Lots and lots of good discussion in response to the post a week ago about why some young women reject the feminist label (and, indeed, many of the most basic tenets of feminism). Livredor has a long post here, for example, that’s worth reading.
We’ve had almost 150 comments on last Thursday’s post, but I wanted to respond to the most recent one, from Caitriona (who, happily, has come back to commenting). I had written:
"Long-term societal change may start on the inside, but it has to manifest in public commitments to others. To call oneself a feminist is to acknowledge a commitment to something more than yourself and your immediate family and friends. It’s the only way to bring about enduring change."
Cait replied:
Not necessarily. Why do we have to label ourselves as "feminist" or "MRA" or whatever in order to show that we are committed to something more than ourselves and our immediate family and friends? Some people may need those labels, but not all of us do. For ME, that commitment is wrapped up in my commitment to follow Christ’s teachings. My intention is to do my best to follow the teachings found in Matthew 25, which Menno Simmons paraphrased so well in 1539:
"True evangelical faith cannot lie dormant. It clothes the naked, feeds
the hungry, comforts the sorrowful, shelters the destitute. And serves
those who harm it."
Using that as a guideline as I strive to follow Christ, why do I also need a politically correct socio-ethic label?
Even after leaving the Mennonite church more than a year ago, I’m still a sucker for anyone who quotes the early Anabaptists, especially Menno!
I’ve heard from many, many folks, that true Christianity renders organized feminism unnecessary. (At least, that’s what they say if they admit that feminism and Christianity aren’t antithetical to one another!) If people are really following Christ, the argument goes, then sex-based injustice, harassment, and inequity will all vanish. Feminism, particularly in its secular manifestation, is seen by too many Christians as placing brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, in opposition to each other. Feminism, it’s widely but falsely believed, distracts from the more important work of building the kingdom and living out the "true evangelical faith" that Menno so powerfully describes.
I’m also aware that evangelical Christians (I use evangelical here in its broadest sense, to indicate depth of spiritual commitment rather than a narrow subset of Protestants) and secular feminists have a legacy of mutual mistrust. Too many Christians see feminism as a rights-obsessed ideology that emphasizes individual happiness at the expense of communal obligations; too many secular feminists see Christian theology as hopelessly patriarchal, dismissive of women’s needs and concerns, and fundamentally hostile to the leadership gifts that so many women possess. These reciprocal prejudices run deep. And for someone who, like myself, calls himself a servant of a servant God and a committed feminist, the false perception that I am embracing irreconcilables troubles me deeply!
Though Christ’s church has served the poor and clothed the naked and fed the hungry and visited the prisoner for nigh on two millenia. we have also had done so while consistently ignoring the remarkable gifts of our mothers, sisters, wives and daughters. Far too many churches have excluded women from leadership, thus robbing both those individuals and the entire congregation of the unique and valuable talents that women can bring to the pulpit. Far too many churches have, while serving the poor and preaching peace, also tolerated (and some still tolerate) the systematic physical and sexual abuse of those same wives and sisters and daughters. Far too many churches have used the words of Paul in Ephesians 5:22, and ignored the obvious — that Paul’s real understanding of God’s design for marriage is found one verse before, and in the radical reciprocity of 1 Corinthians 7:4.
Feminism and Christianity are not competing ideologies that demand that in the end, the believer choose one over the other. God and money may be two masters who cannot both be served, but passionate evangelical faith and an equally passionate belief in women’s radical equality are not. I honor Caitriona’s commitment to that living, vibrant, humble, servant faith that involves trying (however imperfectly) to follow Him. But I also believe that in the process of building His Kingdom, we are called to make alliances with some who may not share the particulars of our theology, but who share our common goals of justice, peace, and radical inclusion.
When we call ourselves "Christians", we tell the world what our highest priorities are. It is to be hoped that in our speech, thoughts,and actions, we will make clear that humble service and generous, unconditional love are the hallmark qualities of what we mean by Christian. But while we call ourselves Christians, we are not called to NOT call ourselves anything else. One can be a Christian and a Republican, a Christian and a Democrat, a Christian and a Cal football fan, a Christian and a devotee of jazz. As a monotheistic people, we are to have no Gods before Him — but that doesn’t mean that we can’t have other passions, other interests. And it doesn’t mean, more importantly, that we Christians can’t learn some very valuable truths from other ways of seeing the world. I believe that feminism, with its essential insistence that women be seen as active agents rather than passive vessels, with its insistence that women’s voices be heard rather than silenced, is at its heart deeply compatible with the values that Jesus embodies and calls us to live out in our own lives.
As I’ve said and said again, Christianity is a very, very big tent. I share that tent with my heroes, past and present: everyone from Hildegard of Bingen to the aforementioned Menno to modern-day folks like Ron Sider, Rosemary Ruether, and Tony Campolo. I also share that tent with the Borgia popes, John Knox (sorry, my Presby friends, he ain’t no hero of mine), and the likes of Benny Hinn, Pat Robertson, and John Macarthur. Every one of these names is the name of a Christian. I am inspired by the first set and embarrassed by the second, but the fact that I disagree so vehemently with the second set of names doesn’t mean I am ashamed to wear the label "Christian!"
Feminism is also a very, very, big tent. I share that tent with a litany of heroes, past and present, from Mary Wollstonecraft to Mary Daly, Susan Anthony to Susan Faludi, Carry Nation and Carrie Chapman Catt. In that big tent belong the women of Feminists for Life; in that tent belongs the late Andrea Dworkin; in that tent belongs Elizabeth Fox Genovese and Eleanor Smeal and so many, many others. Just as Christianity is — perhaps sadly — divided by denomination, there are many different and divided feminisms. But, despite these differences, all who call themselves by this name share a public and passionate commitment to justice and equality for women. I’m not scared off from the name "feminist" by those who also use that label but do not share my views. And I am saddened that so many of my sisters are.
I was a feminist before I became a Christian. But before I became a Christian, my feminism was hollow, shallow, and hypocritical. My public language was of equality and justice, while my private behavior was one of exploitation, objectification, and masculine narcissism. I was raised with the belief that men and women were equal, but it was only when I came to Christ that I was empowered to act on that belief. My spiritual rebirth helped me to match my language and my life. I came to see that feminism was about the bedroom as well as the boardroom; it was about the words I used when I hung out with my guy friends as well as the words I used speaking to a class filled with young women.
My feminism informs my faith, just as my faith has taken my feminism from the superficial shell it once was and made it an integral part of who I am. I do not expect all feminists to be Christians, or all Christians to be feminists, but I do reject the notion that to be one means one cannot be the other.
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