Book Review: CEB Women's Bible

CEB Women's Bible; Abington Press link

Back in the days when I managed a Christian bookstore, I dreaded the thought of going through certain publisher's catalogues and finding book titles prefaced with 'Women's'.
Invariably, the jackets would be soft pastel pink or bedecked with flowers while, inside, the content felt somehow slightly patronising - as if the intended readers were not particularly bright.  Mostly, the books with 'Women's...' would be cheerfully, relentlessly complementarian in approach, with the aim of squeezing women - in all their wonderful diversity - into a very narrowly proscribed role. As the bookshop I ran was determinedly much broader, these kinds of books were bypassed rather swiftly.
Given that background, I confess I did twitch once or twice when I initially heard about the CEB Women's Bible; I needn't have twitched.

The jacket is mercifully flower-free and is a solid, reliable rust-brown, conveying the impression that this is no light and fluffy number but is meant to be taken seriously. Inside, it doesn't disappoint. This work makes women visible. The editorial team, and all of the contributors, are a diverse group of women; a good mix of serious scholars, pastors, a variety of community practitioners, writers, and speakers. It is very refreshing, and encouraging, to see such a collaborative project, and the all-woman list does much to dispel the feeling that there are no women 'out there' in the fields of biblical studies and theology especially - I say this as someone who, when undertaking my PhD, was the only female candidate in my year group. Perhaps the only quibble I might have, would be the actual translation itself - although maybe I'm too wedded to the way the NRSV reads. Personal taste: your mileage may vary...

The visibility of women continues throughout the CEB Women's Bible. Every reference in the text to a woman, named or unnamed is carefully indexed in the appendices at the back of this edition. An entry in bold font indicates that the person concerned has had a brief portrait written about her, and a page number is also, helpfully, included. These portraits include not only the more well-known women, but shine a light on the overlooked such as those known only as 'greeters at the Meeting Tent' [Exod. 38:8]. The preface to the CEB Women's Bible observes: 'when you open a Bible, you see that a variety of voices have always been part of God's good creation.' The joy of this edition of the Bible is that a variety of women have been given their place, their voice.

There is a strong emphasis upon encouraging a lively engagement with scripture. This can be seen within some of the other features that the CEB Women's Bible has on offer. Introductions to each book of the Bible are provided, giving background context and themes. At the beginning of each chapter a very brief one or two sentence summary is also given. There are reflections scattered throughout which invite the reader to engage more deeply with the text, and are a helpful tool for personal study. To further encourage study and reflection, over 200 sidebar articles ranging from social issues, to theology, through to personal relationships [e.g. adolescence, body image, creation, divorce, grief, immigrants, women/gender and violence] have been written and placed alongside the biblical texts.

Appendices at the back include:

• an index of all sidebar articles, listed alphabetically, giving the themes;
• discussion and reflection questions based around the Revised Common Lectionary. These could easily be used as a 'take away' to put on pew sheets to encourage further reflection
  at home during the week, or as material for a weekly study group. For ongoing discipling, and as a Christian ed. resource, this is a great wee feature;
• several Bible reading plans: a one month plan, the New Testament in 90 days, the Bible in a year;
• and, for this unashamed map geek, there are glorious full-colour maps at the back which are preceded by a map index - happy day!

The layout, overall is well arranged, and easy to navigate. While I like the idea of the portraits of women being placed close to the appropriate biblical text, occasionally it got in the way of reading the text itself. On the other hand, the sidebars were clearly defined, on a different coloured background, which made it easier to distinguish between article and actual biblical text. As to the fonts: the main headers were nicely informal brush-stroke in style, and elsewhere the text was easy to read. A personal taste thing, really, but I prefer the less formal, not too fussy, approach.

Back in the day when I managed my wee bookstore, this particular book with the word 'Women's'

would not have been bypassed; it would have found a very welcome home among the shelves of

my biblical studies/ bibles section. I'm pleased that a copy is now on my desk, and suspect it won't often be left sitting in my bookcase. It's a great resource, doing a very necessary task: making those who were invisible, visible. 

*Just to note: this Bible was sent to me free, for an honest review. While I've tried to be critical, 

it's mere quibbles here and there. I'm thoroughly enjoying exploring this edition of the Bible, and 

already think the variety of features helps to make it an exceptionally useful tool on multiple levels.

Picture prayers: On St Columba's Day

'St Columba on his farm in Scotland' - Anthea Craigmyle

I love this painting by Anthea Craigmyle of St Columba: a homely, earthy depiction, which also picks up that sense of cheerfulness much attributed to him [although I do feel a sense of the Pythonesque - hard to resist humming: 'Always look on the bright side of life].

O God, who gave to your servant Columba

the gifts of courage, faith and cheerfulness,

and sent people forth from Iona

to carry the word of your gospel to every creature:

grant, we pray, a like spirit to your church,

even at this present time…

[prayer from the Iona Community]

Poems of the heart: On visiting Auschwitz, 24 May 2016

image c. Nik M

Blue sky, 

buttercups,
bird song.
Barbed wire,
watchtowers,
whispering.
Hush.
Hush.
The spent,
in ashes,
sleep.
Stories lost,
stories found,
stories told,
profound
remembering
in sighs
and convulsed sobbing.
Undying stones
bear witness,
pray kaddish
for the dead.
                                           c.Nik M

Cloud of witnesses: Sophie Scholl

The blade is sharp, but her courage is sharper still.
Along with her brother and small cohort of friends,
she has looked the regime squarely in the eye and called it out for what it is:
brutal, dehumanising, death-giving.
Motivated by her faith, and horror of the accounts of atrocities in the East shared by 
the boyfriend who is a serving officer, she, with her friends, begins to leave leaflets 
around the city in the summer of 1942. They urge fellow citizens to passively resist 
the killing machine that has replaced good government. 
The machine is nothing, if not efficient: a climate of fear turns citizen against citizen. 
Sophie, brother Hans, and friend Christoph are caught in the February of '43, 
informed on by a university janitor who has seen them drop what is the sixth, and final,
leaflet. A trial quickly follows and the death sentence is passed four days later.
They are to be beheaded by guillotine within hours.
Before she dies, she talks to a cell-mate and states:
'How can we expect righteousness to prevail when there is hardly anyone willing to
give himself up individually to a righteous cause. Such a fine, sunny day, and I have
to go, but what does my death matter, if through us, thousands of people are awakened
and stirred to action?'
The blade is sharp, but her courage, sharper still.

I've been recently thinking around the idea of 'wild church'.
I've also been thinking of power and courage - due in part to
wrestling with various lectionary texts, and also, due to the ongoing season of Lent.
Jesus turns his face to Jerusalem.
The powers that be - religious and political - have been challenged.
To hear words such as 'the last shall be first, and the first, last',
is a prime motivator to nip such notions in the bud:
the 1% in any given era will always be determined to remain at the top,
and to keep the 99% firmly at the bottom.
Jesus turns his face to Jerusalem, the place where prophets go to die.
He not only walks on the margins with the least,
he walks on the wild side of non-conformity with systemic structures of power
and shows that real power is life-giving:
the giving of life, for the living of life in a more real and abundant manner.
The wild side of the kindom of God throws down a challenge.
It's about waving, or shining a torch, calling out:
'there's so much more than this: look! Come and see! Come. Live.'
It's the very thing that institutions and regimes fear,
for it casts a light on their own desperate clawing for power at any cost.
The Cross is looms large, but his courage, larger still.

Sophie's faith feels like a 'wild' kind of faith - the faith that dares to move from a
place of quiet comfort. A faith that turns its face towards a variation of Jerusalem,
and witnesses to that very different understanding of power:
which refuses to buy into the notion that force and bullying,
fear and manipulation, are just the way of things,
and that conformity is always the best course.
That the strongest, or the loudest, wins.
It may seem that way, but there's so much more than this: look! Come and see!
Come.
Live.

Sophie Scholl, 9 May 1921 – 22 February 1943, member of the White Rose resistance group

#RallyRevGals - Sheryl

Another #revgalsrally post...

Today, for no particular reason at all, I've been thinking about the Letter to the Hebrews, focusing on chapter 11:1-40,12:2; pondering the nature of faith, wondering about 'heroes' of the faith, and the concept of being surrounded by 'so great a cloud of witnesses'.  In amongst a list of numerous male 'heroes' mentioned in chapter 11, three women are mentioned but only one of these for her faith - Rahab.  The other two, Sarah and the unnamed daughter of  Pharaoh, are merely there because of their part in the faith-stories of Abraham and Moses.  Time for naming, I thought, and flagging up other, more personal, heroes of the faith.
As I've been reflecting about those who have influenced my own faith, I realise that there is quite a cloud of sister-witnesses who have encouraged and inspired, challenged and consoled, laughed and wept and spoken and listened and walked alongside me on this peculiar faith journey.
It is to this great cloud of sisters and witnesses to the faith that I pay tribute, and to whom I'm profoundly grateful... and so today, let me add Sheryl.

Sheryl was the youth pastor of the parish I daundered along to due to Rosemary.
Two women.
Both listening to a searching 18 year old.
Both treating me seriously...as ...an adult.
Both very generous.
And what incredible generosity of spirit Sheryl had: she gave me the gift of her time.
Shared books with me,
walked me through this wild collection of books called the Bible,
taught me that you neither need lose your brains or your sense of humour to be Christian,
gave me opportunities to test myself and develop skills and gifts along the way.
Standing up in church and doing bits and pieces in worship...okay.
Reading, playing music, teaching Sunday School...seriously?
It was odd to be teaching P7's...but, really, they taught me -
'so, this Noah guy...all these animals in a boat? No way?
Well, that's cool.'
They'd nod wisely and continue the lesson.
Sheryl, I suspect, was also nodding wisely as she watched and listened.

At the end of a year of talking, coffee drinking, doing many mad things in the church,
we sat in the park by the beach after the Sunday School picnic.
She offered a challenge:
'Nobody's going to beat you over the head with a bible to make you
become a Christian, you know.  We've talked for over a year, you've read,
you've thought, and in the end, it comes down to one simple thing:
you make a decision.
Either you become a Christian or you don't.
What are you going to do?  Nobody gets argued into the kingdom of heaven...'
It seemed perfectly reasonable.
And slightly insane.
Diary entry ran along these lines:
5 December, 1982:
S and I were talking again.  Told me 'make your mind up one way or the other'.  
So, I did: today I became a Christian - basically told God 
'okay, if you exist, then let's do this thing.'  No angels sang.  But that's okay.

For a couple of years, until she moved on, she, along with Rosemary, was a trusted
mentor and guide.  I have so much gratitude for both of them and both gave me
such excellent grounding in the faith.

#RallyRevGals - Rosemary

My blogging has been utterly lacking and I've been slacking...
So glad the RevGals are providing a little incentive to get some of us back to the blog-face once more.
And so, I offer the following reflection on Rosemary - who was there right at the beginning,
and who opened the door that would eventually set the whole ministry thing rolling.

I was, perhaps, 13.
To my surprise, my mother insisted I go to confirmation classes at the local Anglican church.
The surprise being that, as a family, we did not do church.
Nevertheless, for almost a year, I'd turn up to Father Smith's confirmation classes
on a Monday afternoon when school had finished.
As a relatively good child, I did find the lesson on going to confession a most puzzling one:
neither bank robbing or murder had, as yet, been committed;
what was there to confess?
Still, I made the most of these opportunities in class to try to ask the
annoying and difficult questions.
Poor man.  Yes, I was testing him.
I began to read up on the subject to see what googlies* I could throw at him.

On Sunday, I would head out to the 7.30am service with my slightly hung-over mother,
get the required dose of religion,
and then we'd all head to the beach.
[in the process, observing that communion wine + hangover = not very happy mix]
Even at that age, I remember noticing that, in worship, anyone who did anything was *not* a girl....
The spiritual stuff was interesting, but the visual message I picked up on was that I didn't belong.
After the year had come and gone, and with it, the confirmation, that was it:
church was now officially done 'n dusted.
Or so I thought.

Several years passed.
18, and  now done with school, I'd head off on a Wednesday evening
to the local Scottish Country Dancing classes.
It's where I met Rosemary.
Rosemary must have been in her late 50's by then -
which, to my 18 year old self, was akin to being positively ancient beyond words.
Light grey hair.
Curly.
She drank hot water with a teaspoon of vegemite: unusual.
She also went to church.
Not Anglican; Uniting Church in Australia.
Taking pity on a poor teen reliant on public transport,
she kindly offered to pick me up and drop me home from dancing.

In that car, we talked.
A lot.
I asked questions - so many questions.
She patiently fielded them.
Talked about faith.
Community.
Life, death, the universe.
'But aren't you committing intellectual suicide by being a Christian?'
Books in process of being devoured included Marx, and Sartre
The word 'deaconess' came up in conversation one evening.
Wait.
She didn't just *go* to church...she actually did stuff...and was paid?
Huh?
I visualised my year of confirmation...
Only men did stuff that went beyond being in the pews.
Apparently not.
I do remember sputtering and asking her:
'But, how, as a woman, can you collude with the patriarchy?'
Light reading material at this point consisted of de Beauvoir and someone called 'Greer'.
Graciousness and invitation:
'Why not come along and see?'
I was so intrigued, I did...
and watched, and listened, as a woman led worship and preached.
...oh.

I'm not quite sure what happened that day.
But somehow, somewhere, a door unlocked inside.
Permission.
Belonging.
Encouragement.
I went back the following week.
And the next.
And the one after that.
All it took was a patient, kindly, and very gracious woman
to show me that the door was open,
and that I was welcome.

So many years later, I have no idea where Rosemary is, or even
if she is still alive.
But soon, another door is about to open...
I've completed my training for ordination and am now
looking for a charge.  And so we come almost full circle.
Should I encounter some brash, precocious youngster with lots of
attitude and a myriad of questions, I pray for the same graciousness
and patience shown to my younger self.
Blessings on you, Rosemary.
Oh, and for the record, I still have not, as yet, robbed a bank or committed murder.

*googlie - for the non-cricketers... it's a cricketing term: a type of bowling delivery, which can be quite tricky for the batter.

blessed and speechless

I had been planning a quite different day yesterday.  It involved a gentle and quiet morning, followed by friend Fran and I daundering off to explore the loveliness that is Seton Collegiate Church. The plan then involved heading down the road to stay at Fran's for a couple of days.  My wee bag was duly packed and friend Fran arrived.  A small change to plan: Fran was going to stay in order to take me out for a quiet birthday meal in town.  Off we went to Seton CC, initially set up as a local parish church from the 12th c and then, in the 15th c, being furnished by priests to sing masses for the souls of local nobles the Seton family - gaining collegiate status in 1492.  It has been a place I've been meaning to have a wee look at for several years now. 

The weather was gorgeous, the sun filtered through the woodland path that led to the church, and then as we passed through the old stone entrance, in the midst of beautifully tended lawns, there it was in all its pinky-brown stone glory with uncompleted spire.  Glorying in the beauty of the surroundings, we strolled about the gardens, carefully avoiding the 'burrowing bees' [shades of 'Harry Potter' anyone?] - this, at any rate, according to a sign.  We walked in and inspected the place, with no other souls in sight.  Given it was just the two of us, we put the accoustics to the test - singing a psalm, several versions of the Lord's Prayer, and a MacMillan Sanctus.  The sound bounced about the old stone wonderfully - even though neither of us are particularly wonderful singers!  A lovely way to spend the afternoon.

And then, home. 

Quick change for quiet meal in town.

I was puzzled, however, when, after having parked on George IV Bridge, we kept walking...and walking, past all the usual restaurants and headed along the way to the Mound.  Things began to get more mysterious as we passed the last two 'obvious' eateries and walked towards New College where Fran decided to pop into Musa, the wee cafe by the school, to 'just see Sue for a minute'. 

Something was not quite right, but I shrugged, and said I'd wait outside as it was a lovely evening.

No.

I was coaxed into Musa and, just as a cog in brain began to turn, the door opened to reveal a host of friends who had apparently been brilliantly discreet for weeks - lots of plotting and planning and I had not heard a whisper.

Can those eyebrows lift any higher? No. I think not.

'SUPRISE!' indeed - I had been played like a fish - it was beautifully done.  Possibly one of the most astonishing, fun, touching, and best moments of my life.  Utterly speechless and utterly humbled by how many folk had worked so hard, and so quietly, to help put the whole thing together, to turn up or send their good wishes, and to cheer me on as I marked a year which for me ends in a '0'... and special thanks to friend Fran for being inspired to organise and coordinate the whole thing.  What a wondrously eclectic mix of friends from all the various strands of my life... and such generosity.
I'm left astonished, amazed, humbled, and very very grateful. 
I am truly blessed.