“We finally got you.” That’s what an Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agent reportedly told immigration rights activist Jeanette Vizguerra when they arrested her on March 17, according to a New York Times report. She was on her lunch break at Target, and the incident sent her legal team and family scrambling.
According to the report, her family said, “There is no reason to target her. Nothing has changed in her case except the administration. It’s clear to us now that the government of our country is targeting our mom in violation of her rights and due process, for her bravery and courage, for her leadership and skill, for her speech.”
Women’s bodies aren’t battlefields, but governments treat them as collateral damage. Arrested. Deported. Exiled. Stoned. Starved. Lynched. Burned alive in Gaza holding their children. The powerful call this behavior policy but we know it’s sin.
I love the ways women have shaped my story. Like Paulette L. Williams, who was born in 1948 in Trenton, New Jersey. She changed her name in 1971 to Ntozake, meaning “she who has her own things” in Xhosa, and Shange, meaning “she who walks with lions” in Zulu, to show her pride in her African heritage. My preaching professor at Princeton Theological Seminary let me produce her Obie Award winning choreoplay, ”for colored girls who considered suicide/ when the rainbow is enuf,” for class credit.
For me, this work is sacred text. My favorite poem from the piece is “a laying on of hands.”
i waz missin somethin
somethin so important
somethin promised
a laying on of hands
fingers near my forehead
strong
cool
moving
makin me whole
sense pure
all the gods coming into me
laying me open to myself
i waz missin somethin
somethin promised
somethin free
a laying on of hands
i know bout/laying on bodies/laying outta man
bringin him all of my fleshy self & some of my pleasure
being taken full eager wet like i get sometimes
i waz missing somethin
a laying on of hands
not a man
laying on
not my mama laying/holdin me tight/sayin
i’m always gonna be her girl
not a laying on of bosom and womb
a laying on of hands
the holiness of myself released
i sat up one nite walking a boardin house
screamin/cryin/the ghost of another woman
who waz missin what i was missin
i wanted to jump up outta my bones
& be done with myself
leave me alone
& go on in the wind
it was too much
i fell into a numbness
til the only tree i cd see
took me up in her branches
held me in her breeze
made me dawn dew
that chill at daybreak
the sun wrapped me up swingin rose light everywhere
the sky laid over me like a million men
i waz cold/i waz burnin up/a child
& endlessly weavin garments for the moon
wit my tears
i found god in myself
& i loved her/i loved her fiercely
That last strophe? Everything! Sacred!!
My sacred texts include the story of Hagar, who saw and named God, The God Who Sees. Shiphrah and Puah defied Pharoah, and Mary birthed a revolution. The Magdalene preached the very first sermon about Jesus.
Our sacred stories also include Harriet, who never lost a passenger as she brought folks to freedom.
And Mary who kicked lynching in the teeth.
And Fannie who reminded us that no one is free until everyone is free.
And Ruby who asked us where it hurts and helped us heal.
And Genesis who had the moral courage to call us to care for people, not, things.
And Aunjanue who, along with Genesis, got that confederate flag down in Mississippi.
And Karen, whose art and activism tell new stories.
And Shari who boldly told the story of Black suffragists.
And Dawn, Erica, Fabienne, and Jamia, who make sure literature shifts the atmosphere.
Our faith makes us people of stories, our identities are formed by stories, and stories have the power to transform our circumstances.
What if we finally got the women and their stories? Finally understood the truth and ethics in our stories? What if we finally got — rather than feared — the power of the feminine?
I strongly believe this: If you say you are a person of faith, if you claim any part of the story of God interacting with humans as part of your story, then you must hear the women. Women, like all of us, are created in the image of God. You must hear the Ruach/Pneuma Divine Feminine Spirit teaching, preaching, wailing. Hear the Spirit blowing through our systems and structures making change. Feel the power of the Feminine Divine in motion and move with her. Stand with all the vulnerable. Stand for the women. Listen to the women.
What if we, together, make a new story, fully honoring the women? That is our project in this month in which the history of women is on our minds and hearts. That is our ongoing project for all of time. All the stories of women shape our own stories. We must dismantle patriarchy and misogyny to build a society that reflects God’s intention for all of us.
No matter our gender, we can seek and find the divine feminine in ourselves and love her, fiercely.
At Middle Church on Sunday, March 23, I’ll be preaching about the Divine feminine and the power of stories at 3:00 p.m. at Judson Memorial Church, who is hosting us until Easter Sunday. Right after, we will screen ”Mississippi Turning,” a film about the activism of Genesis Be. Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor and Irshad Manji are producers.
Rev. Dr. Jacqui Lewis is senior minister and public theologian at Middle Church in New York. Celebrated internationally for her dynamic preaching and commitment to justice, she champions racial equality, economic justice and LGBTQIA+/gender rights. Featured on MSNBC, PBS, NBC, CBS and NPR, she is the author several books, including “Fierce Love” and the “Just Love Story Bible.” Countless individuals and communities have been inspired by Lewis’ transformative work on her podcast, “Love Period;” in columns and articles; and on stages, in churches, on the street and in digital spaces around the globe.