My Body
The red is deep in color. It sinks into the layers of skin on my lips finding home within each crease. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve been drawn to lipstick. When I was seven I would sneak into my grandmother's top drawer to find a tube of deep red magenta that smelled like a fresh box of crayons. The golden tube rested in my palm like a hidden secret. I’d hold the mystery up to the light peering in through her bedroom window twisting the bottom espousing a perfect angled point —it had rarely been used --which made me want to use it all the more.
One day, I bravely wiped the tube across my lips. I stood on my tiptoes so I could peer into the mirror above the dresser. There I was, in my seven-year-old body with red lips looking more like a clown than a cover girl, but I was free and I was happy. It was one of the last times I was at home in my body.
The years that would follow would teach me many rules about this body of mine.
It was a Sunday-- I was a 20-something-year-old pastor--the sun caught my dress at just the right angle while I served greeting guests. I was oblivious that you could see the outline of my underwear. Later that afternoon --I was driving to pick up tacos for friends when my phone rang. On the other end a woman’s angry voice. She asked if I had purposely stood in the rays of the sun so men could gaze. Speechless, I uttered a ‘no’ and ‘I’m sorry’. She quickly changed the subject and even made a few jokes. I hung up the phone disoriented and started to cry. It seems that if we are not attacking our own bodies other women will do it for us. Somehow, even against my best judgment, this felt like my fault. Of course, I knew how blatantly ignorant the accusation was. But, as a woman, it feels like you always have so much to lose. And power-dynamics are no joke. You pick your battles.
As I brushed away tears my mind rushed back to another event that had happened several years prior. While wiping ash across an elderly man’s forehead during an Ash Wednesday service he leaned in and asked for my number. Time slowed and I felt frozen as fifty more people came to receive ashen crosses. “From dust you came to dust you’ll return” - my mouth muttered. But, my mind sputtered on a different phrase the rest of the service. “I shouldn’t have worn this red blouse and heels.”
As I’ve led in various arena’s the past decade I’ve found it is not my intellect that often gets in the way. Nor always my leadership or gifting. What seems most obtrusive is this body of mine. Hips I can’t hide and breasts I can’t push down in boardrooms.
Transparently, I’ve never felt my body more objectified than when in leadership in the walls of the Church. I wish the stories above are rare, but they are not. Not for me, and not for women who find themselves leading. So much so, I have a running document of stories that women clergy and I have shared with each other. We could write a book at this point. There are many ‘hidden’ and not so hidden rules we’ve learned to abide by in order to lead.
Hear me, boundaries are great and you gotta’ know what is healthy for you. But-- rules based on fear instead of honor only shame.
These rules are meant to push away sexuality —ironically only bringing it front and center. My body was no longer mine now that everyone had a part in “stewarding” it. For those not privy to this weird lil’ world of rules here are a few:
Men couldn’t ride in a car alone with me (even for a mile down the road to our next meeting) - lest we are tempted.
I was taught to befriend every spouse (which typically they are rad and I adore them so hear me out) so I am not seen as a threat. I’ve never seen a man on my team put in as much effort vice-versa.
What I choose to wear to important meetings/events will always be brought up. Always.
For those that recently grew up in conservative evangelical Christianity, you were more than likely taught to suppress your sexuality because it’s inherently shameful. So, when a woman’s body is defined as being solely sexual--- well it’s no wonder half the Church has remained suppressed and felt ashamed.
There is so much in the above sentences I’d love to explore more with each of you. You see, I don’t think it’s often the blatant “women can’t preach” men of this world that are the true criminals of the patriarchy. It’s in the nuances. It’s hidden rules and how we view each other’s bodies. And, thankfully, I learned quickly that despite power dynamics I have nothing to lose when speaking out. What’s been lost wasn’t worth keeping anyway.
Lately, I’ve found myself wondering what it would look like to lead out of the fullness of ourselves and our bodies. Have you ever met a woman at home in her body? It’s subversively powerful. This is why I weep whenever I read Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou. To be so free in your body. For motives to not be questioned. To be a complete human mind, soul, AND body is foreign. That said [major disclaimer] I have no understanding of what it means to be an embodied black woman. Not at all. But the power I’ve seen emanated from my sisters of color in regards to owning their bodies has been nothing short of inspiring.
Here’s the poem if you’ve never read it:
"Phenomenal Woman" by Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
I’m still drawn to wearing my red lipstick -- a small gesture of resilience. It says what I don’t always have room to say:
You can’t own these lips.
You can’t quench this fire.
You can’t tell me to bow down to your patriarchal rules that demean this body.
My body -that houses the Holy Spirit.
My body made in the imago dei- the image of God
This is my body.
You won’t convince me otherwise.
I’ll make the room
for this body of mine.
It is called good.
And I’ll help you
see that yours is good too.
And so --I’m practicing inviting my whole body into every space and room and my red lips sometimes serve as a reminder. Who knew lipstick would be my liberation all those years ago? Well that, and the Gospel that pours forth out of these red lips of mine.