There is a particular authority that comes from privilege. When a white man steps into the place where he belongs, he has an internal power with which he was born. He is entitled. Like royalty, he sits on the throne naturally, because that place is caught in his blood. But an entirely different power emerges from women who have been told that they are not allowed to speak in church—and suddenly rise behind the pulpit. Something flares up from deep inside of them, and when they have a safe space, the words can come out of them with force and fury.
I always feel like using the mom card highlights some sort of gender defect. My husband was a work-at-home dad for three years, and he has been just as involved in the diaper changing, sick days and parent/teacher meetings as I have. But I always have a feeling that when a guy uses the parent card, people think, What a great dad. But when women use it, people think, What an inept worker.
A priest poses the question to a group of children: "How many sacraments are there?" Without missing a beat a little girl responds: "Seven for boys, and six for girls." The math may differ for different communions, with fewer sacraments distributed more equitably among the genders, but Susan A. Ross of Loyola University raises questions that no sacramental tradition can ignore. She posits a principle all traditions could embrace: all of life is potentially revelatory of the divine. Then Ross surveys all facets of her question: how can one construct a sacramental theology that takes the bodies of men and women as seriously as it takes the body of Christ?
De La Torre brings new light to the book of Jonah when he sets it in conversation with the lives of marginalized peoples. The United States takes the role of Nineveh, capital of the Assyrian empire, in an argument that hopes for readers’ conversion to God’s revelation among the disenfranchised.
Ask your teenaged son how he is doing and you are likely to get a terse reply. “All right.” “Fine.” Or maybe, “I’m chillin’.” Though most young males are teeming jungles of thoughts and emotions, they seldom talk about their inner lives.
Don’t get Lizette Frielingsdorf wrong. She loved her three boys—Jordan, Justin and Jake. Yet somehow she felt incomplete, especially when watching her friends happily shop with their daughters or when recalling those special times when her own mother took her to the ballet.
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