soul sisters

At Rachel and Mary's going away dinner, Bonita gave each of us a copy of this book. It's a compilation of twelve paintings of women in the gospels, done by Louis Glandzman. The poetry in the book is done by Edwina Gateley. In the preface of the book, she writes "When I first saw prints from Louis Glanzman's paintings of twelve of the women of the New Testament, something happened inside me. After a lifetime of knowing all about the women of the gospels, I felt that at last I had actually met them. Indeed I had. They were women whom I had encountered and connected with in my own life. They were homemakers, sex workers, child runaways, crones, teachers, mothers, senior citizens - and all of them knew Jesus. All of them were archetypes who reflected the journeys, struggles, joys, and dreams of women today.
As I spent time with each woman, I knew a deepening understanding of who she was and what she had experienced. Entering into her story of two thousand years ago, I tried to capture it in poetry and in so doing realized that I was also writing the stories of women I know today."

One of the paintings she wrote about was The Pentitent Woman:



There was a certain Pharisee who invited Jesus to dine with him. Jesus went to the Pharisee's home and reclined to eat. A woman known in the town to be a sinner learned that he was dining in the Pharisee's home. She brought a vase of perfumed oil and stood behind him at his feet, weeping so that her tears fell upon his feet. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissing them and perfuming them with the oil.
Luke 7:36-38

I think you have been weeping,
my sister,
for your eyes, limpid,
shine moist and haunted
and I see in them
a grief locked tight and hiding
beneath the glitter of favors
hanging from your hair.
What is your story, sister?
Where have you been?
What did you do
to carry such pain in your eyes -
heavier, indeed,
than the coins flashing
upon your brow?
No name for you but sinner -
shrouded in public shame,
breaker of the moral code.
You are anonymous -
but for sin.
Did you sell yourself
for the coins that hang upon you?
We will never know why...
But we do know, sister,
that there is always a reason
for despair.
We do know, sister,
that women like you
are not born intent on sin
and self-destruction,
but come,
like all of us,
full of expectations that our lives
will be happy and fruitful.
We women have come to understand
that selling ourselves
is not something we desire
and dream of,
but is, rather,
an act of self-annihilation
driven by despair.
We know that beneath it all
there is an untold story
locked in childhood memory -
too horrific for the light of day.
We know this, sister,
because so many others
have walked your path
of condemnation -
and even come to tell it.
The violence done to woman
is no longer a secret.
Now we see
beneath the baubles,
now we see
beneath the masks
and we call you sister -
not sinner.
You have your own brave story.
Risking the anger and the ridicule
of those around you,
cloaked in their shallow respectability,
you broke through
their righteous ranks,
slipping your silken veils
past their long stiff robes,
gate-crashing the patriarchal party,
bearing, tight to your bosom,
your rich and precious perfume.
They did not know
who you were, sister -
only what you had done.
It was enough
to leave them aghast
at your intrusion and your daring.
But you were driven
by something far deeper
than they would ever know or feel -
a passion
that poured right out
from your belly
and flowed into warm tears
that fell upon the feet of Jesus.
Your tears were your story, sister,
told for the first time
to the man who looked upon you
with compassion -
illuminating your soul, sister,
and revealing all the longing
breaking from within it.
With eyes that penetrated
he knew, sister,
who you were.
And he loved you
for yourself.
Not so,
the crowd of accusers
who gathered around,
in shock and disgust
at the spectacle of raw emotion,
right before their eyes.
How could anyone
(their looks betrayed)
with a modicum of honor
receive a woman such as you!
The lovely smell of your perfume
rose from the feet of Jesus,
assailing with floral bouquet
the outraged dignity
of the dinner guests.
Disapproving,
brows furrowed,
the mumbled about the poor
and the wanton, inappropriate waste
of expensive oil
poured on the body of Jesus.
(They did not know who he was either.)
But Jesus knew,
and you knew, sister,
that the perfume
bathing you in sweetness -
like clouds of grade -
belonged to you both.
So you knelt,
expectant of compassion,
at the feet of the one
who knew you and loved you
for yourself
and for your inner truth.
Like the perfume you unstopped,
it was for you, sister,
a moment of release
as all the crushed
and wrapped up pain within you
dissolved,
all the insults and blows of the years
you had borne,
faded now -
dispelling all despair forever
in a moment of grace and honesty.
Now, sister, you are free -
your story told,
your love revealed
to all of us.
Our invitation is to look deeper
than we do,
to intuit and honor
what so often lies
beneath the surface
of denial, anger and diminishment,
grace pulsing to break through.
I once knew
another woman like you.
She ran a brothel in the city,
managing sex
for her clients and her girls.
The money she surreptitiously slipped
into her roomy pockets
was exchanged for sexual acts -
considered still
one of the greatest sins of all.
Even so,
she welcomed me into her home
and place of business,
plying me with cookies, tea
and homemade cake.
The clients,
smart, professional men
in politics and business,
(taking a quick break for sex
from their offices downtown),
slipped furtively in and out
the darkened rooms
like thieves -
eyes down but wary.
When all was still,
after the lunch-time rush,
the madam thrust a twenty-dollar bill
down my blouse, muttering:
"For your ministry."
I was horrified
knowing that the money
had come from prostitution.
My whole self protested...
Until I saw
the tears and longing in her eyes
crying out unspoken plea:
Do not reject me too...
Then I remembered you, sister,
and your story.
Her twenty-dollar bill
became a waft of perfumed oil
moving in her sad, dark home
like a whispered breath of sweetness
playing on my senses.
Who was I to judge
the heart which broke
into that moment,
spilling kindness and longing?
Who was I to dismiss
her story
because I did not know it?
No matter, sisters,
we are all capable,
in the midst of murky deeds,
of bearing perfume,
and shedding hot repentant tears
to wash and bless each other -
as you did, Soul Sister.