as a beautiful olive tree in the field

I type this while intermittently staring at “Our Lady of the Olives,” which rests against the wall just above my computer screen. It’s a print of a painting by Nicolò Barabino: A white-and-deep-blue clad Mary holding an infant Jesus on her lap, framed by olive branches and a floral-wreath border. The top of the painting says Quasi Oliva Speciosa in Campis.

As a beautiful olive tree in the field.

Serendipitously, Trader Joe’s was selling little potted olive trees today. I bought one. Today is the anniversary of the day my girls and I went to the little white Anglican church for the first time.

One year of being weekly washed in the water of the Word.

One year of dwelling in the body of Christ, and inviting Him to dwell in me, at the sacramental table.

One year running free, unencumbered by the burden of needing to know and be right about everything.

It’s been a year of asking questions (so many questions), learning, and consistently being humbled by the rigidity of my paradigm or the incompleteness of my understanding. A year of noticing how many things I have gotten exactly backward, and never thought twice about before. A year of discovering—as if for the first time—who God is.

Thus, Our Lady of the Olives graces my desk. A reminder that God humbled Himself to come to us fully human: the kind knit together cell by cell in a mother’s womb, the kind birthed through blood and travail, the kind that becomes an inconsolable newborn or a tantruming toddler or a strong-willed child. A reminder that the Father crucially partnered with Mary—and many women before her, all the way back to Eve—to enact redemption, and that for a time, she was His very tabernacle dwelling. Somehow a holy God did not think Himself too good for us, even though we so often think ourselves too good for Him.

A reminder, too, that the Creation project began with a temple garden, lush with life and color and goodness, like the flowers that frame the figures in the painting. That the Creator delights with me in my garden’s blossoms, my children’s antics, my home’s sanctuary. He tabernacles here with us.

I went looking for Him in so many places—across the country, overseas, at a certain type of church, inside a certain version of the Bible, in my own ideas and projects and “glorious purpose”—and though He never abandoned me in any of those things, I found Him here.

Little old here.

Common and nondescript, but simultaneously significant. Like a beautiful olive tree in the field.

Like a little white church on the corner.

Genesis 2 (a poetic vision)

She awakes
looking into a mirror.
Strength, goodness, and valor are there.
His first, and have become hers—
two halves of a split picture, the Imago Dei.

The One who breaks apart darkness and light,
water and ground,
God’s space and human’s space is now become
the One who knits together whole new beings from inside Himself.

And he who breaks apart the creatures by kind,
who himself is broken in two,
incomplete,
not good,
cannot be knit whole outside of her.

toward God's heart, part 1

I’ve been asked a few times recently what, exactly, has led to the changes in my understanding of God’s design for the sexes. I appreciate this question; too many people quickly assume that when a woman starts “waffling” on the doctrine of complementarianism, it’s because she doesn’t want to follow it, or because she wants power, or because she thinks God isn’t fair. There’s a strong tendency for stalwart conservative Christians to catastrophize, wondering where her obvious disregard for Scripture will take her next.

I’m sure that a subsequent rejection of orthodox Christian beliefs does happen sometimes—the inability to see shades between black and white is not limited to any one “side”—but ecclesiastical dismissiveness toward those who are conscientiously rethinking tertiary doctrines serves only to shut down what I think is a very important conversation we should all be having, if we care about knowing and imitating God’s heart for women, men, and the Church in light of the Good News. I reject the idea that any change in how we understand Scripture can be waved away as “deconstruction,” or that deconstruction is, itself, a dirty word. I don’t serve a particular denomination or statement of faith or political ideology; I serve God, and as soon as I insist that God fits into any human thought structure that exists on earth, I have become an idolator.

So this series is meant to be a small part of that conversation. I hope to keep having it, and learning from it, for some time to come.

A little backstory

I have been walking with God for 30 years. For those who want a specific point in time when my trajectory changed from hell-bound sinner to citizen of God’s kingdom, I first “asked Jesus into my heart” at about age 3, in the year 1997, with the help of my older brother Stephen. But thanks to the faithfulness of my parents, I was in practice living under the authority of Christ and in the reality of His resurrection from birth. As is typical for children, the real choice to follow Jesus out of personal conviction rather than family pattern didn’t happen until my early teens, and then it was more of a natural transition than a particularly memorable experience.

The home I grew up in was strong in “traditional” conservative evangelical values. (I put “traditional” in quotes because many of these traditions are, by comparison, quite young and not well-rooted in actual church tradition. This is not a criticism, just a clarification.) My dad is naturally a strong leader, protector, and provider. My mom is naturally a strong nurturer and guardian of the home. I am a child of the “ideal” complementarian environment, through and through. And yet, my journey toward equality and mutuality in marriage and in the church did not begin from reflecting on my own family of origin.

I share these pieces of backstory for context; I think it’s important for you to know that I have always been, and still am, an unwavering believer in the Scriptures and follower of Jesus Christ; and that I have concerns about complementarian theology that, while impossible to fully sever from my upbringing, do not arise from those experiences exclusively or even primarily.

A few caveats

Here’s what this series won’t be: It won’t be a verse-by-verse, chapter-by-chapter dissection of all the relevant texts in their original languages. Plenty of people have already done that, people with far greater qualifications to do so than I possess; Dr. Carmen Imes, Cynthia Long Westfall, Julie Zine Coleman, and Marg Mowczko are just a few. And it won’t be a proof-texting of egalitarianism—I do my best not to subscribe to “-isms.”

I should also acknowledge, even though it seems superfluous, that I’m writing from my own lifelong experience with Jesus, the Bible, complementarian spaces, and complementarian literature. Inevitably, there are limitations to my experience. There will be times that my experience doesn’t represent yours. There may be times I even sound dismissive of the good intentions I believe most complementarians have.

So I will say at the outset: I do not believe most complementarian Christians have any malice toward women or are consciously trying to marginalize us; in fact, I trust that many of them wholeheartedly believe they are doing what God wants, for the good of everyone. This gives me grace and compassion toward my complementarian brothers and sisters, but it does not excuse or invalidate the lived reality of all too many women in these spaces, myself included.

If you’re male and you strongly believe complementarian theology is a positive good, or you simply don’t see it as a big deal, that’s fine. Your experience of it is without question completely different from mine, simply by virtue of being male. Perhaps this series can give you a small taste of a different perspective.

If you’re female and you strongly believe complementarian theology is a positive good, or you simply don’t see it as a big deal, that’s also fine. I spent two-thirds of my life there with you. But your positive or neutral experience of Christian patriarchy does not make the negative experiences of many, many others less real.

In short, you may not understand where I’m coming from or why this matters to me. I’m okay with that. I just challenge you to keep front of mind that how we love and honor one another as the Imago Dei matters a lot to God.

With all that said: I’ll be exploring some of the contradictions I’ve noticed in complementarian doctrine, along with its incongruities with how God created humans and designed His good world to work according to the Scriptures, in the next several posts.