Who Are Your Heroines?

By Amy Cortright

1976, when the Episcopal Church's General Convention finally voted to “approve” women's ordination, was also the year of my birth.

And so I entered the picture, born right smack into the Episcopal Church – the daughter of two older collegiate converts who weren't really paying much attention to all of the “Episcomotion.” Years later, when I asked my father why we went to church where we did, Dad replied that he loved the music at our ultra-high Anglo-Catholic parish in Washington, D.C. “Anglicans really know how to do liturgy.” My mother concurred. The issue of women in the church – or not – they found “interesting,” if not a bit troubling. I wondered later why I had asked my father about it first.

I experienced a rude awakening during seminary when an internship supervisor declared that it was the will of God that women be ordained, but that it was wrong . I wished that I had such an “in” on the will of God – or that I could override it with my own judgment!  

He and I did not get along. But I learned a lot.

One of the things that struck me about that situation was that the supervisor, a retired Episcopal priest, seemed to be trying to use me to overcome his prejudice. I think that he really wanted to be on board with my call to ordination, and yet acceptance was as foreign to him as his outlook was to me.

One of the things that struck me about that situation was that the supervisor, a retired Episcopal priest, seemed to be trying to use me to overcome his prejudice. I think that he really wanted to be on board with my call to ordination, and yet acceptance was as foreign to him as his outlook was to me. I found myself at times pitying him, and at other times moved to exasperation by his attitudes and behavior.

Every day in the hospital during that internship was a challenge for both of us. One Sunday morning, after a particularly grueling week, I headed to the church closest to where I was living that summer. The space was simply ethereal, like a beautiful song in stone and glass. I picked a seat in the back, sat down, and closed my eyes longingly in meditation and silence. As I opened them again a few minutes later, I spotted my supervisor walk in the door and see me in the choir-seated sanctuary.

It was clear that neither of us knew what to do. But we both knew what would happen. “Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked, tentatively walking over and sitting down. I really did not want to sit next to this man at church. I was certain that he didn't want to sit next to me either. But church really isn't about sitting with your friends, is it?    

One of the things I learned that summer is that I do have an “in” on the will of God. We all do. And so on one hand, we had better quiet down and listen to one another so we can hear what God is trying to tell us; and on the other, we had better shout louder than the loudest loud because God will be hurt if we don't get the Word out that we are all created in God's image. And we will be too.

And this is where I find myself now, stuck somewhere between a rock and a hard place, a deacon in the church who is fully subscribed to the institution and believes fiercely in its goodness, and is also frustrated to death that others within the same structure seem to fail to see that justice is the way of God, not fear, hatred, and prejudice – or indifference. That over and above all, we are to be faithful to God, and to practice love. And finally, that it is better to love too wide than too narrow. Gene Robinson, the Episcopal Bishop of New Hampshire, has repeatedly stated that people can be so excruciatingly slow to love and faster than a speeding bullet to hate.

I often wonder if I am fastening myself into that same model of hierarchy and dominance: wearing the collar as a sign of authority, using a special title, being shocked by the nightly news which reports one night that a nun has been beaten up and on the next that a priest has been mugged and robbed.

Sexism has been sewn right into the fabric of our church, like a patch that doesn't match. I see women in the church falling into the same patterns of patriarchy that have traditionally swallowed them up throughout history. I often wonder if I am fastening myself into that same model of hierarchy and dominance: wearing the collar as a sign of authority, using a special title, being shocked by the nightly news which reports one night that a nun has been beaten up and on the next that a priest has been mugged and robbed.

I sense suspicion from others when I walk the streets of New York as collar crusader. It forces me to ask myself what kind of reaction I expect, and why I expect anything at all. I imagine woundedness, disinterest, and boredom. I imagine sexism, confusion, and distraction. I imagine ambivalence, starvation, and longing. And I imagine the potential for new life in each of these projections. For it is possible that my own imagination and pathology have taken hold of me. And it is possible that the church really is poised for pastorality in way that it never has been before. Have we reached the New Age of Evangelism?

As women in the church we are not about replacing something old, but about doing something new, just as we do God's next new thing in every moment. There are signs and symbols all around us of every new possibility the church has before it and that God is continually calling the faithful into new ways. After all, it is God 's power working in us that does more than we can ask or imagine. But have we taken the time to ask? To imagine? Have we opened our eyes to the brilliance around us? What could be better than record-setting attendance at a General Convention? The sweat and tears of vulnerability? Random acts of kindness? Sitting next to someone at church that we don't like?

There is a picture on my living room wall of a woman my age in 1974. She is speaking to a crowd holding up a collar in one hand and making a point on her thumb with the other. I wish that I knew who she was, what she was saying, and who made up the crowd of women and men that gathered that day to hear what she had to say.

I am so inspired by this young woman, by her poise and determination. I treasure the fact that we are part of the very same church, young women taking our place in time, in God. I wish that all younger women and men in the church now could see the depth of groundwork that has been laid for us to do ministry now and to be faithful stewards now. Perhaps it is not only love, but the friction amidst interruptions and dissent that creates the movement of ministry.

Before I left for seminary, a friend in the church wisely said to me, “Always remember that there is a greater good in the end.” There is a greater good in the end. There is the greatest good.  

The Rev. Amy Cortright is a 2004 graduate of The General Theological Seminary, a transitional deacon from the Episcopal Diocese of New York who serves as assistant minister at the Church of the Incarnation in Manhattan. She loves animals, coffee shops, and summer road trips. Amy may be reached by email at acortright@gts.edu .