Cursed Be the Woman
Today I have two posts for you, and both of them have me trembling a little.
John Blase is our friend, and he’s a poet, the one we call the cowboy of the internet, gritty and tender. You must bookmark him. I’m sure you’ll hear that from me again. He asked me to write a poem for his blog, and writing it rattled me, because poetry makes me give into the words in such a vulnerable way.
But also, get in to his poetry as well. You’ll be so glad and bothered by it for days.
I am nervous about this next post, or rather extremely uncomfortable, continuing my conversation about our gifts in light of the gospel. Watch the video posts to see the beginning of the conversation here: Ashamed of the Gospel and Guard What Has Been Entrusted. Then go to A Deeper Church for the rest.
On Sunday nights, we could wear pants to church. The air was more jolly, and we might have thrown in a couple more upbeat accapella songs. We were less somber and less sin-focused, had full bellies from a day with the family, and enjoyed sitting with our friends, practicing the glory of a southern alto and then sitting for a nice game of hangman while the preacher gave a short talk. For the most part, I loved the church when I was a child. I believed in it and the roles it told me to play on behalf of the kingdom.
One Sunday night, the man reminding us of the sick among us couldn’t remember a detail, so he asked out into the congregation to see if anyone knew. Mrs. Whitaker responded aloud, and I remember that her feminine voice in the blank space above the heads of men and God and everybody jolted me up stiff, and my arms went numb. I was terrified.
… continue reading over at A Deeper Church.