Second Rate

A sharp, wavering intake of breath as I stumble across a blog post about the role of women in the church.  I barely dare to read on for fear of hearing someone say that, yes – God does think I’m second rate.  That He’s made me the way I am just as a cruel joke: to hurt me, to frustrate me, to play with me, to trample me into submission and teach me – by hook or by crook – a lesson about humility.

All around the issue I see inconsistencies and ignorance (“I’ve never really thought about it, but my dad says this…”), inverted pride and nonchalance (“It doesn’t really affect me…”), tradition and stubbornness.  I live in fear of judgement, exclusion and hurt; I live in fear of being labelled too independent, disobedient to God, a feminist…

But mostly I live in fear of finding out they’re right.

I once tried to share with a male friend just exactly how much heartbreak these thoughts inflict only to be told that I “think too deeply about things”.  My attempt was obviously horrificly inadequate. 

Even my book of Big Words cannot help me.

A degree of comfort is found in the fact that there is at least one of my male contemporaries who is willing to give more than a passing thought to these things. 

I hope its not as lonely a journey for him.

Lonely Heart

I put my heart into a box

Its bubble-wrapped and double-locked.

The box I put into a room

Where its hidden by the gloom,

The room is down a lengthy hall

Behind locked doors and sturdy walls,

The hall is in a shut-up house

Where nothing enters or comes out,

The house is on a one-way street

Where love and sorrow cannot meet,

The street is in a far-off town

Where neither pride or hurt are found,

The town is in a secret land

Where no-one can misunderstand,

The land is in another place

Where no-one ever speaks of grace
…

But its very lonely there.