By Ruth Tucker

Here begins a three-part series on individuals—particularly historical figures—who have had a profound influence on me. Actually, this is a good exercise for all of us—to identify public figures who made a major difference in our lives.

So I ask myself: What if A.B. Simpson (1843-1919) had continued his ministry as a very successful Canadian and American Presbyterian minister? What if? I often contemplate counterfactuals. Where would I be today without his conviction that his ministry must go in an entirely different direction?  Were it not for him, there would not have been a Green Grove Christian and Missionary Alliance Church where I grew up in the faith.

But before this white clapboard church had been constructed in a rural Wisconsin farming community 100 miles northeast of Minneapolis, Miss Cowan and Miss Salthammer arrived in the 1930s. They had been schooled at the Alliance Training Home, founded in 1916, three years before Simpson’s death. (Now Crown College, it was St. Paul Bible College when I enrolled in the fall of 1963.) They first announced a Sunday school, then church services. They evangelized, taught classes, preached sermons and were known for their daily deeds of mercy. When the church was on a solid footing, they moved on to other communities. They returned occasionally to teach vacation Bible school, and I remember thinking of them as odd ducks. But where would I be today were not for these two women preachers, often paid in sacks of potatoes or turnips, living and dying in poverty?

Where would I be were it not for A. B. Simpson? Though never a missionary himself, Simpson had an enormous influence on missions particularly on individuals who would go on to establish mission societies. The founders of both the Sudan Interior Mission and the Africa Inland Mission studied at his missionary training school and were deeply influenced by his passion for overseas evangelization. Likewise, several evangelical denominations were transformed into missionary sending agencies largely through his missionary zeal. Beginning in 1883, he orchestrated interdenominational conventions held in cities throughout the States and Canada, featuring missionaries from various denominations and mission societies. These conventions would lead to the formation of Simpson’s own international mission society, the Christian and Missionary Alliance. His footprint is very large indeed. I tell his story in From Jerusalem to Irian Jaya.

Born on Prince Edward Island in 1843, he was baptized by a Presbyterian missionary to the South Seas, John Geddie. Stories of missionaries filled his childhood. At Knox College in Toronto, missions continued to interest him, but after his graduation his reputation for preaching elicited a call to serve as pastor of the fashionable Knox Church in Hamilton, Ontario. After eight years Chestnut Street Presbyterian Church in Louisville came calling with an impressive yearly salary of $5,000. His wife, Margaret, was thrilled with the attention wealthy parishioners gave her, but her husband could only think of how “barren and withered” his ministry had become, but during a short stay in Chicago his life was transformed:

 I was awakened one night from . . . a strange dream. . . . It seemed to me that I was in a vast auditorium, and millions of people were there sitting around me. All the Christians in the world seemed to be there, and on the platform was a great multitude of faces and forms. They seemed to be mostly Chinese. They were not speaking, but in mute anguish were wringing their hands, and their faces wore an expression that I can never forget. . . . I threw myself on my knees, and every fibre of my being answered, “Yes, Lord, I will go.”

He was determined to go to China, but for one obstacle—Margaret.  She agreed to leave her beloved Canada to go to Louisville, but not to China. With six children, she had no interest in forsaking the comfortable lifestyle the Chestnut Street Church afforded them: “I was not then ready for such a sacrifice. I wrote him that it was all right—he might go to China himself—I would remain home and support and care for the children. I knew that would settle him for a while.”

Simpson was not a David Livingstone who simply abandoned his wife and children for mission work. But he was convinced that God was calling him “to labor for the world and the perishing heathen just the same as if [he] were permitted to go among them,” not, however, based in Louisville. So in 1879 he was determined to action was; he accepted a call from Thirteenth Street Presbyterian Church in New York City. Still he was restless, and after two years he resigned and launched a new ministry. It was an impulsive decision that stunned not only the church and his associates, but his wife Margaret. A. W. Tozer poignantly described her feelings:

The wife of a prophet has no easy road to travel. . . .  From affluence and high social position she is called suddenly to poverty and near-ostracism. She must feed her large family somehow—and not one cent coming in. . . . Mr. Simpson had heard the Voice ordering him out, and he went without fear. His wife had heard nothing. . . . That she was a bit unsympathetic at times has been held against her by many. That she managed to keep within far sight of her absent-minded high soaring husband should be set down to her everlasting honor.

Starting out with seven committed followers, the movement grew quickly and rented facilities became too small. After moving from one larger place to another, the decision was made to erect a permanent building, the Gospel Tabernacle. He was determined to found a movement, not a denomination, but whatever it was it spread rapidly around the world. Within a decade he had commissioned more than a hundred missionaries to serve in more than a dozen countries. If the numbers sound impressive; the human toll was enormous. In the Congo and Sudan, deadly diseases and climate “exacted such an awful toll of lives,” writes A.E. Thompson, “that for years the missionary graves in both fields outnumbered the living missionaries.”  In China the situation was also grim. The Boxer Uprising of 1900 claimed the lives of thirty-five Alliance missionaries and children.

A.B. Simpson. If it were not for him, would I have ever become a professor in the fields of missions and church history? Would I have been launched into a writing career with From Jerusalem to Irian Jaya: A Biographical History of Christian Missions?

That book ends with a personal reflection. I tell about growing up in the 1950s in a farming community in northern Wisconsin and attending a little country church, where it was difficult to go through teenage years without getting a “call” to overseas missions. In most cases the sense of calling was quickly forgotten when other “calls” interfered. But for me and my younger cousin Valerie, it was different. I write in third person:

They attended the same schools and the same little country church. Valerie too felt called to foreign missions. She, too enrolled at the St. Paul Bible College to prepare for her life’s calling. And she, too, longed for marriage and family. But her sense of calling to the foreign field came first. Valerie graduated from Bible college and soon thereafter bade farewell to her family and loved ones and set out alone for Ecuador, where she continues to serve today [now retired] with the Christian and Missionary Alliance.

Two young women whose lives paralleled each other’s in so many respects. Two young women who felt called to foreign missions. Valerie went. I stayed home.

For years when I was traveling and lecturing on missions, I would often end with this story. Students would come up to me and want to hug me and tell me it was okay—that I shouldn’t feel guilty. I actually didn’t feel guilty. In fact, I often think the “mission field” was better off without me. But that “call” made an incredible difference in my life, and I would not be where I am today without it—and without A. B. Simpson, founder of the Christian and Missionary Alliance.

A footnote: Valerie retired two years ago, and some months later I received an invitation to her wedding.  John and I traveled back home to northern Wisconsin to witness her marriage to a widowed Alliance missionary. It was a glorious celebration and a wonderful time for me to renew old friendships I had made nearly a half century earlier at the now shuttered Green Grove Alliance Church.

St Francis: A Kidnapping and a Creche, by Ruth Tucker

If there had been an Assisi Inquirer, the story would have been the headliner: “Thirty-year-old homeless man kidnaps seventeen-year-old girl.” The date was pre-dawn Palm Sunday, 1212. My segment on Clare in Extraordinary Women of Christian History begins thus:

Just when it seems it would be impossible to surpass the story of Heloise for sheer suspense and sex appeal, here comes Clare of Assisi (1194-1253). At first glance she is little more than one more medieval holy woman canonized a saint for a perfect life. But in many ways her story is every bit as fascinating as that of Heloise whose name seems incomplete unless paired with Abelard. So also, Clare and Francis.

Both Francis and Clare hailed from Assisi. Growing up in this walled Roman town, everyone knew each other. Clare was considered a beauty and enjoyed all the luxuries a girl could want as a daughter in a noble family living in a castle. She may have even daydreamed about the dashing young man a dozen years her senior. “Francis was one of those people who are popular with everybody,” writes G.K. Chesterton, “and his guileless swagger as a Troubadour and leader of French fashions made him a sort of romantic ringleader among the young men of the town.” Clare would become betrothed, however, to a man of her same social standing. It was an arranged marriage which she would reject when she came under the spell of Francis.

At thirty, he was no longer a swaggering Troubadour. Here is how Joan Acocella introduces him in an article in the New Yorker:

“Why you?” a man asked Francesco di Bernadone, known to us now as St. Francis of Assisi. Francis (1181/2-1226) was scrawny and plain-looking. He wore a filthy tunic, with a piece of rope as a belt, and no shoes. While preaching, he often would dance, weep, make animal sounds, strip to his underwear, or play the zither. His black eyes sparkled. Many people regarded him as mad, or dangerous. They threw dirt at him. Women locked themselves in their houses.

Francis had renounced family wealth to become a lone follower of Jesus. Then in 1208 he wrote in his Testament: “God gave me [two] brothers.” Within two years, the two brothers had increased to 12—that being the inauspicious beginning of the Franciscans. His motivation for his humanitarian ministry was simple: “Preach the gospel at all times, and when necessary, use words.” This timeless maxim, however, did not apply a few years later when he co-founded Clare’s Poor Ladies. They were cloistered behind high walls.

In my church history courses, I used to ask my students if Francis was married. Of course not was the obvious answered. But by his own account, he was married to “a fairer bride than any of you have ever seen.” She was the absolute love of his life, and he remained faithful to the very end. Her name? Lady poverty. Clare would later be married as well, as her written prayer indicates:

Draw me after you, heavenly Spouse . . .

bring me into the wine cellar . . .

our left hand is under my head

and your right arm blissfully embraces me;

and you kiss me with the most blissful kiss of your mouth.

Clare was dead serious about her vocation. Francis was a bit of a clown.  “Everyone who knew him,” writes Acocella, found “an extreme natural sweetness. He was courteous, genial, extroverted—he was fun, a quality not always found in saints—and he laid it upon the brothers, as a duty, to be cheerful.” And he was no doubt cheerful during the midnight caper when he kidnapped Clare.

For months they had conversed through clandestine rendezvous, going over every detail of his planned intrigue for her ultimate escape. What to do with her after that was not clearly stipulated.  Indeed, Francis was flying by the seat of his pants. He would figure it out when the time came. The family castle looked out onto the piazza, next door to the cathedral. It was in plain sight. Stealth was the key. When Francis and his comrades arrived, Clare escaped through an upper window. “The first stop on this underground railroad,” I write, “was a makeshift forest chapel where Francis and his followers were holed up. Here before an altar to the Blessed Virgin, Francis ceremoniously sheared off her long flowing hair, and then gave her his own course robe to wear instead of her fine gown and cloak. He then escorted her to a Benedictine convent for temporary lodging.”

Whether the audacious deed is deemed an elopement or outright kidnapping depends on perspective. Today a teenage girl whisked away in the dark of night at the bidding of a cult leader twelve years her senior would be considered a kidnap victim. And so she was even back then.

But how could this cult leader get away with it? Francis knew that Church law trumped local law. So when the local law officials arrived to forcibly take her home, she followed his directions and clung hard to the altar. In fact, so tenacious was she that her tattered gown tore as they tried to pull her away, exposing her cropped hair.  The altar and the hair were enough to convince the posse that they were not simply dealing with Francis. They were dealing with God—and his Church.

The Franciscans and Poor Clares are still active today. I’ve interviewed Poor Clares who have a ministry in Saginaw, Michigan, as well as Franciscan Sisters who have a farm located near Lowell, Michigan. Today there are upwards of five thousand Franciscan friars worldwide, and a Pope named Francis. Indeed, Clare and Francis have had a very long shelf life.

According to tradition, Francis was the first to celebrate with a live manger scene at Christmas. The year was 1223, and he was the perfect candidate to launch the tradition. He loved animals and he had connections. At the time he was residing near Greccio, some sixty miles south of Assisi, north of Rome. He borrowed animals and a wax figure of the holy infant, and volunteers stood in for Mary, Joseph and the shepherds. The Pope had given his approval, and the show was a big hit. For most passers-by it was truly a revelation. Mass was said in Latin, and most in the congregation had little understanding. They may have heard tell of the nativity, but in this setting the response was no doubt: Now, I get it.

And what about Clare and Christmas? Her story is not dated—indeed, probably better that way. We wouldn’t want to try to track the account down and prove her wrong. One Christmas Eve she was so ill that she was unable to attend midnight mass at the Church of St. Francis. She was alone, her sister nuns all having left their quarters and gone together in a group. But not wanting to leave her in sorrow, Jesus, to whom she had pledged her troth, came to her bed, lifted her up and carried her to the church a mile away. After the service was over, she was carried back the way she came. When the sisters returned, lamenting her absence, she explained that she had been there assisting at the altar and that she herself had partaken of the Holy Eucharist.

Unlike the live nativity created by Francis, Clare’s Christmas performance is not easy to emulate. Actually a live nativity is problematic as well, especially here in Michigan where temperatures sometimes drop to the single digits. But not to worry, local box stores display nativities with easy set up. Home Depot offers a “Nativity Scene Inflatable with Built-in LEDs Blow Up.” Walmart’s 6-foot inflatable carries a more appropriate religious description: “Holy Family Nativity” for only $119.99. Unfortunately, the 7-foot “Holy Family” at $140.00 is out of stock. But even the smaller in-store model is hard to get as one reviewer commented: “Cashier said that they sell out of this nativity every time a new batch is delivered, so we ordered it online. Love that this inflatable celebrates the true meaning of Christmas.”

This is what religious freedom is all about. Christians must stand in solidarity to defend Holy Family inflatables.

Andrew Bartlett says Yes in new book Men and Women in Christ. (#ad)

First, we have to admit some truths and here are his own big-theme conclusions:

After it became clear that the traditional view of women’s innate inferiority was out of step with Scripture, there began a reformation [not The Reformation] in the Christian understanding of what the Bible teaches about men and women. New interpretations have been advanced. We have tested these against the words of Scripture, read in context. Fresh light is still emerging. Complementarian interpretations have not taken the reformation [not The Reformation] far enough, because they still retain unjustified restrictions on women’s ministry in the church, and some still depict marriage as a hierarchical relationship. Egalitarian interpretations of Christian marriage seem to have taken the reformation [not The Reformation] too far, since they deny any definite differentiation of responsibilities of husband and wife beyond the biological. The labels ‘complementarian’ and ‘egalitarian’ are unhelpfully restrictive, because they over-simplify the task of interpretation. It is time to move beyond them. Faithfulness to God and his word requires a revitalized conversation in which we will strive for unity of relationship and of understanding, in order to please the Lord and be a blessing to his world.

He points then to his own peace-making summaries:

Men and women are created by God to be different (Gen. 2). The woman is to be the man’s powerful ally. Husbands are not called to be rulers of their wives. The only explicit statement in the Bible about the rule of man over woman is in Genesis 3:16, which presents this as a negative consequence of the fall. There is no statement anywhere in the Bible that husbands ought to exercise unilateral authority over their wives. Christian husbands are called to a special responsibility of self-sacrificial service to their wives, in demonstration of the self-sacrificial love of Christ for his bride, the church (Eph. 5).

Uthough God’s design does not make husbands masters over their wives, wives are nevertheless called to submit to their husbands. This is for several reasons, particularly to imitate the humility of Christ (Eph. 5; 1 Pet. 2 – 3). But both partners are called to humility and love. In the marriage relationship husband and wife have equal authority and are called to yield to one another (1 Cor. 7:3-5).

In the New Testament, most prominent roles in the church are fulfilled by men. But the question at issue is whether there is a general biblical ban on women’s involvement in church leadership. There is not. Women and men are united in Christ on an equal footing. Ministry is gift-based, not gender-based (Rom. 12:3-8; 16:7; 1 Cor. 12:1-30; Eph. 4:11-13; 1 Pet. 4:10-11).

Then some his wider themes:

1. The paradox of equality and humility
2. Creation and new creation
3. What it means to be male or female
4. Raising expectations of Scripture

The importance of the divine mandate of unity

The obstacles to unity

1. Ongoing disagreements on interpretation of Scripture
2. Egalitarian misunderstanding of the nature and motivations of the debate
3. How complementarians characterise the debate
4. Re framing the debate

By Ruth Tucker, author of Extraordinary Women of Christian History.

“Mother in Israel” is what Methodists called her. It was fitting. Like Judge Deborah who sang: “I arose as a mother in Israel,” Mary Bosanquet Fletcher arose and took a leading role working alongside, and independently of, John Wesley. She was the one who convinced him to permit women to preach—though never for her own self-aggrandizement. “I know the power of God which I have felt when standing on the horseblock in the street at Huddersfield,” she wrote, “but at the same time I am conscious how ridiculous I must appear in the eyes of many for so doing.”

Yes, ridiculous. She grew up in a mansion, living in luxury: high fashion, dinner parties, ballroom dances, theater and Riviera vacations.  Her father was a wealthy merchant and her brother would become a director of the bank of England. Confirmed at 13 into the Anglican faith at St. Paul’s Cathedral, she was already conflicted about how wealth fit in with true Christian discipleship. Soon after that she adopted a simple lifestyle and began wearing plain dresses and volunteering for ministry to the poor. Her parents were upset and humiliated. Then, she refused the marriage proposal of a wealthy young gentleman. That was final straw. Her parents insisted she either come to her senses or move out of the mansion, fearing she might influence her younger siblings.

She moved into a dingy flat, living and working with a Methodist class leader. Such a lifestyle was indeed scandalous. But then word came that she had inherited her grandmother’s estate. She quickly transformed it into an orphanage with help of two other women. For more than a half century she would conduct ministry to the poor while establishing and leading Methodist classes and societies and often preaching several times a week.

Actually, she didn’t preach. She wasn’t allowed to. She was permitted simply to exhort. I laugh at the distinction and am reminded of my first year as the only full-time female professor at Calvin Seminary. I was eating lunch in the faculty room, and one of my colleagues had heard that I had preached at a Christian Reformed Church. He began pontificating about how inappropriate that was—that I should have informed the pastor ahead of time that I would be willing to exhort but not preach. I told my colleague that I would not offer an alternative. It would be like saying no I can’t preach but I’ll do a liturgical dance. (Maybe snippy remarks like that had something to do with why I ended up getting fired.)

But whatever they wanted to call it, Mary Bosanquet preached. That she preached is far more amazing than any preaching I have ever done. She was born with a defective tongue fused to the roof of her mouth and nearly died after surgery to repair it. Nevertheless, she persisted—and preached. That despite being heckled and occasionally ducking dirt balls hurled her way.

John Wesley, though admitting to making a fool of himself with his outdoor preaching, dreadfully feared the “Quaker” label. Although George Fox had died in 1691 before Wesley was born, his wife Margaret Fell had carried on for more than a decade, and under her leadership women’s equality in ministry was confirmed. What a disgrace. Recall Dr. Johnson’s famous quip. Boswell had told him about a Quaker meeting he had attended earlier in the day (in the summer of 1763 at the height of Wesley’s ministry). Dr. Johnson responded: “Sir, a woman’s preaching is like a dog’s walking on his hind legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.”

A woman preaching was a joke. Both John Wesley and Mary Bosanquet were well aware of that. Thus the rules that John imposed on Mary and her two close associates Mary Crosby, Sally Ryan and others.  Mary Bosanquet initially did not speak from the pulpit, rather from the steps leading to it. To preacher Margaret Mallet John wrote: “Never scream. Never speak above the natural pitch of your voice; it is disgustful to hearers. It gives them pain not pleasure.” His general rule for women was to give little exhortations interspersed by prayer and hymns, so that no one could ever accuse him of endorsing Quaker-like preachers.

But then in 1771, Mary wrote to John, reminding him that biblical women had been called to preach “in extraordinary situations.” She pointed to New Testament passages and explained how they had been wrongly interpreted. She was convinced that God had called her even as had been true of many biblical women. “If I did not believe so, I would not act in an extraordinary manner. I praise my God, I feel him very near, and I prove his faithfulness every day.”

John replied, indicating a change of heart: “My dear sister, I think the strength of the cause rests there, on your having an Extraordinary Call [as] has every one of our Lay Preachers. . . .  It is plain to me that the whole work of God termed Methodism is an extraordinary dispensation of His Providence.” In the decades that followed the number of women preachers significantly increased, and Methodism expanded throughout the British Isles. Later on, Mary reflected: “For some years I was often led to speak from a text. Of late I feel greater approbation in what we call expounding, taking a part or whole of a chapter and speaking on it.”

As devoted as she was to preaching and full-time ministry to the needy, Mary had many spare moments to fantasize about the unmarried John Fletcher, a brilliant Anglican vicar and strong supporter of Wesley. She had no idea that Fletcher had written to Charles Wesley, asking for his counsel on proposing marriage to her—though wondering if she might be too consumed in her ministry to make a good wife. Fifteen years went by as both contemplated the other. Finally Mary wrote to John about her interest in Fletcher. That was all it took.  After a series of letters and private meetings, they married.  Mary was forty-two, he, ten years her senior.

Following a brief wedding ceremony, they sang hymns and talked with their guests. Fletcher read the familiar words from the Apostle Paul: “Husbands, love your wives as Christ loved the Church.” His spontaneous comments would serve Mary well: “My God, what a task! Help me, my friends, by your prayers to fulfil it. As Christ loved the Church! He laid aside his glory for her!” He continued with Paul’s words: “Wives, submit yourselves onto your own husbands,” and Mary added, “as unto the Lord.” Again, his words were reassuring: “Well, my dear, only in the Lord. And if ever I wish you to do anything otherwise, resist me with all your might.”

Encouraged by her husband, Mary continued preaching at Methodist meetings as she had done before and she served alongside him in his Anglican parish in Madeley. Theirs was a strong marriage, but it lasted less than four years. Mary was heartbroken by his death. “It seems to me,” she later wrote to a friend, “I both love and miss him every day more and more. . . . Never did I know three years of such suffering.”

Although John Wesley wanted her to relocate in London (one hundred fifty miles southeast) where he believed her ministry would be more fruitful, she continued her work at Madeley, at the invitation of the new vicar. Here she strengthened the bond of unity between the Methodists and Anglicans that her husband had labored to maintain.

She was a much-admired preacher and drew crowds in the thousands, though never from an Anglican pulpit. Her primary venue was the nearby “Tythe Barn” where she delivered an early Sunday morning devotional, encouraging her listeners to then proceed to the nearby Anglican church. In the afternoon and evening, as well as on weekdays she preached again at the Barn. In fact, she continued preaching, sometimes three or four times a week, until her death at seventy-six, not infrequently with ministers in the congregation.

She had lived thirty years as a widow, and the searing sorrow that had so consumed her in the years immediately after her husband’s death had all but vanished. She testified of her mystical communion with him. “My house is a sweet rest,” she wrote in later years. “I have peace within. . . . I have communion with my friends above.” She died in 1815, but she has lived on through her autobiography that has influenced generations of noted women preachers and many more whose names have been forgotten—women who have looked to her as a role model for sacrificial ministry and public preaching.

By Rhesa Higgins, who is a friend of Kelly Edmiston, is a spiritual director and experienced retreat leader. She serves as the founding Director for eleven:28 ministries (www.eleven28ministries.org) in Dallas, Texas, a non-profit dedicated to supporting the spiritual vitality of ministers. She is married to Chad and together they are raising their three kids. Rhesa loves good coffee, dark chocolate, baseball, theatre, and most any good book.

I am a fourth-generation Texan and a fourth-generation member of the churches of Christ. I am also a fourth-generation survivor of trauma and female. Any one of those 4 markers should have stopped me from saying yes to a call to ministry.

I have spent my entire life deep in the Bible belt of Texas. We don’t suffer fools or nuance around here. Despite living in a city and driving a minivan, this is still Texas where truth is supposed to be straight and overt, and people are supposed to be tough, independent, and no-nonsense. Theology is black and white, concrete-lined straight edges marking the way forward.

The Churches of Christ have raised me and are in my DNA. The restoration movement values the ancient church, simplicity in understanding the Bible, and unity, which has come to mean uniformity so that we can know who is in and who is out. And if there is a question, the priesthood of all (male) believers will show us where to draw the lines.

And then there is me.

The first mystical experience I had of God was at the age of 4 before I knew better than to tell people about it. I have always been a dreamer, a writer, a dancer, and a creative who saw textures of grey in between the lines. I planned the service and wrote the sermon for the youth group boys to deliver on Youth Sunday when I was 15. And then, I heard the call to ministry at 17 when I was too young to realize what my “yes” would cost me.

Within six short months of my yes to God, a portion of my family disowned me. They hoped their ‘discipline’ would allow me to see my sin and therefore return to the safety of salvation. Otherwise, I would be condemned to hell and would lead others there as well.

In my very first Bible major’s class in college, I realized that I was unwelcome. And while it would be another full year before I encountered a professor that didn’t want me there, I knew that some of my male classmates saw me as a thief of their rightful places. They ignored the comments offered from women in class discussions. They were offended when I outscored them on tests. And when it came time to take a preaching class—a degree requirement, I wasn’t allowed to enroll but was quietly encouraged to take a different course, with women.

After college, I discovered that churches were happy for me to do ministry as long as I didn’t call myself a minister or want to get paid for ministry. They were eager for me to volunteer 40 hours of my week while working my full-time-paying-day job. And when I had the audacity to ask a group of leaders if they would ever even consider hiring me, and therefore paying me to do this work I was already doing, they told me in no uncertain terms that a woman would never be on staff at their church, for this would be sinful.

When my voice was allowed to be heard within a Sunday morning context for the first time, some 20 years after my calling, I was criticized for my clothing, my vocal tone, and using the whole segment of time I was allotted. My critics said that in order to stand in front of a church I should wear long, loose fitting pants with long sleeved shirts that are also loose fitting. It would be best if I wore flat shoes instead of heels and wore very little makeup. By taking all of these precautions, I would be less likely to cause a man in the congregation to lust. They also pointed out that a woman’s voice is just too hard to hear and understand so maybe I wasn’t actually blessing others with my voice but feeding my own ego.

I have been accused of abandoning my God-given responsibility to raise my children simply because my job is within ministry contexts instead of a school or another office. I have been told that on the one hand, mothering is the only thing I should care about because that is how God made me. And I have been told that God obviously can’t be known as or called Mother and Father. I have been told that I am emasculating my husband by speaking in front of him at church. And I have been told that maleness is supreme and unbreakable.

I have been told that my femaleness holds no part of God’s image and therefore, I am to be submissive to all men, quiet, compassionate, caring, a good cook, love babies, the perfect hostess, and accept everything the church ever taught me in order to be a good Christian woman. I have been told that by saying yes to God’s call on my life, I have actually chosen to leave God’s love to pursue my own agenda. I have been told that I must be power hungry, selfish, and conceited to believe that God actually called me to this work.

I have been told that women are the reason God and humans are in conflict so women cannot be trusted. I have been told that men are naturally smarter than women, stronger than women, more trustworthy than women, and generally superior because they are more like God, who is male.

And still, I have chosen to say yes. My yes has cost me relationships, inflicted pain, and caused some deep identity questioning. And still, after all that, I choose yes.

Rachel Conner, a friend of Kelly Edmiston, has been part of the Sugar Land Vineyard since 2001, and along with her husband Stephen, has been an active participant in the life and activities of the local church. She has served on the Senior Pastor’s Council and completed her Spiritual Director’s Training. She now serves as the Executive Pastor for the Sugar Land Vineyard Church, working with the pastoral staff and leading various discipleship efforts. In her spare time she enjoys the beach and spending time with family and friends. Kelly is here beginning a series of blog posts for Jesus Creed from women in ministry.

By Rachel Conner

I identify as an unashamedly 68– year- old African American female born in the south.  I also identify as an unapologetic Christ follower.  The church is MY place and the space where I have been shaped, formed and loved, while at the same time disrespected and put in my place. Yet, it was the place where my family and friends built a community that taught me the value of relationships, worship, prayer and the study of scripture.  In later years, it was also the place where I walked into being more than my 68 year old, African American female, raised in the south self.

My identity means I represent the intersectionality of race, gender and age.  When I write about intersectionality as it relates specifically to me, this is what I mean:

As an African American female, I have some disadvantages because I’m a woman and some disadvantages because I’m African American. (I will use African American and Black interchangeably.) But I also have some disadvantages specifically because I’m a black woman, which neither black men nor white women have to deal with.  That’s what intersectionality means…how race, gender and every other way to be disadvantaged interact with each other. This article does not deal with age.  It is only mentioned to highlight the historical racial timeline that I became of age in.

I want to share with you my experience growing up in the south as a black woman in an all black baptist church. I am from a long line of very accomplished and courageous men and women who were leaders in the community and the church. I want to be clear, I was raised in a two parent home which was not uncommon in our community.  My paternal grandmother called BS to black and white Catholics worshipping separately on Sunday mornings in our little town in Louisiana.  She was the single force behind the change that allowed Black worshippers to go through the front door of St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Cottonport, Louisiana in 1980. My maternal grandmother was busy making sure black children received a quality education. Black women were leaders in my black Baptist church.  I watched my mother lead women’s groups, missions, choir, the usher board, speak at conferences and do whatever God called her to in her time.  However, there was one space, she nor I could occupy….and that was speak from the pulpit to preach the message of hope in Christ Jesus.   Women had their place and I always overheard conversations referring to women as the “temptress” or worse, “Jezebel” who couldn’t be trusted with handling scripture from that prominent place reserved for “black men only.”  Therefore, my patriarchical society did not encourage me to live fully into my giftings that woud include being a pastor or preacher.  To go to seminary would mean to be trained as a missionary or evangelist, not to preach in the local church or pastor.

My brother passed away in February this year in Louisiana. To give the family eulogy, I did it from the front, but from a podium on the floor, off to the side.  I was not invited to do it from the pulpit even though I serve as an Executive Pastor in the Vineyard Church.  In some locales, in my experience in the black church, I am still treated as a female that has a place, and it’s not in the pulpit.  I have long since left the church of my heritage.  I realized early on that I was presented with a “female” way to serve the church and that did not include the pulpit. I had a dissident voice, without disrespect, that kept me at odds with my black church and the role of women who wanted to preach.  I did not believe that behind every great man was a great woman.  The operative word here being BEHIND. Unlike my grandmother, I walked away from the fight but not the faith or the church.

As God would have it, and the irony of that has not been lost on me, it was two white men who saw my potential for church leadership from the pulpit as well as organizationally, and invited me into my potential.  They did not give me permission, they invited me to participate using my special set of gifts to encourage the body of Christ.  Until this day though,  every time I step into the pulpit, for a brief moment, race and gender intersect and I feel am I where I do not belong.   And just as quickly, I remember that God has poured out his Spirit upon all people….and that includes my 68 year old, African American, female self in the pulpit!!

By Ruth Tucker

When I learned recently of John MacArthur’s criticism of the SBC, I immediately thought of Charles H. Spurgeon and the “Downgrade Controversy.” MacArthur, as was recently highlighted in a post on this blog, accused the SBC of losing its faith in biblical authority. The denomination, by MacArthur’s account, had taken a “headlong plunge” toward women preachers: “When you literally overturn the teaching of Scripture to empower people who want power, you have given up biblical authority.”

MacArthur himself is not above criticism. But hands off Spurgeon. If Amy Carmichael is the Protestant Virgin Mary (as I suggested in a recent post), Spurgeon is the 7-point Calvinist’s Apostle Paul. They all praise him sky high. John Piper simply gushes. Mark Driscoll says he was “arguably the greatest Bible preacher outside of Scripture.” Al Mohler delivered the second annual Spurgeon lecture, “God’s Lion in London” in 2014, at Reformed Theological Seminary, Orlando. The previous year MacArthur presented the first address at the Midwestern Seminary inaugural Spurgeon Lectureship where he maintained that during the Downgrade Controversy, “Spurgeon’s defense of the truth and concern for integrity follow the pattern set by Paul in dealing with his opponents in Corinth.” And for all the rest of us, we can always go out and purchase a leather-bound KJV Spurgeon Study Bible—only $53.65, Amazon Prime.

Spurgeon, like MacArthur, cited fellow Baptists for giving up biblical authority, particularly on issues related to his staunch Calvinism. “Arminian perversions,” he railed, will “sink back to their birthplace in the pit.” The belief that a person could lose salvation was “the wickedest falsehood on earth.” MacArthur’s focus has been most recently on women’s ministry. His two words for Beth Moore were: “Go home”—where she belongs.

It was harsh, but MacArthur, as he writes of Spurgeon, “could no longer refrain from criticizing the church’s alarming departure from sound doctrine and practice.” Spurgeon, like Paul, faced opposition from those who “hated the gospel,” those in the Baptist Union—the same kind of dangerous opponents MacArthur encounters among Southern Baptists. Spurgeon had a “godly conscience,” and was waging “a battle for doctrinal purity”—just like MacArthur himself. It was a battle for the Bible, a battle for Truth.

Charles Haddon Spurgeon (1834-1892) was London’s most celebrated megachurch minister of his day. The son and grandson of independent nonconformist ministers, he had a mediocre childhood education. The first-rate studies available to Anglicans were not accessible to him, nor did he have the desire or mentality for such an education. He often told of the simple sermon from Isaiah 45 (“Look unto me and be ye saved”) that led to his conversion as a teenager: “Well, a man needn’t go to college to learn to look. . . You may be a fool and yet you can look. . . but if you obey now, this moment you may be saved.” He began preaching shortly after this, and his reputation as a mesmerizing speaker spread quickly. At eighteen he was a pastoral candidate at the prestigious New Park Street Chapel. After listing to boring sermons from other candidates, the congregation chose him.

In 1861, still in his twenties, his congregation moved to the new Metropolitan Tabernacle. Here his preaching ministry continued to thrive. He paced the platform and turned biblical figures into real life heroes or villains. He was the best show in town, and crowds lined up early to get good seats.

Fifteen years ago, John and I made a quick visit on a weekday afternoon to the Metropolitan Tabernacle while we were in London. I particularly recall coming up to the grand stairway entrance and finding it blocked by a temporary metal pipe fence. Very few people were around and we found our way to a locked back door where we rang a bell and were buzzed in. We spent a short time browsing the shelves of a good-sized bookstore, finding nothing besides writings either by or about Spurgeon. The main auditorium had burned twice since Spurgeon’s day and had been significantly downsized. We left with the feeling that we’d visited an empty museum—a dry-bones skeleton of megachurch entertainment of a bygone era. After an era of a small dwindling congregation, numbers seem to have grown in recent years, though still a barebones ministry.

Spurgeon no doubt had an engaging style. But he was also an authoritarian leader. Once in power, no one overruled his decisions. This was true amidst the “Down-Grade Controversy” of 1887-1888 when he, under the name of an associate, accused fellow Baptist ministers of “down grading” the faith. His own astonishing claims soon followed in his monthly magazine, The Sword and the Trowel, warning that the matter required spiritual warfare. Though failing to name names he insisted that pastors and churches connected with the Baptist Union were denying Christ’s sacrificial atonement, the inspiration of Scripture and justification by faith.

The solution was separation from those who denied the pure doctrine. Although he was essentially a lone ranger, he wielded power due to his popularity, his name recognition and church size. His accusations, according to an observer, “landed like a bombshell,” sending “shockwaves” among Baptists and far beyond, leaving lasting scars among Evangelicals. Even some of those who had studied at his preachers’ college were stunned by his accusations.

He was a schismatic who had simply carried his fight too far in his conviction that the heresy was bubbling up right under the surface: “How much farther could they go?,” he demanded. “What doctrine remains to be abandoned? What other truth to be the object of contempt? A new religion has been initiated, which is no more Christianity than chalk is cheese. . . . Avowed atheists are not a tenth as dangerous as those preachers who scatter doubt and stab at faith.”

Okay, Mr. Spurgeon, name these preachers. Quote them on their heresies. He had no answer. He didn’t have to. He was pompous—the Baptist Pope, some called him. He accused fellow Baptist pastors of not preaching enough gospel to save a cat. Actually, that was a clever line. I sometimes used it to rouse an otherwise distracted seminary student with this question: How much gospel does it take to save a cat? It served to liven up the student—and the rest of the class. Well, Mr. Spurgeon, how much does it take?

Late in 1887, Spurgeon announced his disassociation with the Baptist Union, and some months later the Union Council voted 95 to 5 to accept it. Spurgeon had been convinced that he would win the battle. He was popular and how could the Union go on without him? But at the end of the day, nobody won. Spurgeon had struggled with physical ailments and depression, now even more so as his preaching and reputation suffered during the final four years of his life. It was this “fight for the faith,” his wife Susannah declared, that “cost him his life.”

But in the generations since his death, Spurgeon’s name has risen higher than any other in the minds of ministers who believe that they like him must send out the alarm of heresy in the church. The issues are different, but the players—mostly megachurch pastors and seminary presidents—are similar. Thus, Beth Moore, just “Go home!” And to unnamed members of the Baptist Union, just get out!

One of the reasons that Spurgeon became so popular in the years after his death and since, was, interestingly, the power of a woman—the invalid Susannah Spurgeon. Years before he died, she had started a book and sermon fund. Church members gave liberally, and soon his books and other writings were sent to pastors all over the UK and far beyond. What she established is in some ways reminiscent of what Mark Driscoll did with his books in an effort to turn them into bestsellers. His efforts, however, were thoroughly dishonest and the whole scheme backfired. Susannah Spurgeon’s efforts did not. Her work during his lifetime and in the years after his death would do wonders into turning him into one of the most celebrated and influential preachers of all times.

By Kelly Edmiston

As a young girl, I was in trouble for my “smart mouth” a lot at home. I was disciplined often for talking back or being sassy. While I don’t judge or fault my parents for doing this (I believe that many well-intentioned parents are doing the best they can with what they know), these circumstances, and others, led me to believe that what I had to say was wrong, rebellious and deserving of discipline. Hold your tongue, I learned. If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all, was the mantra I learned to abide by as I grew up. This “children were meant to be seen and not heard” message that I learned as a child was more than just parental and cultural conditioning. It became paradigmatic for how I viewed all of life, most significantly how I viewed the church and faith. I grew up in a denomination where the highest levels of authority, including preaching and worship leading, were reserved strictly for men. I never heard the voice of a woman proclaiming the gospel or leading the congregation in worship.

As a young woman, my first job in ministry was in the same patriarchal denomination that I was raised in. Holding back my voice and not saying what I wanted to say was a stipulation for keeping my job. Any time I wanted to say anything about any given topic, I would carefully consider and weigh each word. My goal was to take every emotion out of my words and not come across as needy or sensitive or female. In my desire to fit in and be a part of my own community, I was complicit in a system set on silencing me.

A couple of years ago, I was invited to preach in chapel at my Alma Mater. It was an arena full of thousands of college students and I was preaching on a topic that I am the most passionate about, spiritual formation. The sermon was supposed to be autobiographical in nature. I was supposed to tell my story about my life with God, in twenty minutes of course. Once the sermon was over, I sent the recording to a preacher who I greatly admired. I asked him to watch my sermon and give me feedback. I had never done this before in such an official way and I was really nervous about what he would say. I had not received any formal training as a preacher. Even though I had an M.Div and lots of experience preaching, I had never taken a preaching course. I was, in the most practical of ways, self-taught. I read books, I watched sermons and I would ask for help occasionally when it felt safe. This man seemed to be safe.

He accepted my request and asked if we could set up a phone call. He started with “Kelly, you’ve got it. Like, all of it. All that it takes to preach. The gift, the x-factor. You’re the bomb.” It used to be cool to talk like that. I laughed a nervous laugh of relief. But he went on. “As I watch you, however, I am confused. You preach like Ruth Haley Barton. But you sound like (and look like) Beth Moore. So who do you want to be?” The words of my sermon were written to be upbeat and funny and lively. But my presentation of my words was subdued and held back. I was attached to the podium, he noticed. My voice didn’t inflect much. And I robotically engaged the audience. My sermon lacked warmth and energy. Two things that are core parts of my personality. This preacher who I greatly admired was telling me that there was a disconnect between my words and my presentation. He was asking me about my “voice.” The truth was that I didn’t have a voice. Somewhere along the way, I lost it.

Nancy Lammers Gross asks the question of women, “When did you lose your voice?”[1]

By “Voice” she is referring to more than the physical act of speaking, although this is included. By “Voice,” she is referring to a woman’s ability to speak out of her most authentic self, without filtering, without hindrance, without questioning her own validity or call to speak.

Many women identify with this experience of losing their voice, even those in egalitarian contexts. Women have been conditioned to speak quietly, to hold back emotion and to inflect at the end of our statements, subtly asking for permission. We struggle to take up space when in front of a group or in a pulpit. Our posture, tone of voice and presentation consistently lacks authority.

My upbringing and my denomination of origin were two key pieces in the loss of my Voice. Today and in my current ministry context, I am on a search to find it. My boss asked me recently if I would preach in a couple of weeks. We started brainstorming topics and he suggested, “Why don’t you preach on the Kingdom of God and Women?” I laughed out loud. “Really?” I said. “Yea,” he said.

I think that this sermon may be a mile-marker on this journey to find my Voice.

[1] Nancy Lammers Gross, Women’s Voices and the Practice of Preaching (Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2017). She refers to this question throughout her book.

Glenn Kreider is professor of theological studies at Dallas Theological Seminary. He also serves as the editor of Bibliotheca Sacra. Among other things, he has written God with Us. Michael Svigel is the chair and professor of theological studies at Dallas Theological Seminary. Svigel has authored Retro Christianity.

The following interview revolves around A Practical Primer on Theological Method which Kreider and Svigel co-authored.

The interview was conducted by David George Moore. Some of Dave’s interviews and teaching videos can be accessed at www.mooreengaging.com.

Full Disclosure: Glenn and Michael asked for my input on their book. I was glad to offer it and obviously commend their work, thus this interview!

Moore: There are various books available on theological method. Why write another one?

Kreider and Svigel: In the past couple of decades, there has been increasing interest in theological method by evangelicals. But in our years of teaching systematic and historical theology we’ve noticed that our students need some specific and concrete discussion of how to do theology. They need a primer—something written at an introductory level that anybody could pick up and put to use right away. We also wanted to present what we call an “integrative theological method in the classic Christian tradition.” We didn’t want to just say in simpler words what others have been saying in more complicated jargon. While our primary concern was to introduce “newbies” to the task of theology, we also wanted to make a real contribution to the guild. So, even advanced students and professional theologians will get a lot out of this introduction.

Moore: When one hears “theological” and “method” juxtaposed it is easy to conclude it must be boring, irrelevant, and so who in the world should care? So, why should we care about theological method?

Kreider and Svigel: Theological method is not like the methods in so many other disciplines. We expect our medical practitioners to know what they are doing when the remove our wisdom teeth, prescribe medicine to treat an infection, or perform surgery, for example. But theology—discourse concerning God, his works, and his ways—is the purview of all Christians. In short, we believe everyone is a theologian; everyone thinks about God and responds in some way. Those whose lives have been changed by the gospel are drawn to know the God who saved us: faith seeking understanding. We envision a method where theology is done in community, illustrated in the book as a diverse group of people sitting around a table interacting with each other from their unique perspectives, focusing on the ways God has revealed himself. According to the Scripture, he has revealed himself in words, especially Scripture, the world created and sustained by the triune God, and supremely in the person and work of Jesus Christ. We call these three cords of revelation the Word to the World, the World of the Word, and the Word in the World.

Moore: I don’t want to suggest that co-authorship is like marriage, so I’ll say it is marriage-esque. Were there any particular challenges you found in doing this book together?

Kreider and Svigel: We wrote the book together, by which we mean that each of us worked on a single document, adding content, deleting some, editing each other’s words. When we read the final product, it’s sometimes hard for us to tell who wrote which words. In many cases, we literally completed each other’s sentences. After an initial first draft (which was completed very early in the life of the project), we sent it out for feedback from colleagues—men and women from various disciplines and theological traditions. Then we actually made substantive changes to the manuscript based on the invaluable input of over two dozen people. We’ve never done a book project quite like this. It wasn’t easy, but it was fun. The process of writing and revising the book was itself an exercise in the integrative, dialogical theological method we describe.

Moore: Would you give us an idea of how “theological method” finds differences across the three Christian traditions: Roman Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox?

Kreider and Svigel: One key difference is the role of Scripture and authority. The Protestant doctrine of sola Scriptura affirms that Scripture is the only inerrant, verbally inspired revelation that exists today. It is the norming norm, no external authority stands in judgment over it. Thus, neither the decrees of a magisterium nor the writings of the Fathers have final authority. Scripture does. While classic Protestant theological method certainly draws on a variety of sources and resources in the believer’s discourse concerning God, his works, and his ways, as conservative Protestants, we confess the centrality of Scripture in theological method. Scripture isn’t the only means God has chosen to graciously reveal himself to humanity. However, most doctrinal and practical questions that concern Christian theology are most directly addressed in Scripture. We believe this Protestant attention to the words of Scripture prevents harmful theological innovation and doctrinal deviation.

Moore: Should local churches be talking about and equipping folks on theological method or is this something that only finds its rightful domain in the seminary?

Kreider and Svigel: We are convinced that churches should not merely be more intentional about teaching biblical content, they should be teaching people how to read the Bible, how to understand the insights of the Christian tradition, how to respond and interact with the cultural concerns of the day, and to recognize the insights of other disciplines. Biblical and theology teaching has often been separated and isolated from the arts, ministry, science, history, life experience, etc. When faced with questions or quandaries not directly addressed in Scripture, many average church-going Christians lack the tools to engage in a careful, critical integration of the various sources of truth available to believers who want to submit to the Lordship of Christ in the twenty-first century. This means learning from Scripture itself how to think theologically. And it means drawing on 2000 years of believers who have engaged in the same pursuit. To face the challenges of the present day, we desperately need to know how to faithfully draw on the truth revealed in what God has said, what God has created, and what God has done—and continues to do—through the Lord Jesus Christ. This primer was written as a very simple, practical, and readable handbook for the church, not just the “theologian.”

Moore: Would you guys each share an unlikely figure that has taught you some significant things about theological method? Since “all truths are God’s truths,” I’m thinking of non-theological figures like Freud and Nietzsche or theological figures like Tillich and Schleiermacher.

Kreider and Svigel: Some of my (Kreider) most influential figures, which some might think unlikely, have been artists, especially songwriters. I love when reading the Bible changes the way I view God or his work in the world. That happens regularly. And also love when a songwriter helps me to see in the Scripture what I had not seen, or to see God’s activity in the world in a new way, or to find ways to express the truth in a metaphor I had not considered previously. Students have heard me say often, a good lyricist can say in a few words what it takes me paragraphs to say. My list of such songwriters is long but it includes Andrew Peterson, Derek Webb, Jon Foreman, Brandi Carlile, and Bono.

And I (Svigel) have been deeply influenced by figures from church history—particularly Irenaeus of Lyons, Athanasius of Alexandria, Augustine of Hippo, Thomas Aquinas, and John Calvin. Of course, these are all low-hanging fruit for theologians. It may surprise people that I’ve also been provoked and inspired by several non-theologians like the British Catholic novelist Graham Greene, the Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winning artist Bob Dylan, and even secular sci-fi authors like Asimov, Heinlein, Herbert, and Bradbury. But you asked for just one figure, so I’ll have to say Glenn Kreider probably provoked my thinking on theological method more than anybody else.

Moore: What are two or three things you hope your readers will take away from your book?

Kreider and Svigel: A renewed and growing love for Jesus Christ—that’s number one. Second, a confidence that they can join the conversation at the table of theological discourse concerning God, his works, and his ways, even if they begin by simply sitting and listening. Third, we want to ignite a passion to know God better, to serve him more faithfully, and to love others as Christ loves us.