“Every time a girl reads a womanless history she thinks less of herself”. This is a quote I stumbled across several years ago while preparing a sermon for Women’s History month, and it continues to resonate with me today. As we gather on this March Sunday, just a few days after International Women's Day during Women’s History month, I think we have cause to celebrate, even rejoice. We have come a long way in revising our histories; our textbooks are no longer quite so womanless, our children are being taught in classrooms about the many contributions women have made to politics and science, to society as a whole. We are continually re-imagining the roles that women and girls can play in this society and culture that is still working towards gender equality. But, unfortunately, this quote still holds true. Although we have made progress towards a history that includes women, there are still many books that women-less. There are still too many stories in which women are absent.
The Bible is one of the biggest culprits. Take our gospel lesson this morning, for example. The parable of the prodigal son is a familiar one, a story most of us probably grew up with. It may even be a favorite amongst the many stories that Jesus shared with his disciples. But let’s take a look at this story from a female listener’s perspective. The human, male Jesus is eating with tax collectors and sinners, when some Pharisees and scribes come and start grumbling about how Jesus is eating with sinners. Aside from the collective group of “sinners” which could include women, all of the audience members- tax collectors, scribes, and Pharisees- are male. And Jesus tells a story, a story of a man who has two sons. Sounds like a womanless history to me.
But supposed it doesn’t have to be that way? Suppose we do a little bit of creative re-imagining in order to fill in the gaps that are left by the missing female characters? Suppose there was a man who had two sons... and a daughter.
There was a man who had two sons- and a daughter. The oldest son was responsible, a hard worker. He dedicated his life to working in his father’s fields, and had no desire to leave home. The younger son was, well, the youngest child. He wasn’t old enough to get into any real trouble yet, and he did small chores around the house. Between the two sons was a daughter, the middle child. She had always been a good girl: obedient, hard working, responsible. But she wanted to see a little bit of the world before she settled down and got married. She wanted to experience something other than her father’s fields and tents and the local watering hole. So one day she asked her father if he would allow her to go out into the big, wide world for a time. Being a kind man who loved his children, he said yes. There was no inheritance to give her, because she was a girl, but he had put aside some money for her dowry and he gave her a small portion of it to use on her adventure. He also gave her her mother’s jewelry, which he had saved after she had died giving birth to their youngest son. Then, with a blessing and a prayer, he let her go into the big, wide world.
The girl set out, her heart light, excited to experience the sights and sounds and smells of the outside world. But soon she became disheartened; people did not talk to her like they did back home. The men in the marketplace would not do business with her. The women whispered behind their hands about this ‘loose woman’ who was out in the world on her own. The girl was very lonely, and she thought about going home, but she still had hope that there would be something grand and wonderful here in the big, wide world.
Her money ran out very quickly, and she had to sell her mother’s jewelry in order to eat. Some of the men started noticing her, and they would buy her food or trinkets if she did things for them. There was one man who was nice to her... until the day he wasn’t. She didn’t know what she had done wrong, but he hit her, and then threw her out on the street. Then there was another man, and another man, and another man... and each one taught her she was ‘less than’... She entered into each new relationship with the hope that this man would be different: would be honest like her brother, or kind like her father. But her spirit and her body were broken with each successive relationship. She thought about going home... but what would she tell her father?
Eventually she became pregnant. When the time came for her to have her child she walked -alone- for miles to reach the clinic. Her labor was long, and she almost died- just like her mother. But she survived, and the child survived, and she took the long road back to the man’s house only to find that he was gone. She sat on the street and cried as her baby sucked and cried. What was she to do? ‘I know,’ she thought. ‘I will go home. I will go home, and I will say to my father, “Father, I have sinned before heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your daughter. But please, have mercy on my child and allow me to come home.’”
She began the long journey home, and it took her a long time. Her body was weak from giving birth, and she had very little food. Finally, she saw her father’s tents in the distance, and she fell to ground weeping. Suddenly, her father was running toward her, calling out to her with arms held open. When he reached her he scooped her into his arms as he had done when she was just a child, and he carried her home. When they reached the tents he called out:
“Quickly! Bring out a robe- the finest one!- and put it on her. Put a ring on her finger and sandals on her feet, get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate! Because this daughter of mine was lost, but now is found! She was dead, and is alive again!” Then he looked into his daughter’s eyes. It was true: she had been lost and was now found, she had been dead and was now alive. But she had come back broken.
“Wait!” he called again. “Not yet. We will celebrate and rejoice... but not yet.”
And he gave her a place to lay her head, to rest her weary body. He gave her space and time to heal, giving her silence to speak into. They would not celebrate and rejoice until she was once again whole.
Is now the time to celebrate and rejoice? We have come so far... but we have much further to go. Now is not the time, not when every 90 seconds a woman in the world dies giving birth to a child. Now is not the time, not when women are being gang raped on public buses or in the streets of India. Now is the not the time, not when a teenage girl is repeatedly raped as she is carried from party to party by high school athletes, who take pictures and videos as they laugh hysterically at their own antics.
Now is not the time.
But I pray that someday, we will be able to celebrate and rejoice: when women no longer fear walking down a dark street at night, or worry about drinking in a bar, or what outfit they’re going to wear. When we are able to teach our boys and our men how to treat women with respect and dignity, instead of bodies to be used. When women and girls are recognized, not simply as someone’s wife, or daughter, or sister but as a person, with sacred worth... that is when we can gather together to celebrate and rejoice.
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