Doubt and desire, faith and feminism: on “Jesus Girls”

Anastasia McAteer is a fellow Pasadenan and Fuller Seminary alum whose blog Feminary has long been one of my favorites. From her blog and from Facebook, I learned about the new anthology to which Anastasia has contributed: Jesus Girls: True Tales of Growing Female and Evangelical, edited by Hannah Faith Notess. For anyone interested in the intersection of feminism and faith, the title alone makes the book indispensable, and I ordered a copy. (It’s cheaper from the publisher than it is on Amazon, where the book is out of stock at the moment. Click the link.)

As Notess writes in her introduction, one of the defining experiences of American evangelicalism is the offering of a “testimony” — the story one tells to those as yet “unsaved” of one’s conversion experience. Even for cradle Christians, evangelicalism generally requires that each believer be born again, even if that rebirth happens at age eight; all must make “a decision for Christ.” Jesus Girls is rich in testimony, but not of the sort taught in Sunday Schools. The nearly two-dozen essays within its pages bear witness to the extraordinarily diverse, yet surprisingly similar ways in which young evangelical women come to grips with their sex and their faith. Though all were raised under the umbrella of evangelicalsm, we have stories from women who grew up in a wide variety of traditions — Free Methodist, Pentecostal, Southern Baptist, Reformed, and, of course, “non-denom”, meaning unaffiliated.

The essays are arranged by theme: Community; Worship; Education: Gender and Sex; Story and Identity. Some of the women who write have left the church, but most are still committed Christians, though their faith has changed since they were little girls. Beyond the themes imposed by the editor, the essays reflect similar experiences, some of which are hardly unique to evangelicalism. The desire to please parents and teachers at any cost, to not be a bad girl and to fit in, is one with which we too often raise our daughters both in and out of the church. But growing up evangelical adds a twist: God is watching, watching all the time, and nothing escapes His gaze. That theme of relationship with God and Jesus appears again and again in the collection, sometimes explicitly and others obliquely, but frequently touching on the difficulty of developing a relationship with the Lord that goes beyond the people-pleasing with which women are invariably inculcated.

For those who have stayed in the faith, the stories in Jesus Girls reflect the ways in which their faith has had to grow in new and unexpected ways. In her “Why Isn’t God Like Eric Clapton”, Andrea Palpant Dilley embraces traditionally masculine imagery, and the tensions it creates to do so as a believer embodied as a woman:

My doubt was my desire, to touch the untouchable, to possess the presence of God…I am at core an Old Testament Christian: prone to Job’s questions, David’s psalmic longing, Cain’s wandering, and Solomon’s love of beauty and dominion. My faith has been more predatory than anything else, a hungry prowl in the dark and a practical, unrefined pursuit — like chasing a ten-foot tiger with a carrot peeler — something larger than life that has to be found with the inadequate tools of mundane life.

The theme of rejecting, reclaiming, and revisioning relationship with God is beautifully explored in Heather Baker Utley’s “The Journey Towards Ordination”. Raised a liberal United Methodist, Utley became an evangelical in college, and flirted with embracing the female submissiveness (the complementarian heresy) so much a part of more conservative churches. In time, however, Utley realized she needed to do more than simply accept the liberalism of her childhood or the traditionalism of her late adolescence; she had to do something new, something adult:

My identity wasn’t supposed to be defined by a gender role or an occupation — it was suppoed to be defined by God. Maybe I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom and use my pastoral gifts elsewhere, but if that was true, I wanted to make those decisions as a function of my own spiritual growth, not as a result of the church giving me a gender-based identity to become submissive and maternal. Gone were the role, the traditions, the “liberal” way I was raised and the “conservative” life I’d adopted. I felt empty without these pieces of my identity, but I was filled with hope. I knew I was going to start over — just God and me — and I was going to rediscover who I was defined only by my relationship with him.

Emphasis mine, and it’s in bold because it encapsulates the theme of the book. So many books about women and the church are written from one of two perspectives: a secular progressive standpoint, deeply suspicious of any attempt to reconcile feminism and faith — or froma rigidly conservative position, eager to push both sexes into narrowly-defined, “God-ordained” complementary roles. Jesus Girls is particularly welcome because it is a book written by women whose Christian faith, for the most part, remains at the center of their lives, but it is a faith that they have defined and redefined for themselves. Some have left the churches of their childhood (Anastasia McAteer grew up Evangelical Free, flirted with collegiate pentecostalism, and is now an Episcopalian), others have stayed in the denominations in which they were raised. But each has wrestled with what it means to be a woman, to be a Christian, to be in relationship not only with God but with God’s frequently exasperating, sometimes lovely, and invariably imperfect people. The stories of that wrestling are the heart of the book.

For progressive secular feminists, Jesus Girls will burst some commonly-held assumptions about evangelical women. For women still in the churches who have not yet found a way to give voice to doubt, this anthology will be a great comfort. For all of us, it is a reminder that faith and feminism can be reconciled — and that reconciliation isn’t just a theory, it’s something that women are living out every damn day. That reconcilation takes many forms, and in the rich variety of stories within this slim book, there are examples and inspiration aplenty.

Reprint: Fat, Slut, Selfish

This first appeared in June 2007.

I’ve been teaching women’s history here at Pasadena City College for more than a dozen years now, and throughout that time, have made journals a critical part of the course. It’s a lot of reading for me, but I remain convinced that my own teachers were right when they told me that putting my words down on paper is the single best way to figure out what it really is I think, feel, and believe.

Over these twelve years or so of teaching gender studies, of meeting with countless students in office hours, of listening, of reading student journals and reflecting on what I find there, I’ve noticed some fairly clear patterns. And the pattern that’s in my head this morning is the ubiquitousness of self-doubt and self-criticism that I see in so many of my female students (and youth group kids).

As my students will confirm, I’m fond of insisting that there are “three key points” to be made about virtually anything. (Too much Trinitarian Christianity; too much of the “three-column system” in Kabbalah; too much Hegel… or three divorces. Take your pick.) And if I were to try and sum up all of the negative self-talk I encounter from my students in just three words, it would be easy:

Fat, Slut, Selfish.

Let me be very clear that I’m not claiming that most women regularly beat themselves up with all three of these. For most of my students and youth group kids, one or two of these three words is particularly haunting. The fear of fat is much commented upon, and in looking back over the last twelve years of journals, the best that I can say is that that crushing anxiety about the body has, at least, not gotten significantly worse. Of course, it couldn’t get much worse. (I do notice more of my male students admitting to body dysmorphia and a desire to lose weight or change their shape.)

If the label “fat” still has tremendous power to wound, there are signs that at least among some young women, “slut” is losing at least a little of its force. From what I can tell (and to generalize enormously), we’ve done a marginally better job of helping young women claim ownership of their sexuality. Compared to what I was seeing, hearing, and reading in the mid-1990s, I see slightly more acceptance among young women (and their male peers) of the notion that women have the right to be sexual subjects rather than objects. Of course, as many feminists worry, when it comes to “sex talk” it’s often difficult to distinguish between false bravado and a genuine embrace of erotic agency. One role of feminist mentors (and youth group leaders) is to provide a safe environment where students can get honest about sexuality. It’s in these safe environments that those who are merely “talking big” about their comfort with their sexuality can begin to acknowledge that some of that apparent confidence is a facade; it’s also in these environments that those who are anxious or confused about their own sexuality can begin to unburden themselves. Continue reading

Becoming like Christ, revisited: Christianity, humility, transformation, common grace.

Melissa McEwan had two powerful posts up about Christianity a fortnight ago, here and here. (Cap tap to Vir Modestus.) The first of these begins:

Sayeth Kirk Cameron: “Only God can take the sinful heart of a man or a woman and cause them to love that which is right and just and good.”

Sayeth Melissa McEwan: Utter fuckery, that.

I’m certain there are people in this world who are better people because of their belief in God. In fact, I’m sure there are denizens of this very community who would say that very thing—and more power to them. I don’t begrudge anyone their own experience.

My point is only this: It is not the universal fact so many religious people assert it to be. You see, I am a better person as an atheist than I ever was as a Christian.

It’s a good post, as Melissa’s invariably are. Of course, this might be a good point to remind folks of the Reformed principle of “common grace“, which suggests that even those who don’t believe — and from a Calvinist standpoint, aren’t saved — receive the unmerited gifts of God. My friend Richard Mouw wrote a wonderful little book about common grace, He Shines in All That’s Fair: Culture and Common Grace. So when Christians imply, as Cameron does, that only folks who believe in God can display real goodness, they make a grave theological error. On the other hand, if Christians take the more subtle tack that all goodness comes from God, but God empowers even those who deny Her existence to practice goodness, then they’re on firmer ground. Somehow, I don’t think the former child TV star knows a lot about common grace, but I could be wrong.

But that’s not really Melissa’s point. Continue reading

Two cheers for Dan Savage: rape, male accountability, and the curse of the Nice Guy

My friend Leslie, noting my recent postings about my consent workshops and the issue of men’s role in sexual assault prevention, sent me a transcript of a recent Dan Savage podcast. Dan, one of America’s best known and respected sexual advice columnists, authors, and speakers, took a call from a guy whose most recent love interest had broken up with him after she had been sexually assaulted by another man.

Caller:

I’ve been trying really hard to be supportive of her even though honestly I don’t really know how to be. She sort of shut down emotionally, socially, as I guess, is kind of expected. But she’s lost trust and comfort in hanging out with guys of any sort, which includes me, and maybe especially me, considering our history includes taking things a bit far, or further than what was really comfortable for her, for either of us. Anyway, like I said, I’ve been trying to be supportive and helpful, but she recently told me to kind of back off as far as that was concerned because she doesn’t really feel comfortable talking about what’s going on with any guy. So my problem is that I’m still really interested in this girl, but I don’t know what my next move should be or how I can show this girl that I’m supportive of her without crossing any comfort lines, or basically how I should handle this kind of touchy situation.

Dan, bless his heart, reads the caller the riot act, calling him out for the bit about a past history of “taking things further than what was really comfortable for her.” Savage also makes two points that I think are hugely important, and are sufficiently universal as to be applicable to a great many men in situations not dissimilar from the caller.

First of all, Savage points out that many men find themselves interested in women who are survivors of sexual assault. He commends the caller, and other men like him, for the desire to help their current or prospective partner heal. But he also points out that trying to help a woman heal from what happened while also trying to get her into bed is at best working at cross-purposes and at worst indefensibly predatory. And though he doesn’t name it as such, Savage also touches on the “knight in shining armor” fantasy with which so many well-meaning men who are partnered with sexual assault survivors struggle. It’s incredibly easy for the line to be blurred between a compassionate desire to assist in another person’s healing and the narcissistic desire not just for sex, but to be the hero, the one who gives a traumatized woman a chance to “believe in men” again. Continue reading

Top three posts on Polanski

I have little to say, at least publicly, about the Roman Polanski case. But I do recommend these three posts, which represent some of the best responses I’ve seen this week. You can figure out my views from these three wonderful pieces.

Roman Polanski Has a Lot of Friends, Katha Pollitt.

Getting Over It, Lauren at Feministe

In Defense of the Polanski Arrest, Tom Head

“Better-looking when I leave”: a short note on vanity, aging, and Los Angeles

After a few days back in Los Angeles following a dozen on the East Coast — and after a few months of living in West Los Angeles again after thirteen years in Pasadena — I’m feeling once again twinges of discomfort about spending so much of my life in a place that, for all its merits, is so famously focused on looks.

Yesterday, I chatted with Meredith, who cuts my hair. Meredith is from Mississippi, and herself recently back from a trip to her hometown on the Gulf Coast. She asked me about my trip to the East, and I remarked “Everytime I leave Los Angeles, I feel as if I get better looking.” Meredith laughed loudly, and agreed; the stylist next to her and her client chimed in with their assents. What started was a four-way conversation among the two stylists and their clients (all non-natives) about the toll that living in L.A., particularly on the Westside, takes on one’s self-image.

I’ve always struggled with vanity and body issues; in previous posts, I’ve talked about my struggle with a serious eating disorder and exercise addiction. I’m much more content and self-accepting in my forties than I was in my twenties, and that is a blessing. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t, with disappointing regularity, find myself studying my figure in a mirror or assessing the fit of my clothes, wishing that I were as lean as I was when I was at my thinnest. (Never mind that my thinnest years, though they corresponded with very fast running times, were also in most respects my unhappiest.) Becoming a father has been a huge help; focusing on a child is an excellent distraction and an effective palliative for narcissism. (How awful would it be if it weren’t!) Yet there’s no denying that my desire to be thin has not yet left me. I’ve said it before: I’ve been blessed, thanks to therapy and hard work and grace, with great success in overcoming so many of my addictions. My body dysmorphia and my anxieties about weight, however, remain with me to a far greater degree than I would like to admit.

Here’s the thing: I don’t realize until I leave Los Angeles how much more comfortable in my own skin I feel in other places. In New York, I invariably feel less self-conscious, even on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, than I do here in Southern California. And when I’m in Europe — even in fashion-conscious places like Paris or Florence or Mayfair — I don’t feel that sense that I’m too old. To put it another way, I feel more visible virtually everywhere else. I’ve written before, and many other feminists have as well, about the ways in which aging women are made invisible. There’s no question that we erase “older” women from our gaze in a way that we don’t with men; I’m keenly conscious that my authority as a teacher, for example, only grows with age. But though middle-aged men (I am certainly middle-aged now) are far less often rendered invisible than their female peers, I’ve felt — perhaps because of my unfortunate character defect of vanity — the way in which I too am more likely to “disappear” as I grow older. At least, I feel this keenly when I’m in West L.A.

I’m not writing this post to fish for compliments. I’m certainly not writing to complain about how tough it is to be me. I’m a damned lucky man in virtually every imaginable respect. But this character defect that leads me to be unduly concerned with my own appearance, this anxiety about my weight and my attractiveness that, while blessedly diminished lingers with me still, this puerile self-absorption — this , this, this is exacerbated by place. I wouldn’t go back to my younger, presumably “hotter” days for all the tea in China; the anxiety was crippling and the narcissism repellant. But I will say, as I move more deeply into that long and ill-defined period known as mid-life, that there are many other places I would rather live than here.

Guys, men and the straitjacket of false dichotomies

The “Modern Love” column in the New York Times is rarely dull, sometimes heartbreakingly beautiful, and frequently the source of eye-rolling and general exasperation. In the latter category falls this Cathleen Calbert piece that ran almost a fortnight ago: Forget the Men. Pick a Guy. It begins:

I’ve never liked men. I like guys. Guys are often in between things like jobs and houses, which means they’re more likely to stay up with you all night, drinking wine and playing gin rummy. They’ll rub your belly. They’ll lick chocolate off it. They’ll like your cute little dog. A guy is never going to shoot Old Yeller in the woods.

Then again, guys don’t remember to tell you the doctor’s office called. They don’t check your tires before your big trip. They don’t say, “Call me when you get there.” They say, “Love you, have fun,” because they can’t imagine anything bad happening to you. Which is good, and somehow bad. Guys don’t tell you what to do. This also is both good and, oddly, bad.

Calbert, a professor at Rhode Island College, contrasts her late father — a model of remote, uncommunicative, protective masculinity, the template of “man” in her consciousness — with the more accessible, egalitarian, articulate and yet invariably unreliable “guys” to whom she proclaims her enduring attraction. The piece alternates between the mildly witty and the genuinely painful, as when Calbert relates her father’s reaction to her own molestation by two teenagers (boys? guys? men?) when she was 10.

There’s much to pick apart in Calbert’s offering. True, the dichotomy she offers bears passing similarity to the far crueler and rigid separation we create with different types of women, dividing them into madonnas or whores, into mother figures or temporary diversions, “girls you marry” and “girls you have fun with.” Any man who reacts with justifiable indignation to Calbert’s bifurcated view of American males would do well to reflect on the ways in which he has been acculturated to do something similar to women. But there’s nothing particularly progressive or redemptive about doing to men what has traditionally been done to women, particularly when the dichotomy she employs reflects such a straitjacketed view of human potential.

Calbert writes: I want the E.M.T.’s who show up when I’ve collapsed to be men, not guys. I don’t want someone responsible for saving my life to be torn up about the death of his dog or how some chick hurt his feelings. She reflects a common view, I suppose, but a disastrously mistaken one. She imagines that competence and decisiveness, the qualitites she values so highly in “men”, are radically incompatible with the sensitivity and sensuality that she finds so attractive in her “guys.” Put another way, what Calbert is saying is that he who feels too deeply can’t take action in a crisis; certainty and empathy are, at least in her taxonomy of American males, like oil and water. Continue reading

Thursday Short Poem: Haught’s “God Says Yes”

As Wallace Stevens so perfectly said, “after the final no, there comes a yes.” Here’s a poem about the same thing by Kaylin Haught; the piece has gone almost viral, it seems; several folks have sent it to me in recent weeks. And so here it is.

God Says Yes to Me

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I’m telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

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