That Radical Woman

During a conversation with a friend about my writing a number of years ago, he remarked, “you know, there are some people who see you as JoAnn Shade, that radical woman.” I didn’t know whether to smile and thank him, attempt to rebut the conclusion, or laugh.  But his comment has both caused me discomfort and confirmed a sense of purpose, as I’ve considered what it means to truly be “that radical woman.”

The discomfort comes from a not-too-healthy place within, from the voice that reminds me all too often that I will always be on the outside looking in, and that as long as I continue to speak and write, I will not fully belong within the ministry organization I have given my life’s work to.  Mine is the voice that raises the issues that others whisper about, questions of opportunity for women and men alike, as well as questions of justice and hope.  I ask “why?” but I also ask “why not?” Certainly I’m not nearly as radical as I could be (or should be?), but for some within a patriarchal system, any idea that rocks the boat is considered extremist. 

But I must admit that I do like the description.  After all, the word radical in its essence means “from the root.”  If I, as a woman, write “from the root,” from the basis of my faith and worldview as a follower of Christ, I must embrace that description of myself with joy.  Borrowing from the old song, “it is a thing most wonderful.” People read what I write, and it makes a difference.  I find words to describe their feelings and experiences, as well as ways to challenge them to a new or different way of thinking. 

            Regardless of my reaction to the comment, I do understand that to be labeled in such a way is to be ‘marked’ within the traditional church.  It may be that as you are reading this article, you recognize yourself as ‘marked’ as well.  You may simply think differently than most in your church, or you may be drawn deeper into contemplative prayer than others you know.  Perhaps you have radical ideas about what women should be able to do in the church, or a passionate love for Jesus that struggles to fit within contemporary life.  Don’t lose hope – you are in good company. 

Jesus was ‘marked’ at the beginning of his ministry, as described in Luke 4.  Most likely within hours of his declaration in Nazareth, “the Spirit of the Lord is upon me,” he was driven out of town, taken to the brow of the hill, and threatened with death.  While “he walked right through the crowd and went on his way,” from that point on, Jesus was a marked man.  Paul experienced this as well, testifying that “I bear on my body the marks of Jesus” (Galatians 6:17).    

What does it look like to walk with grace as a marked woman?  It begins with humility, for the mark of Christ upon his daughter must never become a glittering tiara that draws attention to the bearer.  Humility offers, but does not demand one specific conclusion.  Humility “test(s) the truth and then trust(s) the process of truth to determine the outcome” (Brueggemann, Hopeful Imagination, 62).  Humility wears the prophet’s mantle lightly, carefully. 

            Courage walks side by side with humility.  Courage is willing to be wounded, for she is acquainted with the Healer.  Courage submits to the branding of the radical label, knowing that she will never escape its touch upon her soul.  Courage refuses to speak with a flattened tongue.  

            I am reminded, as well, that to be ‘marked’ is truly a gift.  Again, Brueggemann is helpful, as he teaches that, “such radical faith is not an achievement, for if it were we would will it and be done.  Rather, it is a gift and we are left to wait receptively, to watch and to pray” (the Prophetic Imagination, 112).

            A favorite greeting card I received quotes Maya Angelou: “a woman in harmony with her spirit is like a river flowing.  She goes where she will without pretense and arrives at her destination, prepared to be herself and only herself.”  Without pretense; yes.  Yet it is the harmony with the Spirit of God that ultimately marks the Christ-follower.  A radical woman?  I can only pray that I might be worthy of the gift of that label.   

Coral and Pearls

Along with a number of our session mates, Larry and I mark the thirty-fifth anniversary of our commissioning and ordination as Salvation Army officers this month. Five years ago, in writing about the thirty year mark, I noted that if this was a wedding anniversary, I’d be looking for a string of pearls nestled in a box from Tiffany & Co. The traditional gift for thirty-five years is coral, but since I don't really want a salt-water fish tank filled with exotic fish and coral décor, I'm sticking with the pearls as I walk the path of recollection amidst the milestones of ministry, stringing them together through story and memory.

Hired to play the piano for the Salvation Army in at age 15, I knew very little about the organization, but soon became enamored by the marriage between ministry and social work.  That initial spark has flamed into a passion for social justice and spiritual redemption that continues to motivate my work even in retirement. 

What a ride this has been. Pearls of laughter are definitely predominant, because I’ve shared the ride with a man who loves to laugh. When we get together with former co-workers, the stories simply spill out. “Do you remember the time . . .” and before we know it, we’re rolling on the floor. We’ve even laughed about funerals, such as when the funeral director picked Larry up for the ride to the cemetery. My husband asked, “Where’s Joe (the deceased)?” “You’ve been holding him for the last five miles,” was the response, pointing to the box resting on Larry’s lap. Then there was Butch, who arrived at his master’s funeral in a bowtie.  If you know my husband, you can imagine his reaction, looking down at that big black dog perched sorrowfully in the front row of mourners. 

We’ve chuckled over some of the donations through the years as well: a station wagon dripping with ice cream bars on the hottest day of the year, eighty head of ostrich (alive, not dead – don’t ask), and cases of fake designer t-shirts and hats seized as contraband by the local sheriff. While Joan Kroc’s exceptional gift of millions of dollars for our Kroc Center is definitely the largest, we’ve probably counted $300,000 in coins tossed in the Christmas kettles – that’s a lot of pocket change.

We’ve also met some incredible people along the way. Brigadier Elizabeth Earl, a rather large retired officer in New Jersey, would hike up her skirt to climb into the van, invariably saying, “fix your eyes on the Lord, son,” words of wisdom we’ve clung to for many years. Anthony and Carrie, college students from Hong Kong studying in Philadelphia, taught our young sons to play rock, paper, scissors in Chinese, and helped us see the world through broader lenses.

Years spent ministering in African American congregations left us with a lingering love for gospel music, and a bevy of aunties for our boys. During a nine year stay in Canton, we were surrounded by men and women with amazing servant hearts, whose arms opened wide to people on the farthest edge of the margins of our community. And what can be said about the privilege of midwifing the birth of the Ashland Kroc Center? - Truly a journey in grace - and surprises!

As I’ve strung together these pearls of memory, I’ve realized the power this metaphor brings to the work I’ve found through the Salvation Army. As the symbolic anniversary gift, it seemed appropriate that this object of beauty and worth is created in the oyster or mollusk shell when an irritant is coated, layer upon layer, by a calcium carbonate substance called nacre. That does seem to be the work of the Salvation Army, where those considered by many as an irritant to society actually find a place to rest and to belong, and, over time, take on at least some of the luster of the nacre, the gleam of the pearl. If the nacre of grace has worked its power on those I’ve served, it also continues to smooth the rough edges in me, layer by layer. 

And now the coral. Harvested from the sea as well, precious coral is the skeleton of red coral branches. Over the centuries, it has been valued for its beauty, but was also a symbol of protection and fertility. The coral speaks of the protective hand of God upon my life for sure, and the continued fertility of mind and spirit that has been mine in these past months of retirement and in the unfolding opportunities that lie before me.

The day my first "pearl" Times-Gazette column appeared in the newspaper five years ago, I had an unexpected gift from a friend - a string of pearls to signify that special anniversary. I was touched by her thoughtfulness, and fingered each pearl with the sweetness (and sometimes saltiness) of memory. But please, no fish tank, friends - I'll gladly cherish my coral memories with our granddaughter, the lovely Madelyn Simone, as Marlin, Dory and Nemo swim through the ocean - I don't clean fish tanks!

Perhaps the truest lesson of the thirty-five years is that my life has been enriched far beyond any care I’ve been able to extend to another.  Or, to change the metaphor to Hata Beja’s words, “the fragrance always stays in the hand that gives the rose.” What a gift the years have given, what a faithfulness the Lord has promised - and delivered.