The Depressing, Ever-Present Reality Of Christian Sexism

My mother worked as a teacher all through her working life. She left for school before me and got home after me. Me and my five siblings never fully understood all the cultural nod-and-wink jokes about women wearing the trousers because of course women wore trousers. My mom dressed appropriately for corralling 36 little girls into tiny chairs to learn long division. Even as a very small boy, my perplexity at sexism was only matched by my fury. What kind of crap were these people spouting when they imagined there were some things that only men could do.

I became a Christian under the teaching of a woman. She was 16, so I suppose she was a girl, but she had the smarts and maturity to beat this confident atheist around every debating venue in which I dared to engage her. She batted away my trolling on Leviticus and forced me to confront the gentle genius of the Gospel of Luke and she had to come at me in a myriad of ways before that glorious gold coin of grace finally dropped and got what the whole thing – I mean everything – was all about.

I recently met an old acquaintence at a theology conference. In a room largely filled with old white men, she explained some of the profound difficulties that she faced as a serious scholar who happens to not have the required anatomy to be heard by much of the Christian church. I might think that it is my voice that gets me a hearing in the church. But it is my chromosomal make-up that invites me to the mic in the first place.


The Christmas story is very often overwhelmed by our familiarity with it. At the annunciation of the coming of Jesus, Mary breaks out into song. She is a teenaged girl, bound to a lifetime of speculative gossip over the birth of this baby outside of wedlock. But in her song, her worries are not her concern:

46 And Mary said,

“My soul magnifies the Lord,
47 and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
48 for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
49 for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.
50 His mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.
51 He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
52 He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
53 he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
54 He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
55 according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and to his descendants forever.”

Mary is reaching into the Hebrew scriptures, and remixing the song of Moses’ sister, Miriam, composed after YHWH had delivered the Hebrews out of slavery in Egypt. With the baby gestating in her womb, Mary will at first hand see the long-awaited delivery of all creation from the slavery of sin and therefore “all generations will call me blessed.” But look at the end. God’s strength scatters the intellectual order of the elites (51), knocks potentates from power and raises street people in their place (52), satisfies the hunger of the poor and dwindles the confident investments of the rich (53). The God that she sings of is faithful to the promises made to the Iraqi pagan Abrahm and this God is one marked by mercy (54-55).

Mary is a phenomenal theologian. She is thoughtful too. Luke 2:19 says that in strange happenings after the birth of Jesus, “Mary treasured all the words spoken and pondered them in her heart.”

It is not taking a leap from this Biblical evidence to say that Jesus’ first theological teacher was Mary. Scripture poured out of her in her moment of trial. She pondered the acts of God in her life. It is undoubted that the toddler Messiah learned the Psalms from the voice of his mother. It is inconceivable but that the child Christ did not imbibe the Biblical fluency of his mother. Sometimes my sermons can be mistaken for attempts to mimic Trevor Morrow even though I have a Dublin accent. Well, consider the Magnificat again and you will see that Jesus’ sermons are more heavily indented by his mother’s influence than I have been by the preacher from Lambeg.

Jesus’ primary Bible teacher was a woman.


On Easter Sunday I read the resurrection accounts. I was struck with fresh force by the significance of the eye-witnesses. None of them had penises. The angels didn’t have penises, obvs. Neither did the humans.

In fact, Wife-unit and I both broke out into inappropriate giggles in church that morning, as the account in the Gospel of John was read aloud. For whatever giddy reason, both of us saw the text in a new light that day and realised the humour in it. You could almost say Jesus is pranking Mary.

Let me explain: Mary is weeping because the body is gone. She tells the angels that she doesn’t know where it has been taken. When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she didn’t recognise that it was Jesus. And he doesn’t enlighten her. Instead, he says, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” This is Punk’d, Bible-style. Jesus knows why she is weeping. He knows who she is looking for. It is almost as if John is sketching this as a scene where Jesus was drawing out the wonderful reveal for dramatic effect. He plays his role with deadpan proficiency so that she turns to him, “supposing him to be the gardener” and pleads, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”

There is comedy, both in the formal sense of a story with a good ending and in the informal sense of the japery between humans that elicits laughter in this passage.

But the whole thing hinges on a woman being told to go and tell. To proclaim what she has seen. To preach about what she now knows. To teach people things they do not yet know. She hears the call of her Lord and she answers it: “Go to the brothers and tell them.”


On Sunday I stood in a pulpit. I was largely unknown to the congregation. Many of them couldn’t place my accent. They didn’t know about my penchant for flamboyant socks. Or that I was the nerd who was always on the school team sent off to the televised table-quizes. Or that I was a pacifist who refuses to attend church on Remembrance Sunday. I did not have to prove myself to them before they all sat and let me talk, at some length, about the most important questions humans wrestle with. And there is a list larger than the congregation gathered on Sunday of women I know who could do everything in the world to prove themselves and still would never be invited to do what I get to do for free.

I don’t have to prove myself. I won’t have to work as hard as my mother did. I don’t have the countless experiences of blatant rejection that the woman who brought me to faith has now endured. The old acquaintance I was re-acquaintanted with has a PhD and years of teaching and a long list of publications and a diverse range of research interests. She is ordained. I am not. But before I left it was me – a bumbling student – that got pulled aside by a fancy professor, who pressed his card into my hand and told me that the next time I was in his city, I should look him up.


I won’t be looking him up.

Your Correspondent, Folds faster than Superman on laundry day