A Year of Biblical Womanhood

by Rachel Held Evans

  As far back as the fourth century BC, philosophers considered the household to be a microcosm, designed to reflect the hierarchal structure of the society, the gods, and ultimately the universe. Aristotle wrote that “the smallest and primary parts of the household are master and slave, husband and wife, father and children.” First-century philosophers Philo and Josephus included the household codes in their writings as well, arguing that a man’s authority over his household was critical to the success of a society. Many Roman officials believed the household codes to be such an important part of Pax Romana that they passed laws ensuring its protection.

  Biblical passages about wives submitting to their husbands are not, as many Christians assume, rooted in a culture epitomized by June Cleaver’s kitchen, but in a culture epitomized by the Greco-Roman household codes, which gave men unilateral authority over their wives, slaves, and children.

  As Sharyn Dowd has observed, the apostles “advocated this system not because God had revealed it as the divine will for Christian homes, but because it was the only stable and respectable system anyone knew about. It was the best the culture had to offer.”21

  However, the household codes found in the epistles differ significantly from the household codes found in the pagan literature of the day. In a sense, they present us with a sort of Christian remix of Greco-Roman morality that attempts to preserve the apostle Paul’s earlier teaching that “there is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28 UDPATED NIV).

  Where typical Greco-Roman household codes required nothing of the head of household regarding fair treatment of subordinates, Peter and Paul encouraged men to be kind to their slaves, to be gentle with their children, and, shockingly, to love their wives as they love themselves. Furthermore, the Christian versions of the household codes are the only ones that speak directly to the less powerful members of the household—the slaves, wives, and children—probably because the church at the time consisted of just such powerless people.

  To dignify their positions, Peter linked the sufferings of slaves to the suffering of Christ and likened the obedience of women to the obedience of Sarah (1 Peter 2:18–25; 3:1–6). Paul encourages slaves and women to submit the head of the household as “unto the Lord,” reminding both slaves and their masters that they share a heavenly Master who shows no partiality in bestowing eternal inheritance (Ephesians 5:22; 6:5).

  “When addressing those without power,” notes Peter H. Davids, the apostle Peter “does not call for revolution, but upholds the values of the culture insofar as they do not conflict with commitment to Christ. He then reframes their behavior by removing it from the realm of necessity and giving it a dignity, either that of identification with Christ or of identification with the ‘holy women’ of Jewish antiquity.”22

  In fact, if you look close enough, you can detect the rumblings of subversion beneath the seemingly acquiescent text. It is no accident that Peter introduced his version of the household codes with a riddle—“Live as free people, but do not use your freedom as a cover-up for evil; live as God’s slaves” (1 Peter 2:16 UPDATED NIV)—or that Paul began his with the general admonition that Christians are to “submit to one another out of reverence for Christ” (Ephesians 5:21; emphasis added). It is hard for us to recognize it now, but Peter and Paul were introducing the first Christian family to an entirely new community, a community that transcends the rigid hierarchy of human institutions, a community in which submission is mutual and all are free.

  The question modern readers have to answer is whether the Greco-Roman household codes reflected upon in Ephesians, Colossians, and 1 Peter are in and of themselves holy, or if their appearance in Scripture represents the early church’s attempt to blend Christianity and culture in such a way that it would preserve the dignity of adherents while honoring prevailing social and legal norms of the day. The Christian versions of the household codes were clearly progressive for their time, but does that mean they have the last word, that Christians in changing places and times cannot progress further?

  It is the question that divided Christians during the Civil War, and it is the question that divides those in favor of the hierarchalbased gender roles and those who believe that the best kind of submission is that which is mutual.

  For Christians, the answer must be considered in light of Jesus, who made a habit of turning hierarchy on its head.

  When his disciples argued among themselves about who would be greatest in the kingdom, Jesus told them that “anyone who wants to be first must be the very last, and the servant of all” (Mark 9:35 UPDATED NIV).

  In speaking to them about authority he said, “You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their high officials exercise authority over them. Not so with you. Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be your slave—just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Matthew 20:25–28).

  This aspect of Jesus’ legacy profoundly affected relationships in the early church, to whom Paul wrote: “In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death—even death on a cross!” (Philippians 2:5–8 UPDATED NIV).

  In the biblical narrative, hierarchy enters human relationship as part of the curse, and begins with man’s oppression of women—“your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you” (Genesis 3:16). But with Christ, hierarchal relationships are exposed for the sham that they are, as the last are made first, the first are made last, the poor are blessed, the meek inherit the earth, and the God of the universe takes the form of a slave.

  Women should not have to pry equality from the grip of Christian men. It should be surrendered willingly, with the humility and love of Jesus, or else we miss the once radical teaching that slaves and masters, parents and children, husbands and wives, rich and poor, healthy and sick, should “submit to one another” (Ephesians 5:21).

  This sort of mutual submission worked best in our marriage long before we knew what to call it.

  That’s because I don’t respect Dan because he is a man. I respect Dan because when one of his friends moves, he’s the first to show up with his Explorer to help. I respect him because he’s the kind of guy who treats everyone with the same level of dignity, from his clients to the clerk behind the checkout counter. I respect Dan because he’ll come right out and say, “That’s not funny” when someone makes a racist or homophobic joke. I respect him because he likes to do things right the first time, even when no one is watching. I respect Dan because he has spent countless Saturday afternoons at my parents’ house, planting bushes and installing showerheads and fixing the computer.

  I respect him because I’ve seen him cry on behalf of his friends. I respect Dan because he is smart enough to win just about any argument, but that doesn’t mean he always does. I respect him because he gets as excited over someone else’s success as he gets over his own. I respect Dan because he taught himself how to play guitar and design Web sites and invest in real estate. I respect Dan because he doesn’t take himself too seriously, and he’s never afraid to admit when he is wrong. I respect Dan because he has more integrity than any person I’ve ever known. And I respect Dan because he has never once in our marriage demanded my submission.

  I don’t respect my husband because he is the man and I am the woman, and it’s my “place” to submit to him. I respect Dan because he is a good person, and because he has made me a better person too.

  This is grace. And for us, it goes both ways.

  TABITHA, THE DISCIPLE

  Religion that God our Father accepts as
pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.

  —JAMES 1:27

  As in modern times, women in the ancient world tended to outlive their husbands, especially in times of war. While women of high rank occasionally received financial settlements from their husbands’ estates, most became the responsibility of a son, a father-in-law, or a brother-in-law. When the financial burden of another woman in the household was too much for her family to bear, or when no such relations existed, a widow would often slip into poverty. Some became wards of the temple complex, working alongside elderly slave women at menial tasks. Others begged. Still others sold themselves or their children into debt slavery, or succumbed to the lifestyle of a prostitute in order to survive.

  In a patriarchal culture, a woman without the financial and physical protection of a man was especially vulnerable to violence and exploitation, so the Mosaic Law consistently demands their protection, often grouping widows with other vulnerable members of society—particularly orphans and aliens. “The fatherless, widows, and foreigners,” John F. Alexander observed, “each have about forty verses that command justice for them.”23 Israel’s neglect of the rights of orphans and widows was a chief concern of the Old Testament prophets, and Jesus himself issued a scathing indictment of first-century religious leaders who “devour widows’ houses and for a show make lengthy prayers” (Mark 12:40).

  Members of the early church sought to rectify such abuses, so widows flocked to Christianity en masse, so much so that the pagan Celsus criticized Christianity as a pathetic religion of slaves, women, and children.24 Large portions of the Pastoral Epistles concern themselves with the mounting logistical challenges of caring for so many Christian widows, and the Roman bishop Cornelius noted that by AD 253, the church in Rome supported fifteen hundred of them.

  A stalwart force in the first-century effort to restore the dignity of widows was a woman named Tabitha.25 Likely a widow herself, but with means, Tabitha lived in the port city of Joppa at the time when Peter and Paul were busy spreading the gospel throughout Asia Minor. She was a renowned philanthropist, known throughout the land for “always doing good and helping the poor” (Acts 9:36). She was also a master seamstress, making robes and other clothing for the many widows in her care, presumably imparting on them the skills of the trade.

  The biblical story of Tabitha begins with her death.

  When first we hear of her in Luke’s book of Acts, she has succumbed to an illness, her body washed and prepared for burial. So critical was Tabitha’s ministry to the early church that Peter himself was summoned to her bedside, and when he arrived, he found widows from all across Joppa weeping together in Tabitha’s home. They showed him all the clothes she had made for them.

  Peter sent everyone out of the room and fell on his knees to pray. Apparently, God agreed that Tabitha was indeed indispensable, for Peter turned toward the body and said, “Tabitha, get up” (V. 40).

  Tabitha opened her eyes and sat up. Peter took her by the hand and helped her to her feet. Then he called for the widows, who ran into the room to find Tabitha alive. It is one of just two resurrection stories in the book of Acts.

  To Tabitha belongs the worthy distinction of being the only woman in the New Testament identified with the feminine form of the word “disciple”—mathetria. The word literally means “pupil,” or “apprentice,” which may suggest that at some point, Tabitha studied directly under Jesus. Regardless, she must have embodied what Jesus had in mind when he told his followers to make “disciples of every nation” (Matthew 28:19), particularly in her love for those whom her Teacher called “the least of these” (25:45).

  July: Justice

  * * *

  Eat More Guinea Pig

  She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy.

  —PROVERBS 31:20

  TO DO THIS MONTH:

  □ Switch to fair trade products, especially with coffee and chocolate (Isaiah 58:9–12, Malachi 3:5, James 5:4–5)

  □ Start recycling (Genesis 2:15)

  □ Read Half the Sky by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn, and become a better advocate for the equality and empowerment of women worldwide (Zechariah 7:9–10; James 1:27)

  □ Travel to Bolivia with World Vision (Proverbs 31:20; James 1:27)

  There is an old Jewish folktale about a man who went out into the world in search of true justice. Somewhere, he believed, a just society must exist, and he would not stop until he found it. His quest lasted many years and took him to many faraway places. He traveled from city to city, village to village, countryside to countryside, seeking justice like a lost treasure, until he had reached the end of the known world.

  There, at the edge of the known world, lay a vast, mysterious forest. Determined to continue his quest until justice was found, the man bravely crossed over into the shadows. He searched in the caves of thieves and the huts of witches, where the gruesome inhabitants laughed and scorned him, saying, “Do you really expect to find justice here?”

  Undeterred, the man wandered deeper and deeper into the woods, until at last he came upon a small cottage. Through the windows, he spied the warm glow of candles.

  Perhaps I will find justice here, he thought to himself.

  He knocked at the door, but no one answered. He knocked again, but all was silent. Curious, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  The moment he entered the cottage, the man realized that it was enchanted, for it expanded in size to become much bigger on the inside than it appeared on the outside. His eyes widened as he realized the cavernous expanse was filled with hundreds of shelves, holding thousands upon thousands of oil candles. Some of the candles sat in fine holders of marble and gold, while others sat in holders of clay or tin. Some were filled with oil so that the flames burned as brightly as the stars, while others had little oil left, and were beginning to grow dim.

  The man felt a hand on his shoulder.

  He turned to find an old man with a long, white beard, wearing a white robe, standing beside him.

  “Shalom aleikhem, my son,” the old man said. “Peace be upon you.”

  “Aleikhem shalom,” the startled traveler responded.

  “How can I help you?” the old man asked.

  “I have traveled the world searching for justice,” he said, “but never have I encountered a place like this. Tell me, what are all these candles for?”

  The old man replied, “Each of these candles is a person’s soul. As long as a person’s candle burns, he or she remains alive. But when a person’s candle burns out, the soul is taken away to leave this world.”

  “Can you show me the candle of my soul?” the man asked.

  “Follow me,” the old man replied, leading his guest through a labyrinth of rooms and shelves, passing row after row of candles.

  After what seemed like a long time, they reached a small shelf that held a candle in a holder of clay.

  “That is the candle of your soul,” the old man said.

  Immediately a wave of fear rushed over the traveler, for the wick of the candle was short and the oil nearly dry. Was his life almost over? Did he have but moments to live?

  He then noticed that the candle next to his had a long wick and a tin holder filled with oil. The flame burned brightly, like it could go on forever.

  “Whose candle is that?” he asked.

  But the old man had disappeared.

  The traveler stood there trembling, terrified that his life might be cut short before he found justice. He heard a sputtering sound and saw smoke rising from a higher shelf, signaling the death of someone else somewhere in the world. He looked at his own diminishing candle and then back at the candle next to his, burning so steady and bright. The old man was nowhere to be seen.

  So the man picked up the brightly burning candle and lifted it above his own, ready to pour the oil from one holder to another.

  Suddenly, he felt a
strong grip on his arm.

  “Is this the kind of justice you are seeking?” the old man asked.

  The traveler closed his eyes in pain and when he opened them, the cottage and the candles and the old man had all vanished. He stood in the dark forest alone. It is said that he could hear the trees whispering his fate.

  He had searched for justice in the great wide world but never within himself.

  Judaism has no word for “charity.”

  Instead the Jews speak of tzedakah, which means “ justice” or “righteousness.”

  While the word charity connotes a single act of giving, justice speaks to right living, of aligning oneself with the world in a way that sustains rather than exploits the rest of creation. Justice is not a gift; it’s a lifestyle, a commitment to the Jewish concept of tikkun olam—“repairing the world.”

  “What does the Lord require of you?” wrote the prophet Micah. “To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8).

  “Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen,” God asks through Isaiah, “to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free? . . . Is it not to share your food with the hungry, and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter?” (Isaiah 58:6–7).

  “Administer true justice,” says Zechariah 7. “Show mercy and compassion to one another. Do not oppress the widow or the fatherless, the alien or the poor” (VV. 9–10).

  “Let justice roll down like waters,” declares Amos, “and righteousness like an everflowing stream” (5:24 ESV).

  Committed to these central Jewish teachings, Jesus spent the majority of his ministry among the poor, sick, and oppressed, and taught that “whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me ” (Matthew 25:40). The early church followed suit and did such a good job caring for the poor that Julian the Apostate noted with some chagrin that “the godless Galileans [Christians] feed not only their poor but ours also.” According to Luke, “there was not a needy person among them, for as many as were possessors of lands or houses sold them . . . and distribution was made to each as any had need” (Acts 4:34–35 RSV).