this was incredibly unfair.
I was a decently pious — and decently traditionally pious — Catholic child, due in large part to a godmother who took me to visit every bleeding and/or crying statue of Mary on the East Coast (yes, I mean “bleeding” in a literal, rather than ejaculatory, sense) and gave me enough Lives of the Saints to fill several bookshelves… I grew up with a lot of the Catholic devotions that were never part of my Millennial peers’ lives. And from said Lives of the Saints, if there was one thing I knew (as a five / six / seven-year-old — so bear with me here. I really, really do know that this is a caricature, and not the whole story — but it’s not a caricature that I came up with as a feminist theologian, it’s what I legitimately believed as a little girl going to Catholic school) — it was that girl saints were boring. The stories I had all followed the same narrative arc:
- There is a beautiful girl.
- An unvirtuous man wants to marry said beautiful girl.
- Said beautiful girl has already pledged her virginity to Jesus, and as such refuses to marry said unvirtuous man.
- A: Said beautiful girl is martyred in some gruesome sort of fashion, thus establishing her as a virgin and martyr
or B: Said beautiful girl, through divine intervention, manages to escape marriage, thus fulfilling her life-long dream of becoming a nun.
I was particularly disturbed, I remember, by the fact that you apparently had to be beautiful in order to be a saint — let’s just say that the typical cruelty of children made it pretty clear that if beauty was necessary for canonization, I had no idea how I’d get to heaven. This became so strongly part of my implicit consciousness that the first time I read the account of the the martyrs of Lyons contained in Eusebius’ Church History (and this is in my first year of graduate studies, mind), it was like an electric shock:
Blandina, through whom Christ showed that things which appear mean and obscure and despicable to men are with God of great glory, through love toward him manifested in power, and not boasting in appearance.
For while we all trembled, and her earthly mistress, who was herself also one of the witnesses, feared that on account of the weakness of her body, she would be unable to make bold confession, Blandina was filled with such power as to be delivered and raised above those who were torturing her by turns from morning till evening in every manner, so that they acknowledged that they were conquered, and could do nothing more to her. And they were astonished at her endurance, as her entire body was mangled and broken; and they testified that one of these forms of torture was sufficient to destroy life, not to speak of so many and so great sufferings.
But the blessed woman, like a noble athlete, renewed her strength in her confession; and her comfort and recreation and relief from the pain of her sufferings was in exclaiming, ‘I am a Christian, and there is nothing vile done by us.’
– You mean here was an account of an early Christian martyr who isn’t praised for her beauty? Now, again, I’m not saying that this is the only narrative present in hagiographies, but it’s certainly one that I unconsciously imbibed, and I’m certainly not the only one to have picked up on it. An entire strand of scholarship views many hagiographies of female saints as verging on, if not entirely stepping into, the pornographic, given their focus on the details of these saints’ appearances and the physical details of the violence done to them. (See, e.g., Kathryn Gravdal.)
Now, the Children’s Book of the Saints story of St. Brigid I had entirely followed this narrative: beautiful girl, Christian slave mother, Important Druid father, started out by following her mother as a servant, was desired by many men, prayed herself ugly to avoid marriage (honestly, this is not the kind of thing that makes sense to a not-particularly-beautiful child…), was therefore permitted to become a nun, and exhibited such impressive purity that she was eventually known as a second Mary in Ireland.
So, while my friend at the time George got to dress up in a suit-of-armor and carry around a sword and a toy dragon — which, how cool is that? — first-grade Bridget dressed up as a milkmaid, in a dull brown robe and a basket with a stuffed cow. I’m not entirely certain how I wound up dressed like a milkmaid instead of a nun — presumably, I was going for the “serving girl” portion of Brigid’s life — but there we have it. George got to fight dragons; I got to pray to be ugly. Looking around at St. Anne’s parochial school on November 1, this seemed generally characteristic of the boys’ vs. girls’ costumes.
(Didn’t I know about St. Margaret, whose legend has her attacked and swallowed by a dragon, only to make the sign of the cross and have the dragon explode? Why yes, gentle reader, I did – and I also knew that Margaret was of rather suspect historicity. In first-grade terms, I think this amounted to “She didn’t even exist.” Why the credulity concerning George and the skepticism concerning Margaret? I honestly don’t know. But my skepticism toward Margaret, and my inability as an adolescent to see Catherine of Alexandria as someone of interest to a bookish young girl is in keeping with the disproportionate effect on female saints of the post-Conciliar reform of the calendar of the saints. )
These days, I have a markedly less ambivalently warm regard for female saints.
Blandina has remained a favorite of mine, not only for her unimpressive physical stature, but for the difficulty Eusebius’ account poses to Inter Insigniores‘ claim that women cannot be ordained because a woman does not bear a “natural resemblance” to Christ. Compare Inter Insigniores to Eusebius:
when Christ’s role in the Eucharist is to be expressed sacramentally, there would not be this “natural resemblance” which must exist between Christ and his minister if the role of Christ were not taken by a man: in such a case it would be difficult to see in the minister the image of Christ. For Christ himself was and remains a man.
versus
Blandina was suspended on a stake, and exposed to be devoured by the wild beasts who should attack her. And because she appeared as if hanging on a cross, and because of her earnest prayers, she inspired the combatants with great zeal. For they looked on her in her conflict, and beheld with their outward eyes, in the form of their sister, him who was crucified for them, that he might persuade those who believe on him, that every one who suffers for the glory of Christ has fellowship always with the living God.
No one could fail to name Mary Magdalene, disciple and first preacher of the resurrection, but I also love the far-more-often forgotten Junia, a prominent apostle, according to Paul, after whom my goddaughter is named. And who can resist a fascination with Perpetua and her visions, even if the contemporary desire to portray Perpetua and Felicity as friends — a desire I well understand, given the deep significance of female friendships in my own life and faith — leads me to ask whether such portrayals perpetuate the sort of false sisterhood womanists, mujeristas, and other women of color have sharply and justifiably criticized in white academic feminism.
And I have a far different relationship to hagiographic portrayals of St Brigid today than when I was in first grade. Brigid was the abbess of a double monastery: she was the superior of both monks and nuns. Brigid was also extravagantly generous. Her generosity was extravagant, in fact, that several versions of her story have her giving away her chieftain-father’s jeweled sword, his most prized possession, to a leper — which had been presented, in typical Children’s Books of the Saints manner, as a tame and pious exercise of charity toward the poor. I’ve since seen this story reinterpreted by Irish peace activists as a foundational narrative for radical restructuring of society: by giving away her father’s sword, a weapon and the household’s most expensive item, Brigid inspires us toward a restructuring of social priorities which pour money into militarism rather than social networks. And since first-grade I’ve read the ninth-century (let me say again, ninth-century — somewhere between 800 and 850) hagiographic account Bethu Brigte, which contains an account of Brigid’s consecration as a dedicated virgin in which something rather unexpected occurs:
The bishop being intoxicated with the grace of God there did not recognise what he was reciting from his book, for he consecrated Brigit with the orders of a bishop. ‘This virgin alone in Ireland’, said Mel, ‘will hold the episcopal ordination.’ While she was being consecrated a fiery column ascended from her head.
I’m certainly not arguing that this represents a historical account which indicates Brigid was a bishop — it’s likely Bethu Brigte reflects the significance of monasticism in Celtic Christianity — but, well, given the choice between telling a young girl that she’s named after a woman whom God miraculously made ugly and the Brigid of the Bethu Brigte, I know which one I’ll choose. I just wish there had been wider dissemination of that hagiography when I was a child. Showing up dressed like a bishop would have bested a suit of armor any day…
So happy All Saints, everyone — all you holy women and men, pray for us.
Update (11/2/2010): For a pop culture presentation of precisely what I’m talking about above that somehow manages to be both hilarious and profoundly moving, see Rebecca Clamp’s “St Wilgefortis,” shared by Megan.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tags: saints, ordination, Inter Insigniores, hagiography
A Church That Changes (Part I)
Often, we Catholics think we belong to a Church that doesn’t change—at least not when it comes to the really important fundamentals like faith and morals. We tend to think that “the truth” is something the Church has always been in possession of since the beginning. For this reason, we sometimes think that to be Catholic means to keep doing and thinking what has always been done and thought. The past is something to be defended against the future. In this view, “change,” is something that seems both and impossible and very bad—more like corruption and degeneration than development. However, in reality, the truth is more complicated than that. The church not only has changed, but also sometimes it must change not only because we must apply timeless truths to a changing historical reality, but also because we are a pilgrim people in the fullest sense. The truth is something we are always seeking but never fully in possession of. As even Thomas Aquinas recognized, only God and the angels “have the entire knowledge of a thing at once and perfectly.[1]” Human beings must instead submit themselves to “the process” of knowledge, which is completed only eschatologically. For this reason, Aquinas insists the investigation of natural law necessarily “proceeds…[not just] over a long time” but also “with the admixture of many errors.[2]”
When we look at the history of the Church’s teaching on women, we will see an example both of the reality of change and of its necessity. In this post, I will be looking at one aspect of the Church’s understanding of marriage.
For most of the tradition, the Church taught that the subjection of woman to man in marriage was divinely ordained and therefore unchangeable. Now, in a remarkable reversal of traditional teaching, the church teaches that marriage is a union of equals. What for hundreds of years the Church thought was a divinely commanded part of the natural law, it now rejects as an untruth, incompatible with human dignity.
Augustine
In his work “Soliloquys,” Augustine argues that inequality is proper to marriage: while “he [the man] rules by wisdom, she [the woman] is ruled by man for Christ is the head of the man, and the man is the head of the woman.[3]” It is for this reason, rather than because of an innate longing for female companionship (as Popes John Paul II and Benedict XVI would insist), that “it is not good that man is alone.[4]”
Augustine considers subjection to be more essential to the relationship between man and woman than even sexual intercourse since “there could have been in both sexes, even without [sexual] intercourse, a kind of friendly and genuine union of the one ruling and the other obeying.[5]” That sexual intercourse and heterosexual desire are not essential to masculinity or femininity for Augustine is affirmed by his belief that in the resurrection women’s bodies will “be free of the necessity of intercourse and childbirth” and they “will not excite the lust of the beholder.[6]” It is important to note that Augustine’s definition of lust is much broader than contemporary understandings—for Augustine, lust included not just sexual desire that objectifies the other, but also sexual desire itself.
While for Augustine maleness and femaleness are bodily,[7] unlike JPII, he does not believe heterosexuality to be the ultimate or even essential meaning of this bodily difference since he argues “if [men with children] could be shown a way of having children without sexual intercourse, wouldn’t they embrace such a blessing with unspeakable joy?[8]” (One can only assume that Augustine would rejoice in the invention of artificial insemination!) This is radically different from the teaching of John Paul II, who argues “the body, in as much as it is sexual, expresses the vocation of man and woman to reciprocity which is to love and to the mutual gift of self.[9]”
Aquinas
Aquinas affirms Augustine’s teaching on the necessity of the subjection of woman to man in marriage when he writes, “because in man the discretion of reason naturally predominates…woman is naturally subject to man.[10]” To violate the subjection is to violate the good order of creation. Again, for Aquinas as for Augustine, the man is more reasonable than the woman and therefore, just as the reason should govern the unreasonable passions, so too should man govern woman. To go against this natural order is to go against the good, as this hierarchy is humankind’s only bulwark against “individual evil.[11]” For Aquinas, God’s creating woman out of man’s rib is a highly significant detail of the creation story. That “woman should not use authority over man…she was not made from his head;” that woman should not “be subject to man’s contempt as his slave…she was not made from his feet.[12]” This differs profoundly from recent magisterial teaching on the meaning of the creation accounts, which sees sexual difference not through the lens of subjection but of complementarity.
The natural superiority of man to woman extends even to Aquinas’ understanding of the imago dei. Aquinas identifies two senses of the image of God. The “principle signification[13]” of the image of God is humankind’s intellectual nature, which resides both in man and in woman (although clearly, the man has a greater capacity for the exercise of natural reason). However, a second sense of the imago dei belongs only to man: “God is the beginning and end of every creature” just as “man is the beginning and end of woman[14]” since woman was “made out of man[15]” and the purpose of woman is to give birth to men and women who will give birth to men.
Moreover, Aquinas interprets Genesis’ description of the woman as a helper to the man in a narrow fashion: woman is not a helpmate in the sense that she helps man in “other works,” since, due to his natural superiority, man “can be helped more efficiently by another man in other works.[16]” Therefore, woman is a helper only in the sense that she is essential to the process of generation. In other words, man needs woman only to create new people—woman is not socially or politically necessary. Woman also does not seem to be in any way necessary to man’s affective or relational life. Outside of generation, man is an entirely self-sufficient entity. In her role as producer of people, woman is “not misbegotten;” however, “as regards the individual nature, woman is defective and misbegotten” because she is the “result of a defect in the active force…of the male seed.[17]” Aquinas sums this argument up neatly elsewhere when he labels women “misbegotten males.[18]” This interpretation is radically different from that offered by both John Paul II, who teaches, “it is only through the duality of the masculine and feminine that the human finds full realization,[19]” and Benedict XVI, who argues, “only in communion with the opposite sex can [man] become ‘complete.[20]’”
The Church of the 20th Century
Pope Pius XI
Writing seven centuries after Aquinas, Pope Pius XI re-affirms the church’s heretofore unbroken teaching on the subjection of woman to men, reminding a rapidly changing world that, “the order of love includes both the primacy of the husband with regard to the wife and children and the ready subjection of the wife and her willing obedience.[21]” Pius insists that, while the “degree and manner” of the subjection of wife to husband may vary throughout time and space, this subjection itself, which he includes as part of the “structure and fundamental law of the family” is “established and confirmed by God” and therefore “must always and everywhere be maintained intact.[22]”
Pius XI labels those who assert, “The rights of husband and wife are equal,” to be “false prophets” since in so doing they threaten the traditional view of marriage, which is essential to the common good[23]. Pius XI defines the “emancipation of women” (presumably a buzz word at the time) to be all of the following: the idea that women should allowed to exempt herself from the so-called “burdensome duties…of wife and mother;” the idea that women should be able to “follow their own bent and devote herself to business and even public affairs;” and the idea that women should be “at liberty to administer and conduct her own affairs…without knowledge or consent of her husband[24]”. Underlying this argument is the assumption that autonomy and social participation are incompatible with marriage and motherhood. Implicitly, this argument also reveals that, for Pius XI, a single woman—that is, one who does not belong to husband, father, or mother superior—is unthinkable. For Pius XI, women’s pursuit of social and political independence is necessarily an act of disordered selfishness as involvement in social affairs is labeled as “neglect” of children while the desire to escape motherhood is described as a type of self-interested ‘pleasure.’
John XXIII: The Beginning of the End for Traditional Marriage
John XXIII begins the modern trend of upending the traditional definition of marriage as a union of unequal persons: in fact, he is probably the first papal enemy of the traditional marriage. John XXIII for the first time in church history refers to the “equality of rights” between the sexes as “justly-proclaimed” and insists that they must “extend to all the claims of personal and human dignity”[25]. The magnitude of this proclamation cannot be overestimated—this is a truly remarkable moment in human history. However, John XXIII does not admit the existence of full equality between the sexes, arguing that women and men do not possess an “equality of functions[26]”. John XXIII is not clear about the nature of this inequality but insists that in her “natural attributes, tendencies, and instincts” it is true either that these are “strictly hers” or that “she possesses [them] to a different degree than man[27]”.
The context and purpose of this argument are crucial to understanding why it is structured the way it is. This statement was issued more than one hundred years after the start of the women’s movement, by the pope who opened the windows of the church to the modern world. It is not unreasonable to assume that John XXIII’s heart and mind were on the side of women’s equality; however, it is equally reasonable to assume that, as with Vatican II, John XXIII was careful not to open these windows too widely. Thus, his argument for sexual inequality sounds radically unlike any previous ones: this inequality of function is the consequence not of woman’s inequality to man, but of her difference from him.
John Paul II and the Radical Reversal of Church Teaching
Like his predecessors Paul VI and John XXIII but unlike every other pope before him, John Paul II proclaims the equality of women to men. With John Paul II’s papacy, the sanctity of traditional marriage is completely destroyed. In a reversal of centuries of church teaching, woman’s bodily difference is now interpreted as a moral advantage rather than disadvantage. While Augustine argues that women are the image of God, he admits, “on the physical side [women’s] sexual characteristics may suggest…that man alone is said to be in the image and glory of God[28]”. Aquinas also identifies the female body as the reason for her inequality, arguing that since “the father is the principle in a more excellent way than the mother [due to the embodied activity of insemination] while the mother is a passive and material principle [due to the embodied passivity of pregnancy]…the father is to be loved more [than the mother].[29]” Similarly, the inferiority of the female body, which Aquinas describes as the impossibility of the “female sex to signify eminence of degree,” is what makes her incapable of receiving “the sacrament of Order.[30]” For John Paul II, however, women’s reproductive organs make them “more capable than men of paying attention to another person.” Women possess this greater moral capacity since “the man—even with all his sharing in parenthood—always remains “outside” the process of pregnancy.[31]” While John Paul’s interpretation of the meaning of women’s bodies differs in many ways from that provided by Augustine and Aquinas, it resembles them in one key way: women’s personhood is understood through the lens of her anatomical capacity to become pregnant and not the other way around.
In the 20th century, the Catholic Church began to redefine traditional marriage and to overturn its thinking about whether or not woman’s inequality to man within marriage was both natural and divinely-ordained. The Church’s reversal of its teaching on the necessity of woman’s subjection to man in marriage is so extensive that John Paul II, going against the ‘plain sense’ of Scripture, interprets Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians to be calling not for the subjection of wives to husbands but a “mutual” subjection between spouses.[32] Interestingly, while John Paul II maintains church teaching that husband “is called the ‘head’ of the wife as Christ is the head of the Church,” he concludes that only in the case of the Church’s subjection to Christ is spousal subjection one-sided.[33] Why this is so he does not explain.
Undoubtedly, many insist that the Church’s teaching on marriage has not changed, since it has always taught that marriage is a union between one man and one woman. Indeed, in this respect, church teaching on marriage has not changed. However, modern people may not realize that for centuries male headship was considered to be just as sacred and unquestionable part of marriage as some consider heterosexuality to be today (for civil marriage). Since sexual equality is today a largely uncontroversial issue, it is difficult to understand just how radical and fundamental a shift sexual equality within marriage was. For most of church history, the suggestion that women are equal to their husbands in marriage would have been just as unthinkable and unholy as the contemporary suggestion that marriage could be open to people of the same-sex is to some today. My intent here is not to argue that these two issues are identical, but only to underscore by comparison just how radically church teaching on marriage has changed.
[1] Aquinas, Thomas. Summa Theologiae. I.85.5 [2] Aquinas, Thomas. Summa Theologiae. I.1.1 [3] Augustine, “Soliloquys,” #17 [4] Ibid, #17 [5] On the Good of Marriage 1.1 [6] Augustine, City of God. Chapter XXII, 17. [7] Augustine, “Literal Meaning of Genesis.” Chapter 22. [8] Sermon 51, #23 [9] ibid, #24 [10] Summa Theologiae I, 92.1 [11] Ibid, 92.1 [12] Ibid, 92.3 [13] Ibid, 93.4 [14] Ibid, 93.4 [15] Ibid, 92.2 [16] Ibid, 92.1 [17] Ibid, 92.1 [18] Ibid, 99.2 [19] JP II, “Letter to Women.” Paragraph 7. [20] Benedict. Deus Caritas Est. Paragraph 11. [21] Casti Connubi, 26 [22] Casti Connubi, 28 [23] Casti Connubi, 74 [24] Casti Connubi, 74 [25] 6 September 1961, 7 [26] 6 September 1961, 7 [27] 6 September 1961, 7 [28] The Confessions, Ch 22 #34 [29] Summa Theologiae II-II, 26.10 [30] Summa Theologiae: Supplement, 39.1 [31] Mulieris Dignitatem, #18 [32] Mulieris Dignitatem, 24 [33] Mulieris Dignitatem, 24
Posted in Uncategorized | Tags: Thomas Aquinas, Augustine, tradition, marriage, Casti Conubi, John XXIII, John Paul II
Interesting Post at PrayTell
I’ll probably upload a post tomorrow or Monday with some personal reflections on women and the communion of the saints — I do try to organize my life according to the liturgical year… to an embarrassingly nerdy extent… — but for now, I direct you to this post over at PrayTell: “All Saints–A Solemnity of Women?”
A preview: “It is no great secret that the official Calendar of Saints is marked by a numerical imbalance regarding the women and men who have come to be recognized as saints. Simply put, the Roman Catholic sanctoral cycle includes far more men than women and thus seems to privilege male versions of the holy life.”
While you’re over there, check out the next post down, as well: a study conducted in Ireland reveals that 73% of Irish Catholic women do not believe their church “regards women with a lot of respect,” while 94% of Irish Protestant women say that their church does.
So, give a read, and stay tuned.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tags: saints
Some Basics on Feminist Theologies
For the past few weeks I have been thinking that for my first post I would discuss some of the basics of feminist theology. While I certainly don’t want to speak for the other WIT contributors, I do think it’s worth using this space to discuss the fundamental presuppositions and goals of a feminist theological perspective. Coincidentally, when I turned on “Interfaith Voices” this morning I realized that they were rerunning a program on exactly this topic, I highly recommend taking a listen, I’ve posted the link below. Mary Hunt and Judith Plaskow do a great job at laying out what feminist theology is all about, and here I’m going to try to avoid simply repeating what they’ve already said. Here, I’m going to try to offer a sort of “primer to feminist theologies,” and I will try to be clear about what (I think) is a general presupposition and what is my own perspective; I am largely informed by basic methodological explanations offered by Elizabeth Johnson (see She Who Is chapter 2, Consider Jesus chapter 7, Quest for the Living God chapter 5). My discussion will be limited to Christian feminist theology, although feminist theology is certainly a project found in other traditions. Finally, I hope that my fellow WIT women will offer their own comments on this topic if they think I missed anything important.
First, all feminist theology is done in light of the recognition of the sexism, itself identified as a sin in Gaudium et Spes 29, that dominates the majority of the Christian tradition in patriarchy and androcentrism. Johnson defines sexism as “[a] sign of broken mutuality between the two genders, sexism…classifies human beings, prescribes certain roles and denies certain rights to them on the basis of…” biological sex (Consider Jesus 99). As Katie helpfully noted last week, sexism is one of several interlocking oppressions, and it is crucial that theological reflection include a diversity of voices to begin to adequately deal with the racial and socio-economic conditions that intersect with gender. As she describes the influence of androcentric thinking in the tradition, Johnson provides several passages which I think are worth including here as examples:
Let a woman learn in silence with full submission. I permit no woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she is to keep silent. For Adam was formed first, then Eve; and Adam was not deceived, but the woman was deceived and became a transgressor. Yet she will be saved through childbearing. (1 Tim 2:11-15)
Do you not realize that you are each an Eve? The curse of God on this sex of yours lives on even in our times. Guilty, you must bear its hardship. You are the devil’s gateway; you desecrated the fatal tree; you first betrayed the law of God; you softened up with your cajoling words the one against whom the devil could not prevail by force. All too easily you destroyed the image of God, Adam. You are the one who deserved death, and yet it was the Son of God who had to die. (Tertullian)
Woman does not possess the image of God in herself, but only when taken together with the male who is her head, so that the whole substance is one image. But when she is assigned the role as helpmate, a function that pertains to her alone, then she is not the image of God. But as far as the man is concerned, he is by himself alone the image of God just as fully and completely as when he and the woman are joined together into one. (Augustine)
In a modern context, these examples seem extreme, perhaps leading us to think that sexism is no longer a problem. However, in much of theology, women’s voices are still marginalized. When women’s voices are excluded, women’s experience(s) is (are) ignored, often leading to theological interpretations that work to the detriment of women (as well as other marginalized groups). For example, Valerie Saiving’s famous and influential article (and one of my personal favorites, despite its outdatedness) “The Human Situation: A Feminine View” argues that an understanding of sin as pride that has dominated the tradition is, in fact, a reflection of men’s experience. I think her critique is accurate, although I would want to avoid what she characterizes as “women’s sin” because they seem to me stereotypes that rely on a particular historical location (see p. 44 of the article if interested). Johnson summarizes what I think is a more accurate understanding of sin that should be taken into account based on “women’s experience” (I acknowledge that “women’s experience” is a difficult category and deserves to be addressed on its own, a task I leave for another day): “Feminist theologians are of the opinion…that for women the original sin is more likely the opposite [of pride]: loss of center, diffuseness of personality, lack of a sense of self leading one to drift or to take direction unthinkingly from others” (Consider Jesus 102). These clear distinctions between “masculine” and “feminine” should not be seen as strict characterizations, but rather as general conditions that more frequently mark male or female experiences.
The second point is that sexism, in both Christianity and the broader society, is limiting to both women and men. Thus, while feminist theology frequently addresses “women’s experience” and seeks “women’s well-being” it is actually concerned with the flourishing of both women and men.
Working with broad generalizations, feminist theology can be grouped into three categories. A) Revolutionary feminist theology rejects the tradition as hopelessly patriarchal and forms a new faith community, as Mary Daly did when she called for an exodus of women from the Church and self-identified as “post-Christian.” I myself have actually never dealt much with any feminist theology of this model, beyond that of Daly, and I would be interested to know if there are women who still follow this path; if anybody knows anything please let me know! B) The reforming feminist theology model seeks to transform the tradition for the benefit of Christian women and men by drawing on the liberative elements found from within the tradition. I locate myself within this model and some well-known examples would be Elizabeth Johnson, Rosemary Radford Reuther, womanist theologian Delores Williams, etc. C) What some thinkers characterize as Romantic feminism, could perhaps be better identified today as new feminism, which is the brand of “feminism” that you could find present in the thinking of John Paul II in his apostolic letter, Mulieris Dignitatem (On the Dignity and Vocation of Women). It upholds essential differences between women and men, but seeks equality in that difference, rejecting any notion of male superiority. I myself am uneasy about identifying this kind of thinking as feminism, but I think that may be something to potentially explore in another post.
I think I am correct in saying that the women who contribute to WIT would locate themselves within the model of “reform feminism” despite our disagreements. If I’m wrong on this point, I hope my colleagues step in because I certainly don’t want to misrepresent anybody.
All of this brings me to my third point: Feminist theologians are working out of spiritual and faith commitments. And, many feminist theologians develop their thinking out of commitment to the Christian tradition, opposing not the tradition itself, but those elements within it that can be characterized as sinful and to the detriment of faithful women and men.
I have more to say about the basic presuppositions of feminist theology, but I will save that for a later post because this is getting kind of long. I would just like to say at this point: I include the picture of Mary Daly wielding the battle axe because I find it to be inspiring in a bad-ass kind of way; despite some fairly major points where I would disagree with her thought, I am grateful for her profound influence to feminist theology.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tags: Augustine, liberationist, Elizabeth Johnson, gender, patriarchy, feminist theology, Mary Daly, Mulieris Dignitatem, sexism, androcentrism, Valerie Saiving, tradition
Radio on Feminist Theologies
Once a week, I listen to the online radio program “Interfaith Voices.” This week they replayed a piece from Spring 2009 that talked about feminist theology, working through some of the basics from both a Catholic and a Jewish perspective. The guests on the program are Mary Hunt and Judith Plaskow. Give it a listen.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tags: feminist theology, Interfaith Voices, Judith Plaskow, Mary Hunt
Mary! (2)
More:
I would like to clarify that when I echo Johnson in claiming that we need to allow Mary to step down from the deity pedestal we’ve so intricately constructed for her, I’m not saying she’s not preeminently important.
In this move, Mary can occupy a premier place in the communion of saints, and this is no small feat. This means that Christians can and should still turn to Mary as a source of inspiration and help. It’s just that she’s no longer a superhuman figure separated out from the rest of humanity, exalted above us, especially us women (…she no longer has to be “alone of all her sex” — Marina Warner) in the way that leaves us only with the possibility of invocation to her but no kind of identification with her. In Johnson’s words, Mary’s humanity no longer has to be “bleached of blood and guts” (Truly 108).
I would also like to clarify that placing Mary in the communion of saints does not mean that there is no difference between her and us. We are still on the rough and tumble journey of faith, we are still failing, we are still trying to be purged and refined in order to receive the kind of full-bodied purity and integrity that make us open to God, and Mary’s holiness has already been ratified and consummated by God. This was the case for her in an especially vivid way from her very beginnings. Her immaculate conception and full bodily assumption into heaven were signs from God that grace was breaking into the world in an untold way, and she has lived and continues to live in God in a way that we do not. But we hope to. So it’s not as though she has nothing new and challenging to offer, and Johnson would reject such a reading of her own work. In making Mary “truly our sister” (Paul VI Marialis Cultus #56), Johnson means to say that we are supposed to aspire to grow in holiness in the way that Mary so extraordinarily did in her life. (And by the way, such holiness is read not in terms merely of receptivity or contemplation, although those things are there in Mary’s life as far as we can tell from the biblical witness, but also strength and fidelity to God in the midst of suffering, persecution, and exile. Along with these things, Mary also showed a keen concern for the marginalized, and an attendant joy that God was becoming particularly present for them and that she was able to be a part of that. Even Paul VI has said these things about Mary. Not particularly subversive, one would think…) Along the way, Mary provides an exemplary and unique witness to the life of holiness, such that we can look to her in order to grow into ourselves, to become specifically who God desires us, in our particularity, to be. Walking the path of holiness is a commonality we can and should strive to share with Mary, as the sight of such holiness is concretized in her example (as it is with other saints). Insofar as Mary acts as witness of such holiness, she is exalted, but such exaltation is an invitation and promise to us, not grounds to praise her as some supra-divine being from whom we lowly ones get favors, without ever bridging the gap. This seems to me to be one major thematic key unlocking the fundamental differences between high/maximal Mariologies and low/minimalist Mariologies.
With this paradigm shift in mind, we should note that Johnson means to not to eliminate veneration and invocation of Mary, but rather, to reform these things. Following Paul VI, Johnson suggests that veneration of Mary should be biblical, liturgical, ecumenical (i.e., clear about the salvific unicity of Christ), and anthropological (in the sense that it reflects our most up-to-date understandings of the human person, especially regarding gender and such). Regarding the ecumenically sticky issue of invocation of Mary for petitions and prayers before God, Johnson suggests that we may still invoke Mary if such an act is seen not as contacting a female intermediary deity so that she can work her magic on the male god, but rather, as asking a companion in faith to pray for one, such that Christ is still the mediator of prayer, and the Holy Spirit is still the one praying through both oneself and Mary. I am reminded, perhaps wrongheadedly, of Paul at this point: “In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express” (Romans 8:26). We can ask Mary to pray for us, but even her prayer, her perfected prayer, is still overlaid with and taken up by the Trinitarian God, I suggest without really knowing. (Perhaps we could speculate that it’s God doing the praying, but in a way that enhances and ratifies the fullness of Mary’s own agency.) In short, then, invocation to Mary should lead back to the Trinitarian structure of Christian doxology. To ask Mary, and other saints, to pray for us with this doxological mindset does not suggest we need to provide a supplement for something insufficiently given in Christ, but to acknowledge that openness to God takes place in a community that spans all ages and places. Thoughts? Most of that was Johnson, and then some of that was me speculating.
An abiding question I have for Johnson:
While attempting to contextualize Mary’s importance within the action of God-in-Christ, Johnson seems to do so most explicitly by foregrounding the pneumatological focus of her project. She writes about her project, “The primary angle of vision will be pneumatological, seeing Mary as a graced woman. Since she is embraced by and responsive to Spirit-Sophia, she is a sister to all who partner with the Spirit in the struggle for the coming of the reign of God” (Truly 104). In tandem with this move is her theological de-emphasis on Mary as mother of Christ (and, hence, of the Church). On this point, she writes, “Her distinctiveness lies in being the mother of Jesus. No one else has this bodily, psychological, social relationship to the Messiah and, as with all human beings, the relationship is irreplaceably important for both mother and child. All the gospel tesserae note this relationship but do not leave it there. Her own faithful partnership with the Spirit, by which she heard and enacted the word of God, places her in the company of ancestors whose memory the community celebrates and finds challenging.” (Truly 314). Johnson does not want to ignore Mary’s motherhood, but she wants to place it in the broader context of Mary’s overall discipleship/faithfulness to God in Christ, her son. I am left wondering if such a move does enough. Obviously I am not saying that Mary somehow earned her place of honor only through being an inspiring mother. To say only that is to tell a lie about who Mary is and why she matters. Most broadly and truthfully, she’s a woman of God, but one must acknowledge that her specific vocation occurred irrevocably through being the faithful mother of Jesus, which is something none of us will ever experience. This is how far Johnson goes, but then she wants to leave Mary’s motherhood at the site of Mary’s own particularity as a historical woman. Johnson does not want to do much more with Mary’s motherhood, theologically or ecclesiologically, probably because she thinks that such a move is always already too dangerous and distorting of the larger truth about Mary’s special grace and exemplarity from the start. But I have to ask: is it enough? I don’t have any suggestions for how to think through Mary’s motherhood in a more meaningful way, and obviously anything exalted about Mary is always a statement about God’s graciousness toward humanity–she was mother because God chose her to be, and she freely agreed.. But nevertheless, part of me will always think of Mary as the mother of Jesus because that just is part of her identity, forever now. Won’t we always see her this way when we are trying to think about her theological significance? Thoughts on this, anyone?
Good grief. Apparently I had some Marian overload going on. Onto the next exam question: Heidegger’s influence on Rahner on the topic of being-toward-death (Dasein). Will maybe keep you posted if it’s not too boring.
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