None of the others had introduced themselves or their occupations. It went something like this: “I’d like to ask the Reverend Cross the degree to which she feels not so much persecuted but isolated and marginalised, like so many other Christians in even more uncomfortable parts of the world” – I liked that word “even” and remember it particularly – “I think, for example, of the Christians in what we might still call the Holy Lands, who to all intents and purposes are increasingly being denied the opportunity to worship. Does she feel that she is denied? Is women’s ordained ministry like being a living stone?”
It was a reference to the First Letter of Peter, written to first-century persecuted Christians. Peter, stones, get it? The “living stones” are these days used as a metaphor for the churches in the Middle East, a dwindling physical link with the original witnesses to the risen Christ.
“It’s a dramatic analogy,” I said, playing for time.
Then new, fresh words came to me, expressions I hadn’t used before.
“We’re all the warp and weft of faith, the fabric of the Church. But some, by gender, are denied connection with apostolic mission and that’s a direct denial of access to Christ’s ministry. Like being given a different part of a church to sit in. Our web is severed from the loom. Is that what you mean?”
It was a neat scriptural shot to his baseline. But he was still on his feet.
“Are you saying that your bones are dry – your thread of life is snapped?”
Some of the grey heads turned to look at him now. But he was smiling and his head was inclined quizzically and courteously towards me.
The chair-hack wasn’t about to be out-smartarsed.
“Are you quite all right? Sounds like osteoporosis,” he said and some of his audience laughed as if along for a cruise-controlled ride.
“It’s Ezekiel,” I said evenly. They were all still listening and I was surprised. “It’s true. Women’s priesthood in the Church of England does feel like a kind of Babylonian exile.”
This brought a derisive snort from chair-hack. “It’s not so much being in exile from the Church,” I continued, “it’s losing hope that our Church may ever return from its self-imposed exile from women’s original witness of the Christ, which is well attested in scripture. That’s as dispiriting as being in exile myself.”
Angela leaned in.
“If I may,” she said. She’s rattled, I thought, by this whole scriptural authority riff. “It’s really a very grave error to suggest that women’s ministry and witness has been denied by the Church. Down the centuries, women have been venerated, women have been sanctified. From Mary Magdalene to Mother Teresa.”
“I don’t think that’s what the gentleman means,” I said. Why are they always “gentlemen” when they’re in audiences? He had sat down again, but I could feel him watching me through the sea of grey. “I think the suggestion is that we’re in exile from women’s first witness of the Christ. We need liberating from that exile.”
“You’re not suggesting the women at the Cross – Mary the Mother of Christ was one of them, you know – you’re not suggesting they need liberating by the Church. We’re liberated by God, by our faith,” said Angela.
She was flushed and her mouth had tightened.
“I’m suggesting we’re cut off from the experience of women at the time of Christ,” I replied with what I hoped was measured calmness. “The Syrophoenician woman, who thought she was a dog for wanting crumbs from the Christ’s table. The Samaritan woman, who had slept with more than one man so she had to fetch her water in the midday sun to avoid the scorn of the Jews. The bleeding woman, who tugged his robe.”
“You’re making the women sound more special than the men,” Angela shouted, and there was a murmur of ironic laughter from the chairs. “I mean, you’re suggesting that there’s something different about the women whom Jesus healed from the men. They are – we are – all the same disciples, we just have different roles.”
“But only men can exercise priestly ministry,” said chair-hack, detecting the mood.
“We can all exercise our ministries. But let’s not bring gender politics into it. There are no gender politics in the Kingdom of Heaven,” said Angela, firmly regaining control.
“And that’s what we’re trying to build,” I said. “But there are plenty of gender politics in this world.”
“Well, let’s keep them out of the Church,” said Angela, looking straight ahead. “Natalie just wants to turn this into a socio-political argument and I don’t see the gospel in that.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I think politics only properly liberates when we bring our faith to it. And faith is nothing unless it liberates.”
“I’m glad you concede you’re a politician. May I remind you, Natalie, that we’re called to fulfil the law, not to destroy it.”
There was a pause as this gospel injunction was ingested. Then I blew it. I don’t know why.
“Angela, I hope you’re not having your period at the moment. Because if you are, under Levitical law, you shouldn’t be sitting with these men.”
I’d like to say there was a frisson. Actually, there was a honk of disapproval from the nave and I’d lost the audience. Chair-hack changed the subject matter, like a teacher stumbling across a Shakespearian profanity. Angela pursed her thin lips and left as soon as it wound up, claiming pressing “pastoral” demands.
I hung about for the drinks, if only to demonstrate that I hadn’t done a runner like Angela. I wanted to be ostracised a bit too. I enjoy people being uncomfortable in my presence. I soak up opprobrium like a Scientologist.
Tight-arsed Christians struggle with their disapproval of people like me, because they know they’re not really meant to do hating. But they do. So do I, but the difference is I admit it. To them – some of them – I’m a woman dressed as a priest and still an odd outsider. But it’s more than that. I’m
