The Ain't I a Woman blog examines the many ways Christian culture lets women know exactly who they should be. We deconstruct those messages that we find troubling--and, in the process, construct a different message: one that allows Christian women to be all that God intended.

On Reunions: The Minneola Wildcats

This weekend I will be attending a reunion, not just for my high school class, but for the entire school. Despite the threat of bad weather, this event promises to be big because, in case you didn’t know, small towns are tops for knowing how to celebrate their communities.

MinneolaThis summer marks the one-hundredth anniversary of the first graduating class of Minneola High School. Minneola is a small town on the Kansas prairie where wind is in abundance and rain is in short supply (except, apparently, this weekend). Still, over the years (the town was founded in 1887), people of grit and patience and neighborly spirit have pooled their talents to maintain a vibrant community worth celebrating.

I can hardly wait to see what the weekend holds! There will be the ever-present parade, the one I remember being in every year until I graduated. My first trip down main street was ruined, however, when the lamb I was planning to lead (yes; I was going as Little Bo Peep) was unfortunately kicked by my dad’s horse while they were in the trailer on the way to town and it did not end well. Other years I opted for the safer alternative of pedaling my bicycle draped in crepe paper or riding along-side my sisters on our horses, each with our matching patriotic vests crocheted by my grandmother. In later years, there were floats to decorate and populate—representing the United Methodist Church (one of four churches in our town) or our high school class. And, sometimes it was necessary to do double-duty: ride the float through and then run back to join up with the high school band in order to play our fight song and the Star-Spangled Banner while stopped in front of the announcer who usually was posted outside of Schmidt’s Radio and TV.

My sister who still lives near Minneola recruited me one time a few years back to join her as a co-announcer of the parade. She’s good at that sort of thing and is still used to the small-town necessity of everyone being involved and in the spotlight. As an introvert who had been away from such community-centered activities, my stomach remained in knots for weeks after—a feeling I’ve started to have again as this reunion occupies more of my mind now that the academic year has ended.

There are so many things, I think, we contemplate upon returning to the place and people who shaped our young lives and it can be difficult to take it all in at once. I wonder, too, if coming from a small town adds something to the experience, both of living there once and returning to it later. There is really no other experience I can identify that carries with it the sense of transparency—everyone really does know everyone—and community (there is no way to survive without everyone pitching in) and the corresponding challenge of how to fit in, especially if you don’t.

As a young teen growing up in Minneola, I relished my home town, believing there was no place on earth that could compare. Maybe this is what everyone thinks of their environment, but I doubt it. From the basketball court where Mr. Hamilton coached us into a pretty darn good team to the choir and band rooms where Mr. Pfieffer and Ms. Harvey taught us to play and to sing just as well as the bigger schools down the road to the classrooms where Ms. Blanchard and Ms. Zipfeld taught us science and English, school was an expression of the town’s commitment to its youth. Friday nights the football stadium or basketball courts were packed; filled not just with parents but with friends and relatives. Churches took turns feeding us, not checking to see whether or not we belonged to them or to another church. The town paper even kept up with what we did on weekends, recording it for all to see the “Town Trifles” section of The Minneola Record.

But just as much as growing up in Minneola shaped me and my sense of place, living in other places since then has also formed me, changing me in fundamental ways. Since leaving the Kansas prairie I have seldom felt like I “fit” in the same kind of way. I’ve been more outsider than insider: a young woman studying religion, a field populated by men; a woman who chose not to have children despite the strong cultural assumptions promoting motherhood as the most legitimate path of life; a feminist among colleagues and students who are more comfortable living with sexism than questioning it.

Because of these changes, I imagine there will be several times throughout this reunion weekend when I will feel like an outsider, no longer at home in my hometown. At the same time, I imagine others will feel similarly: those who have moved away; those who live in Minneola now as adults but did not grow up in there; those whose experiences of life and loss have radically changed them.

At first glance it is easy to assume everything and everyone will be the same but once that fleeting idea is passed, we know that nothing stays the same. Indeed, it would be sad it that happened. We are meant to grow and to be stretched; to be challenged and to see the world from the perspectives of others. This is the beauty of being human: we have imaginations that enable us to envision reality in multiple hues reflecting the variety of light as it illumines all of us.

Despite what this reunion weekend holds for all of us, one thing is sure: Minneola is a place of hospitality. People will open their arms to all of us—those who have stayed and those who have scattered. The welcome signs will be on full display and the feeling of belonging to a small community will be palpable. We will celebrate not only our little town but also the bonds that, in the end, do not require uniformity but rather understanding.

I’ve come to realize, it isn’t that we are all the same; that living in Minneola means we are cut from the same cloth. No. We are different; remarkable diverse, especially in our collective experiences that range from staying in Kansas to living all over the world. What binds us—what binds all of us as humans—is not our sameness, but our desire for meaningful relationships.

When we are able to do this—to start with what connects us—then we can move forward, step-by-step to learn from our differences, seeking to understand the other more than to be understood. Desmond Tutu once said that the reason God created us in such infinite variety was so that we could learn to love each other. What better time to practice such connection than with the 100th graduating class of Minneola High School?

I can’t wait to see those of you who also plan to gather on the Western Kansas plains and to celebrate the Wildcats of Minneola!

On Marathons, Blogging, And Sucking it Up

Last week, I finished a marathon in Bend—a town that is apparently not at sea level, and that has a significant number of really big hills, elements I did not account for when I decided to run it. The timing of the marathon seemed fortuitous, though, as my book group was holding its annual retreat the same weekend, and in Bend. God wanted me to run that marathon, I thought.

Or wanted to punish me, turns out.

Oh, the first miles were easy enough. But about ½ way through, the race became more onerous than usual, and I began wondering why the heck I pay money for this experience. Am I a masochist? Does anyone really like this kind of voluntary suffering? What the hell is wrong with me?

Just when I almost gave up all hope, when I imagined exchanging running for a far more sedate activity, I saw a group of friends ahead, cheering me on with signs only a cynic who also teaches writing could appreciate.

Signs like this:

yourloved

And this:

run for jesus

 

Even though I’d run plenty of marathons, no one had ever made me a sign. Sometimes, I’ve acted as if other people’s signs were for me, too: that one that said “We love you Mommy” was clearly intended for me, even though my sons hadn’t written it; the one that said “almost there!” was a little bit silly, but meant for me as well.

Turns out, though, signs created uniquely for a runner are really cool, as is having one’s very own cheerleader.

Only on one other occasion has someone volunteered to run the last miles of a race with me, and I’m still grateful to Staci for those six miles. In Bend, there was my best running friend, emerging from the sign-holding crowd, ready to run beside me through the hardest part of the race. Which she did beautifully, mind you, providing the right balance of encouragement, humor, and silence I needed to persist.

When a nearly-naked runner jumped into the race at mile 20, my friend had some great double-entendres at the ready to keep me laughing; when a much-older woman buzzed by me at mile 23, my friend intuited my mood immediately, and told me to stop feeling sorry for myself (but in the nicest way possible). Everyone, I decided, needs a best running friend willing to also be a last-painful-miles partner.

And then it was over, my support team friends meeting me at the end, walking me to the car, buying me potato chips and diet coke, celebrating later that day with bacon and pancakes. (Maybe it’s clear now why I actually run marathons: the after-race bacchanal of All My Favorite Foods.)

So here’s my excuse for why the blog has been silent for so long:

In many ways, this semester has been my Bend marathon. The first few months started out well enough, but about half-way through, everything became a slog: I was teaching too many classes, involved on too many committees, and my kids had too many activities to keep straight.

Every now and then, I saw people holding up signs (mostly metaphorical) letting me know I could get through, cheering me on to the finish; most definitely, there were people who came alongside, offering the support I needed. This included many of my students, who often reminded me exactly why I love my job, even when the air is thin and the hills are interminable.

Our semester’s finish line came on Saturday, at our university’s graduation, the first held on the new football field. The weather was beautiful, the graduation seeming more festive than usual, though that might have just been the jumbotron, changing the environment just a little. I sat with the faculty, next to a friend I’ve had for over a quarter century, stretching back to when we were both students at George Fox University, running cross country and track together.

It seemed impossible to believe that 25 years had passed since we were students, needing our own cheerleaders to help through to our undergraduate finishes. During college, and in the 25 years since, I’ve had people who came alongside me—teachers, parents, friends, a spouse and kids—and who assisted me by essentially flashing this sign:

goMelanie

I’ve had moments of despair, in this semester and at other times, when I wondered What the Hell? and Why am I doing this? At those moments, I’m grateful that there’s always been folks at my right elbow, guiding me along, humoring me, cajoling me, telling me to stop feeling sorry for myself already (but in the nicest way possible).

So I’ve reached another semester’s finish line, and the bacon, potato chips, and a donut or two are waiting, as well as long afternoons reading in the sunshine, visits from far-away family, and maybe—just maybe—the chance to pick up writing this blog more regularly again, especially as the blog-inspired book we’ve written is published in late July.

I’m also signing up for my next marathon. At sea level, of course.

Why Can’t Women’s Retreats be so INTENSE?

My church’s women’s retreat is this weekend. I’ve never been, which I see as my problem and not the church’s retreat planners. Everyone who goes comes back happy, and I imagine I might, too, if I gave women’s retreats a chance. Given my discomfort with sharing space/meals/sleep/spiritual life with people I don’t know well, I’ve never even risked the thought of attending a women’s retreat.

Besides, my idea of retreat is more equivalent to personalized bacchanal: a big, soft bed all to myself; a few friends I know really well; copious amounts of sugar, in various forms; and hours and hours of reality TV.

Somehow, I don’t think the church would endorse a women’s retreat like that.

But then I saw news about a retreat I would probably really like (especially if I could have my own bed to crash on after each day’s end). The INTENSE retreat is coming up in a few weeks, and the whole event sounds perfect for me, except that 1) it’s in Texas and 2) it’s only for Alpha Males.

Yes, it says that right in the tagline for the INTENSE weekend: the focus of this year’s retreat is the Alpha Male. If that whole INTENSE title and “Alpha Male” tagline isn’t enough, the web splash page includes a big ole’ snarling wolf. Nothing says building Men of Christ than an animal ready to bite the face of anyone who stands in his way. Can I get an amen?

The entire INTENSE weekend promises to develop godly men by competing, communicating, and sharpening! Which is, I suppose, why jousting is on the schedule of events—those jousting sticks must be sharpened for the many competitions promised.

Other events sound like a lot of fun: football and basketball games, soccer, a warrior run, bull riding, boxing, and paintball. For those not inclined to athletic competition, there is also chess, dominos, ping pong, and chili cook-offs, but I cannot really imagine that INTENSE Alpha Men would be involved in such activities.

Would they?

And can every man at an Alpha Men conference be Alpha Men? Doesn’t a football field full of Alpha Men somehow undermine the very definition of an Alpha Man? Perhaps the men playing chess and dominos are not really Alpha Men. Maybe just alpha men.

Conference speakers are pastors at churches with names like PowerHouse and Big Country, which do well to highlight the vastness of Jesus, his strength and masculinity. Indeed, the pastor at PowerHouse believes ardently in the INTENSE Alpha Men conference because in his mind, manliness and Christ-likeness are synonymous.

If Jesus were around today, he’d be right in the scrum of a football game, cooking off his spicy chili and being first in line for the boxing ring. Wouldn’t he?

Given how much I like competition, playing basketball and soccer, and pretending I’m a cowgirl, I would no doubt prefer an Alpha Men conference to many women-oriented retreats which focus on scrapbooking and crafting (though I must be clear that this is not necessarily what my women’s church retreat does: I have not attended, because of my own stupid hang-ups).

Which suggests again the multitude of problems with these INTENSE experiences, designed as men-only, testosterone-fueled events or women-only retreats intended to focus on “what women are designed to do.” Not all men want to be Alpha Men; not all women find interest in building relationships through intimate fireside chats and making crafts. We have our own interests, and it would be nice to find some kind of spiritual retreat experience that played to our gifts, not our gender-designed roles.

This is why I always liked GFU faculty retreats, despite the boring discussions about assessment and flipped-classrooms. At least there, I could play volleyball during my free time while my male colleague, Ed, took off for antiquing with some of his GFU friends. We were free to pursue what interested us most, gender roles and God’s apparent “design” be damned.

Until churches can come up with retreats that acknowledge our unique giftedness and the ways God is reveal to us differently, I’ll stick with my idea of a retreat: a big bed all to myself, some close friends nearby, and some good reality TV. That fits best my idea of what it truly means to retreat, after all.

An Open Letter to Eerdmans

Dear Eerdmans (and other publishers too numerous to name):

I relish being an academic. I love the cyclical feel of an academic year: excitement and optimism in the Fall; the mid-year break in the dark Winter; the long Spring semester, extended due to Spring break and yet over in the blink of an eye.

One of the highlights, of course, is the spring commencement ceremony for the jubilant spirit of grads and their parents and also for the long lingering summer that beckons once the regalia are put away for another time.

Oh sure, lots of people think summers are spent playing and traveling and generally doing nothing productive. But my experience is that while summers offer a change of pace, they are also the time when I do the most reading and planning, strategizing about teaching and learning.

A critical component of this summer work entails a fair bit of precision in my reading materials, deciding which books recently published would be most beneficial to my teaching load for the upcoming year.

So, part of this yearly pattern involves the arrival of academic catalogues, the shopping spree that is uniquely academic. It’s the anticipation of a new vista, a topic unidentified before, a new perspective on an old idea.

It’s a little like lingering in your favorite bookstore, the arrival of publishers’ catalogues. In the pages of these booklets, the world of words opens up, inviting you, begging you, to buy its goods. What decent academic wouldn’t take this bait?

At least this is how I used to feel. And here, Eerdmans—and other publishers who know this reflects you, too—is where I hope you’ll hear what I have to say.

Maybe this has been a simple oversight on your part, but I have noticed that year after year mostly men are writing your books. I’m sure if you happened to take note of this, you’ve tried mightily to change it, encouraging women to write their academic tomes, too. When I was a newly minted Ph.D., I eagerly pored over these academic catalogues even as I was a little surprised they all seemed, well, boring. Maybe you know the feeling: I wanted to be interested, but no matter how hard I tried the novel or memoir sitting on my nightstand always won. It was hardly a battle.

But now that I am a little more seasoned (ok, older, middle-aged, even!) I realize the problem really isn’t that I lack the appropriate interest in all things academic; it is rather that the books you publish are asking different kinds of questions than ones I need to explore. It’s often as simple as the audience not fitting the writer. You publish books mostly written by men. Their questions and methodologies are legitimate, of course, but they aren’t the sum total of what is important. And this is what you miss by your masculine bias.

The most recent Eerdmans Spring 2015 catalogue features four female authors out of a total of forty-one books and one additional book that includes poems of Joy Davidman, a point of interest most certainly only because they were written to C.S. Lewis. In other words, without the presence of the famous man in her life, her work would not be of interest to Eerdmans.

This imbalance results in a more narrow scope of scholarship than you could otherwise circulate. There are more women than this writing good books; works of impeccable scholarship and contemporary interest (unless you want me to believe that for every ten men, there is only one woman who has anything important to contribute to the field of religious studies).

An image from graduate school has stayed in my mind and maybe it is useful here. There we were, my classmates, all male with the exception of two of us, sitting around the table in the basement of the religion building where it was dark and damp. Some might say an apt environment for Ph.D. students of religion.

The clamor for space played out once a week when we gathered in this seminar room. Students eager to earn their place, to assert their ideas, to defend their positions occurred during the course of three hours each Tuesday morning. As a woman and introvert, I felt my disadvantage acutely and therefore prepared more than most. I wrote down my questions and comments in advance, playing out in my mind how the discussions might go anticipating how and when I could speak. It seemed to me, despite my strategic preparation, I had to elbow my way to the table, fight my way, really, to the place where I could speak, where my words could share the space the men found so easy to occupy.

I imagine the current situation with academic publishers is little different. Academics from all parts of the globe and all areas of expertise clamor to the table of various publishers hoping their elbows are sharp enough that they can gain a chance to speak. The loudest voices are the ones who get heard, and most often, this tilts decidedly toward men. And so, year after year, the dearth of works by women means that our disciplines are not shaped and influenced more completely by other perspectives, by those whose ideas themselves have been changed because of their struggle to be heard.

What if every publisher had a goal of creating an entire academic catalogue composed entirely of works written by women? Such a proposal is preposterous if only because it would immediately be tagged as such and directed to an all-female audience. Of course this is the current reality with a critical difference: men are the authors and no one thinks to suggest their writings are only for men.

Maybe it’s time for academic publishers to consider their role in shaping academic disciplines and more importantly in taking a stand for greater diversity, greater awareness, and greater celebration of all voices, even those who have to elbow their way to the table.

On the other hand, I can always recycle my copy of the latest academic catalog, hoping in another life or iteration it will be useful. In the meantime, I’ll pick up a book of a different genre knowing I can find voices of women there.

 

Fat and Plain Authors: What Really Matters

When I was fourteen, I had a mad crush on a Catholic priest, a man who would, in time, ascend to leadership in Rome. He was so cute, even though he was older and—when I loved him best—had graying hair at his temples. The Father was a little tormented by life, but that only made me love him more.

His name was Father Ralph de Bricassart. You can see here why my love for Father Ralph was so intense:

father ralph

Father Ralph was played by the actor Richard Chamberlain in the 1983 miniseries The Thorn Birds, and he was hot: hot when he was a young priest, enchanted by the prepubescent Meggie; hot when he was old and frail, his burning love for Meg—and his decision to stay in the church—only increasing his appeal. I wept when the series ended, Father Ralph dying with Meg’s head in his lap, the sexual tension between them still simmering after years of being together, and then apart.

Later, when I read The Thorn Birds, I had a clear image of what Father Ralph looked like, which made the vivid scenes created by the book’s author, Colleen McCullough, even more wonderful. Damn, that woman knew how to write about sublimated love, about consummated love, about repressed love. The book, set mostly on an Australian sheep farm called Drogheda, was one of the most deeply romantic books I’d ever read.

So imagine my surprise when I discovered, like millions of others who read McCullough’s obituary last week, that the author was a little fat and a lot plain in her looks. How could someone like that even write a great love story? I asked myself. How could she know what passion was like?

This was how her obit, published by one of Australia’s major newspapers, began: “Plain of feature, and certainly overweight, she was, nevertheless, a woman of wit and warmth. In one interview, she said: ‘I’ve never been into clothes or figure and the interesting thing is I never had any trouble attracting men.'”

It’s good to know, of course, that any woman who is “certainly overweight” can also be “a woman of wit and warmth,” because, you know, those character traits don’t seem to be compatible. But it’s even better that the obit led with this information. We really do need to know what our female authors look like before we invest in their books, right?

And really, why lead with McCullough’s accomplishments: her award-winning writing being only a small part of the work she did. She also taught at Yale University for a time, and was a scholar in neuropsychology. But when we’re writing about women, it’s important to start with her looks, her personality, and her ability to attract men.

Maybe I just don’t remember: did Kurt Vonnegut’s obituary mention in the lead that he was somewhat of a douche who smoked way too much, but who wrote pretty cool books? Was C.S. Lewis eulogized as someone with a prosaically bald head and who smelled like an ashtray, but who created magical worlds nonetheless? When author Tom Clancy died in 2013, his entire obituary covered his success as a novelist, without one word about his appearance—even though an accompanying picture suggests his chin and nose might have been too large to really write convincing prose.

As is the case these days, a hashtag protest has emerged in response to the McCullough obituary: #FatLadyObit. Here are a sampling of a few tweets:

Screen Shot 2015-02-01 at 9.10.36 PM

This kind of social media activism is useful in calling attention to inequities that still exist—in this case, in how female and male authors are treated. And lest we think that this is an isolated case, we might want to remember how few female authors are actually represented on “best of” lists, are nominated for national prizes, are on the reading lists in our college classes, except for those specially designated “women’s literature.”

It’s too bad that one talented author’s death—and the tone-deaf obituary written to presumably honor her—has to serve as a reminder that such inequities still exist, and that we cannot simply honor McCullough for who she was: a scholar, a Yale professor, and an author who wrote exceedingly well.

In The Thorn Birds, McCullough writes this: “Each of us has within us something that just won’t be denied. Something to which we are driven even though it makes us scream aloud to die.”  She might well have been talking about her own efforts to succeed as a writer—something we might also want to acknowledge: you know, if she wasn’t so fat and plain.

Let’s Talk Men, Sin, and Afghan Blanket Shorts

You may have read recently about the blogger in Oregon who has committed to giving up wearing leggings. She announced her commitment to the blogosphere in early January, and her post blew up, thanks in part to a social media savvy husband, who wanted the world to know the lengths to which his wife would go to keep him happy.

Her post stirred up conversations about women and modesty. Again. Because apparently, once a woman slips on a pair of leggings, other men definitely stumble, and this is a problem. Not for the men who can’t stop looking at leggings-laden women (men are wired differently, after all!), but for women, who might find leggings comfortable. Thank god there are generally only women in my exercise classes, at any rate, which keeps me from tempting others with my tights-clad middle-aged butt.

Somehow, this conversation never turns to men, and to how their clothing choices might cause me to stumble. Yes, it’s true. Sometimes I think sinful thoughts when I see what men are wearing, thoughts tainted by jealousy and resentment for sure, and maybe—on rare occasions—a bit of lust.

But only rarely. Not very much at all. And usually only in the sense of a deep longing to put on yoga pants, an urgent desire to be far more comfortable than I currently am.

Mostly, when I see colleagues wearing jeans to class every day, I have thoughts like, “Why does he get to wear jeans to work every day, but if I were to do so, I’d be considered an unprofessional slob?” and “This double standard bites” and “Why do men get to be comfortable in their clothes, and I’m stuck trying to sausage myself into tights and shoes that kill my feet?”

My jealousy leads to resentment, and pretty soon, sublimated anger, which I only express in passive-aggressive ways because I’m a Mennonite and that’s what we do.

So why are my sinful thoughts upon seeing men in jeans any less problematic than men’s sinful thoughts upon seeing women in yoga pants? Sin is sin, right?

For eons, men have been asking—no, demanding—that women dress more modestly, to protect men from stumbling. So I’d like to offer my own modest proposal. Too bad I never married a social media guru who could make my post viral, so that I also could be featured in The Oregonian.

Still, here’s my proposal. Thanks to a Facebook friend, I recently discovered a new trend for men: shorts created by afghan blankets. And I thought, why not? Why not ask that men wear these shorts so that I will no longer resent them for a double standard that says they can dress comfortably, but I cannot.
crochet-shorts-schuyler-ellers-lord-von-schmitt-2

The afghan blanket shorts are practical—everyone has a few of these blankets in their closet—and no doubt just slightly uncomfortable (a little itchy, a little drafty, just like the blankets from whence they came). They are also somewhat unattractive. Were my husband to wear them, you can trust that I would have no lustful thoughts about him. (Similar to his tan denim-wash Lee shorts, circa 1984. Ron, you hearing me?)

If only men would care a bit more for their Christian sisters and the state of women’s souls, they might take this step. Think about a different world, where men wear afghan blanket shorts and women can walk around, free from the temptation to sin.

Here’s the one potential glitch in my plan. Such shorts might make me think about a nap. But there’s nothing too sinful about that, right?

Enroll now at Christian Wife University!

Good news! Women have a new educational opportunity this spring. Why not enroll in Christian Wife University?

If you hurry, there is still space in the upcoming class “New Bride Bible Study” by Jennifer Odom White beginning January 19th. Online materials are available which will teach every new bride how to combat the “subtle and subversive evil schemes” that threaten marriages. And, apparently if you are not a new bride, White’s study will still apply.

But, perhaps you aren’t a bride but still wish to attend the Christian Wife University in hopes you will one day be one, then you could still enroll and learn from the wealth of information provided on its facebook page. Posts like “After a break-up, how can you know if you are ready to date again?” offer advice to men about how to pursue women who seem that they aren’t interested in marriage (admittedly I’m confused about why this is supposed to “minister” to single women). Or, you might want to check out the “cute” calendar from Crafting Chicks because becoming a Christian wife means you need to be organized and cutesy things make being so more fun.

Still, if you are already a Christian wife, perhaps the most helpful information can be found in learning what to do when your husband isn’t spiritually leading your household. In this podcast (part of her series called What’s a Girl to Do?) Jolene Engle answers a reader’s question: “Dear Jolene, If your husband has fallen away from Jesus, our Lord, the wife must take the lead in the household for Jesus and the religion part, right! This is a problem when one leaves the church, and becomes the prodigal son. How would you answer that?” (As an aside, I wonder why Jolene not only doesn’t see the problem of using the terms husband and girl in the same heading, but also italicizes the word girl. Stunning, such incongruity.)

Jolene’s response is worth the 10 minutes or so it will take to listen to her podcast even though you will perhaps curse a bit and maybe lose a few locks of hair in the process.

You will find out that women put men on pedestals believing them to be spiritual giants like Paul and instead we should remember they are not perfect. Using 1 Peter 3.1-6 as her reference, Jolene asserts God says it is the husband’s authority to lead, whether they accept it or not. Since God says this (and is smarter than we are) we need to listen to this passage, learning how to be quiet. It is in this way that our men will see our pure and reverent lives and may respond positively to our actions (which are quiet, remember).

As a student in the Christian Wife University this naturally raises a couple of questions for me. First, I wonder how Jolene skips from a biblical reference written by someone—a human being—at a particular time in place to “God says.” Surely she must understand that historical context is critical to constructing meaning and we cannot skip over it without distorting the message. And second, when she utilizes Sarah of Sarah-and-Abraham to illustrate how women need to trust God and accept the authority of our husbands just like Sarah did, I wonder if she has, in fact, read the narratives about them. You know: parts where Abraham has multiple wives and tries not once but twice to pawn Sarah off presumably to ensure his safety (see Genesis 12 and 20). Dismissing these details and urging women to benignly accept what their husbands dish out strikes me as problematic and potentially dangerous.

Nevertheless, Jolene helpfully reminds us that women are prone to be contentious and controlling because they are just like Eve who was deceived. Because of Eve the sin nature of women is to take over and be in control. Genesis confirms this when we learn Adam was not deceived. Instead he chose to sin because of Eve’s influence. From that time on, women have been given a choice to make. They can either be quiet, accepting submission to their husbands as God’s will for them or they can be like Eve who manipulated her man.

As you can tell, there is much to learn at the Christian Wives University. Before you enroll, however, make sure to check your critical thinking ability—something God endowed you with—at the door.

Schlafly’s New Math: Women Cause Campus Rape

In less than a week, students at George Fox University will be returning to campus for another semester of study, late-night shenanigans, and continued pursuit of a Ring by Spring. At my Christian institution, where the ratio of female to male students is about 60 to 40 (though this might have shifted with the advent of a football program), this means a buyer’s market: that is, if women are real estate, secured through a shiny engagement ring and the promise of a Pinterest wedding.

According to an article published yesterday by Phyllis Schlafly, though, this skewed ratio of female to male students—one pretty common at college and universities everywhere these days—is problematic beyond a few unhappy brides-to-be. Her article, titled “New Math on College Campuses,” proposes that recent well-publicized sex scandals on college campuses are due in some part to the preponderance of women on campus.

By “sex scandals,” Schlafly means rape cases, poorly handled by university administrators, now being investigated by the federal government (this article describes the current situation). Calling them sex scandals changes the equation: the women are more complicit, the men less guilty of brutal, criminal acts.webphyllis

And also, sexual scandals are always the woman’s fault. If they would just stay home with their parents until securing husbands, if they would allow men to compete in the men’s realm of the university, if they would stop insisting that they deserve an education, too: if all these things, then women wouldn’t get raped.

Such an easy solution, with this new math and all.

Schlafly provides several remedies to this “problem”: for one, admissions counselors could set quotas, granting entry to 50 percent men, 50 percent women. She obviously hasn’t talked to admissions folks lately, who must use intricate calculations to figure out how many students admitted will actually show up for the first day of class.

Barring this idea, universities could also stop granting loans, which would compel students to give up partying for hard labor, which would keep them busy rather than hooking up with each other. She may be on to something there, because I’m sure a minimum wage job will totally pay for that $40k education.

And if that doesn’t work, universities should just say “screw you” to Title IX and reinstitute all the men’s sports programs that have been stripped by feminists over the years. In this idea, at least, she seems stupidly sexist about men, too, saying that without ample sports opportunities in college, men have lost their “primary motivation” for getting an education in the first place. Because when ever was a college degree motivation enough for a man?

Throughout her argument, Schlafly reveals a stunning lack of understanding about high education, college sports, Title IX, feminism. Even calling college students “girls” and “boys” reflects any lack of thought or insight about college students, who are predominantly over eighteen, and therefore not really girls and boys at all.

But then again, we’re talking about Phyllis Schlafly here: the women who had made a good bit of money and fame, freely moving about the country talking and writing about her ideas, at the center of which is the sense that women need to stay at home and out of the public eye. Her entire raison d’etre has been to criticize the feminists who have destroyed culture, even as gender equality has given her a platform and a space to share her whacky ideas.

I must say, though, that this latest idea—that “sex scandals” on campus are caused by women being on campus—is perhaps her whackiest of all.