A reflection on Psalm 27 by the Rev. Anne Fraley.
Psalm 27:1, 14 The
LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the
stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? … Wait for the LORD; be
strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the LORD!
This past week I took part in an icon-writing workshop.
This was the fourth time I have had the privilege of serving as chaplain in
this annual offering by our local cathedral’s program for the arts. As in
previous years it afforded me an opportunity to release the concerns of daily
life to be immersed in communal silence, and in the same way that the image of
my saint emerged on my canvas, some of my own soul came into focus in a new
way.
The icon I wrote was St. John the Theologian dictating to
St. Prochorus, an obscure biblical figure who went on to be a bishop and martyr
in the early years of the Church’s development. The icon is full of details,
from the position of John’s turned head to receive divine wisdom, to the
elevated position of the two men in front of a cave of darkness. The mind and heart can swim with
contemplation while painting layers of color, and as the image came into relief
with the application of lightening layers, my soul was drawn more deeply into
the ancient truths the icon is meant to reveal.
I went into this week of creative devotion fresh on the
heels of reading columnist Susan Campbell’s memoir Dating Jesus, subtitled “A Story of Fundamentalism, Feminism, and
the American Girl.” A self-described recovering fundamentalist, Campbell shares
the story of how she wrestled with and extracted herself from a Christian
tradition that extolled her adored Jesus while subjugating women through a
literal interpretation of holy writ. Her narrative is familiar to us, and
though her journey toward spiritual maturity bears little resemblance to mine,
her pain reverberated in the corridors of my own experience. As I faced a blank canvas ready to be
immersed in this ancient spiritual practice, Campbell’s courage to depart from
the tradition that shaped her life so firmly and fiercely inspired me to take a
modest risk with my icon. Unhappy with the patriarchal tradition of men
portrayed as sole guardians of the Word, my Prochorus would be depicted as
feminine, Prochora.
This was far from a scandalous act, but it was a significant
choice for me as a woman and a preacher of the Word to add curling locks to the
saint of old. It wasn’t just about adding a feminine image to a genre dominated
by men (with the exception of the prevalence of the Holy Mother). It was a
declaration that in spite of appearances and experiences to the contrary, for
centuries women have been entrusted with receiving and sharing God’s wisdom and
the incarnate revelation of Christ. In this icon in particular—with John’s face
turned away from his scribe—the sacred trust implicit in the theologian’s
posture conveys an equality of the sexes that underscores a truth that many of
us have received over the years.
Such a declaration is not meant to deny or diminish the
oppression of women during these same years, especially by a Church that
professes to proclaim the Good News that ought to have liberated our sex and
rejoiced in its equal participation. It is, instead, intended to acknowledge
what has been hidden by the darkness of patriarchy. In the same way that icons
are painted beginning with the darkest layers, revealing its details with
successive of layers of increasing light, so is the Church in many quarters now
in a place where the barriers of gender are being shed. It is a journey far
from concluded, but the voices of women now heard from pulpits and shared in
decision-making circles have reached a tipping point of no return. As the psalmist proclaims, with the Lord as
light and salvation, there is no place for fear. Strength and courage are
endowed to us through whatever waiting we endure.
