Prevailing Winds "For the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is there is freedom . . ." 2 Cor. 3:17, TNIV

Why, yes, Saturday’s post WAS a long one . . .

And it was a revision of a paper I did earlier that week for a Western Washington friend whose ministry in her church is forbidden by virtue of the classic double-whammy of evangelicalism: She’s a woman, and she’s been divorced. I pray that my work will enlighten her pastor and open doors for her. She’s an enormously talented, Spirit-gifted and highly educated woman. The Body needs her.

But I was fairly spent after both the original essay and the blogpost, so I headed out to Ren Faire. Surely nothing at Moscow’s Renaissance Faire would dredge up anything personal in relation to sexism in the church, nor was it likely that I’d have to face any intellectual challenges. I’d just, you know, hang out for awhile. Eat, and then regret eating, an elephant ear. That’s all.

Then I saw him — the formerly ponytailed, still-tattooed, hippie-looking elder at a local church who, a few years ago, shattered me, wounding me in ways I’ve only recently fully recovered from. This guy, with his lovely, organic-looking wife, was a firebrand for “relationship” over doctrine and for not “putting God in our white, middle-class box,” and he had a passion for ministry to punks, Goths, methheads, street kids and battered women. The “wineskin” of his ministry looked great; I’m infinitely more comfortable with tattooed, ponytailed, torn-denim-and-tie-dye-types than with dress-suited, cologned, slick-haired stalwarts of the faith, and for awhile this man and I were pretty good friends. But while the wineskins looked new, and vibrant, and radical — because we simply MUST be radical in a culture in which being a Christian involves nothing particularly upsetting — the wine he poured out one day was sour, foul, and bitter beyond belief.

He told me, told me in my own home, that no one had come to Christ during my nearly 12 years of ministry to Mexican immigrants, because I had operated without my “covering” — my non-Spanish-speaking husband — and had presented the Gospel to and taught men. And if anyone DID come to salvation, he said, it was in spite of, not because of, my work; God condescended to plow through my sinful usurping of Jeff’s authority to pluck maybe a few souls for His purpose. Finally, this elder, one of four men who rule this particular congregation, said that if he had had his way — because it says so in First Timothy — I would never have been in ministry then and I absolutely wouldn’t be now, here in Moscow, not unless I submitted to Jeff’s “covering.”

It was at this point that Jeff threw him out. We left the church shortly after, and for a time I wondered if I’d ever go to another church again. Ever.

I’ve mentioned in previous posts that my husband financed my ministry in Snohomish County, Washington, for all but about 18 months, laying out — enthusiastically — thousands and thousands of dollars to buy Bibles and supplies and Christmas gifts, paying rents, paying mechanics, paying medical bills, and doing it with joy and, I think, not a little pride in his wife. But he was my partner, and when the “covering” issue came up over there, he dealt with it swiftly and surely, daring to suggest that Christ was all the covering I needed. I treasure my husband, but I obey Christ Jesus.

I would’ve preferred to enjoy Ren Faire without such a painful, jarring reminder of hurt and rejection, and I freely admit that I avoided being anywhere near them; I’m too angry to exchange small talk with a man, a church elder, who cares so little for people’s souls that he would rather they not hear the Gospel at all than hear it from a woman.

That’s what’s at stake here, and that’s why I write.