Beyond the Pale

Her name was Idelette. She was demur. Thrifty. Able to keep a house. She was humble and compliant. Quiet. A widow and a mother of two, a Protestant.

She was introduced to John Calvin in Strasburg.

He didn’t want to marry. He was a scholar. A man with a genius command of languages and long forgotten works of theology and philosophy. The last thing he wanted was the complexity of marriage, life.

When the leaders of the Reformation pressed him to marry as all pastors were now expected to do, he thought he dodged the bullet with a list of demands. If he were to marry, then . . . she must be demur, thrifty, a good housekeeper, not haughty, compliant, and most of all quiet. 

It was an obnoxious list. Being gracious we could say the list was meant to keep him single.  No woman could be all those things he believed. 

Her name was Idelette.  She was demur. Thrifty. Able to keep a house. She was humble and compliant. Quiet. A widow and a mother of two, a Protestant.

They called his bluff. With no real courtship, perhaps a coffee, they were wed. John and Idelette.

Calvin fell desperately in love with Idelette who was demur, kept the house quietly. You get a sense Calvin loved her despite his idiotic list. He was for once alive.

And then she died. 

The genius scholar forced to marry found his heart once alive now broken.  He grieved her. You can find his grief in one of his greatest works.

Calvin’s Psalm Commentary is a classic. 150 ancient Hebrew poems unpacked, undone, and then rebuilt to reveal the mysterious mind of God set to song.  His Psalm Commentary is a complex series of questions rescuing the bible from oblivion.  And it was the hard ground he dug to bury Idelette.

Not in every psalm can we hear his lament.  But then something would cut, hit, demand honesty in the poetry. When psalms made such demands, his academic prose became an ode to Idelette.

His commentary became lament. When it did, the Psalms were now alive again. The dead text buried centuries ago broke through and walked, talked. We can thank Idelette for every call to worship we speak, the psalms we whisper, the poetry we remember.

Her name was Idelette.

And then her name was Katharina. Katharina Zell. Where Idelette was demur, Katharina was bold. Where Idelette was quiet, Katharina was loud. Katharina was a contemporary of Idelette as well as being a wife of a Reformer herself.

We know of Katherina primarily as a writer, but also, most famously, from her request to preach. Her husband died and Katharina asked permission to speak at his funeral. Denied as a woman, she made a theological argument that was hard to refute. She said, if God could speak through Balaam’s donkey, God can speak through me.  Right?

Well, no. Using a different logic, the Reformers denied her request.  No woman should be allowed to preach. What she proposed was just too radical, too far, too much change.

It is a strange twist of fate, but I see myself in the pulpit in the same terms as Katharina.  If God can speak through Balaam’s ass, God can speak through me. For me Katharina is the protestant saint of preaching.

Not a Sunday, not a funeral, not a town hall or lecture have I stood to speak without her.  When I would remain silent, she goads me.  When I would question my authority or right or place to speak, she causes me to rise.

Yet her most lasting influence on me has been why they denied her.  She was too much, too far, too radical. She was offensive as a woman. Women in the pulpit was beyond the pale.

Yes, we can throw out the Mass crafted over centuries. Yes, we can abandon doctrine after doctrine from Papal authority to the number of sacraments to the role of celibacy and the priesthood.  We can do all those things in the name of reform, but a woman in the pulpit?

Scandalous.  No.  Just too far.

There is the moment of “too far” where we pull back, replace faith with fear. We all do it.  And when I do this, I have Katharina there asking, “why does no one question you?” How is it you are not an offence, but I am?

It is important to recognize how the Reformers were right, and Katharina was wrong in a sense. Katharina cast her desire to speak on an instance, a bizarre occurrence, a talking donkey whose message was to one person, in one time, with one intent. Had she been afforded the right to preach in the 16^th century, the consequence could have affected everyone in the future with a wide possibility of affect. 

The reformers of the 16^th century (Calvin, Luther, Zwingli, Knox), they knew the possibilities of reform were so great, they could get out of hand, and chaos would ensue. They were afraid of losing control, but ultimately, or more importantly, they were afraid of to be seen as lacking piety.

They were there to reform the church, not change the world.  Donkeys aside, having priests who married was enough change, enough scandal. 

In our reading today it is easy to miss the scandal. You can skip over this pericope as a trivial detail and fail to see the offensiveness.  Our reading seems so simple and trivial.  It almost begs a bible quiz question in a trivia contest.

Name the three women listed in the Gospel of Luke who helped Jesus’ ministry and cared for him?  The answer is: Mary, Joanna, and Susanna. And then the curious detail, and many others.

It could be that Luke is generating a list for the early church.  Each of these three women would be venerated in the centuries that followed.  Being mentioned in the Gospel is significant validation.  To not only be mentioned but named is rather rare. 

It could be that Luke is painting a picture of Jesus as a compassionate healer. These three were healed and they followed Jesus.  In other words, they sought to repay the goodness offered to them.

Yet the best way to read this passage is to see it as part of a set, one in a series of teachings, with this the last. 

Jesus called the Roman centurion a man of the greatest faith in Isael.  Jesus helped him, healed his servant. To aid the enemy was offensive.

Next, he raises the widow’s son at Nain.  Out of blue, moved with compassion, he chooses to bring the dead back to life. The randomness was offensive.

And then John the Baptist hears rumors of gluttony and drunkenness.  Not how the Messiah was supposed to live.  John was offended.

Next to last, a woman of common fame is forgiven her sins by her faith begging the question, who is this one to forgive sins?  Anyone but God was offensive.

Remember the opposite of faith is not doubt.  The opposite of faith is offence. When we get offended in people, when they let us down or shock us or fail to meet our expectations, we get offended and lose faith in them.

Jesus did many shocking things. Mary the Magdalene, Joanna, Susanna following him, caring for him, these women who were shunned and outcast, possessed of demons and disease, to have them be a part of his intimate circle, shocking, scandalous, offensive. This was the stuff of rumor and gossip. The kind of rumors that cause you not to trust.

The rumor of this passage is alive and well.  It was the basis of a somewhat recent page-turning mystery thriller. Dan Brown’s DaVinci Code: terrible history and awful interpretation of renaissance art, but a romping good tale based upon the rumors that Luke is inferring in our reading today.

These three and some more women took care of Jesus. [Insert throat clear.]  Consider for a moment if the list were of men Jesus healed.  The centurion’s slave, the widow’s son, Legion.  What a different image, different message. No scandal there.  But the list of followers bringing care were women. And that, Luke knew, would cause offense.

Her name is Julia.

I watched her grow up, go to college, and then to seminary. Along the way I encouraged Julia.  She did an internship at the church. She preached on a regular basis. 

When she was heading down to Princeton, filled with fear, I said, look, the chances are good you have not fit, felt odd, just about everywhere.  When you get to Princeton you will feel at ease because you will no longer be the odd fish in the pond, but just one more fish in an odd pond. 

After her first semester she came home and said, “I am a fish like everyone else there.”

Julia’s path to the pulpit began in an awkward way. Her parents didn’t know what to make of the little girl who said, “I want to be the preacher someday”.  It was awkward because they were in a Roman Catholic mass.

So, Phil and Emily did what good parents of potential preachers do, they became Presbyterian.

It must be about ten years ago, Julia was home from seminary, and I invited her to write a dialogue sermon with me. 

The intent was to show how different generations look at issues through the lens of the same passage. 

In the sermon Julia reflected on the guilt she felt for not joining a Black Lives Matter rally in Trenton.  If the truth be told, she confessed, no good excuses, no fears, nothing but a lack of will, a complacency.  Just didn’t feel compelled.  My voice in the sermon reflected the way I am reluctant to risk, not wanting to go too far, too fast.  My views of gender were couched in patience which was cowardice. 

At the end of the sermon, a long-time member of the church, Karl, stood up and shouted, “hey, Julia, maybe next time your friends invite you to a Black Lives Matter rally you can offer to hold an All-Lives Matter rally instead.”

In the stunned silence we just stared at Karl.  We knew he was bombastic and contrary and like to say audacious things, but this was worship.  Julia was not in a conversation over coffee, she was preaching. 

The next day the clerk of session and I went to see Karl.  He was quick to offer an excuse of care.  He was trying to protect Julia because those Black Lives Matter rallies are filled with violent Antifa actors.  He cared for Julia. In blunt terms we suggested that the way he showed his care was inappropriate. 

The clerk suggested that what I said in my part of the sermon was far more offensive than what Julia said, but he didn’t shout at me.  I was an acceptable offense was his response.  But young female preachers at a Black Lives Matter rally?  Too much, too far, too fast. Scandal.

If Luke’s description of women following Jesus was intended to be the door of change, leveling gender difference in terms of leaders of the church to evoke revolution, it didn’t work. Didn’t happen.

What it can do though is expose what needs to ever change in us.  The temptation of offence. We all get offended.  If you want things to be right, then we will be tempted to hate those who are wrong.  If seek justice, it is easy to disdain the unjust.  If we do not trust Jesus about humility, then we will be offended like the Baptist in our pride and hypocrisy. 

If we overcome the temptation of offensive then Mary, Joanna, Susanna, Idelette, Katharina and Julia are simply the pilgrims with whom we share the path.  Maybe we could overcome the offense of gender by trusting from the dust we come and to the dust we return.  Amen.