Tomorrow!

As of tomorrow, this blog will no longer be readable. But I will be! You can find me - all of me - at http://www.ronnadetrick.com. I hope you'll make the switch.

For a taste, click here to read my latest post. And thanks!

Reading Between the Lines - Genesis 10

History, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in...I read it a little as a duty; but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars and pestilences in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all- it is very tiresome (spoken by Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen).

This is the account of the families of Shem, Ham, and Japeth, the three sons of Noah. Many children were born to them after the great flood. (Genesis 10:1)

31 more verses follow in this chapter, naming the sons, grandsons, great grandsons, and so on. Then  these words in summary:

These are the clans that descended from Noah's sons, arranged by nation according to their lines of descent. All the nations of the earth descended from these clans after the great flood. (Genesis 10:32)

I don't need to name the obvious, but I will: no women show up here. Jane Austen would not be pleased: 32 verses of genealogy and the naming of those who re-populated the earth after the flood with no mention of the women who were obviously around in order to make this happen. But they are there. Without them, this chapter would not exist. Women are between the lines, between the generations - creating, carrying, birthing, bleeding, nurturing, nursing, growing the men and women whose stories will now be told.

I feel a mild level of frustration that none of these women are named; but I get it. And, more important than the cultural realities of genealogical recording of the time, they are hardly silent or absent.

Still, the silence and lack of naming continues. Women unheard and unnamed remains frustrating and incredibly angering in any context in which such exists. But just as in Genesis 10, it hardly means that women are silent or absent. It's critical that we learn to/choose to read between the lines.

We live in a culture that painfully objectifies and sexualizes women, where human trafficking is the third most profitable criminal activity, following only drug and arms trafficking with an estimated $9.5 billion generated in annual revenue and $4 billion attributed to the worldwide brothel industry. These women remain unnamed but it does not mean they do not exist. Indeed, it is my work, our work, to name them, to end their (and our complicit) silence, to speak on their behalf. And, in so doing, speak on our own behalf and that of all women who have gone before us - including the wives and daughters of Noah's descendants.

In addition to issues of social justice affecting unnamed women, I wonder about its continuing reality in my own life. What does it means for me to continue to bring forth life - to create, carry, birth, bleed, nurture, nurse, and grow - in a world that may not ever hear my name? On one level, it's painful, frustrating, angering. On another, between the lines, I know that I am in the text, frankly, that I am actually writing the text in my own story and in my advocacy on behalf of my daughters' and other unnamed women - past, present, future - regardless of whether I make it into the genealogies, the publishing world, the limelight of Oprah.

Genesis 10 shouts to us - inviting us to hear the voices of generation upon generation of women. I imagine a microphone attached to each one and the power of allowing their voices to be heard, their names to be called, their lives to matter. Maybe I am that microphone, whether named or not. Maybe when I read Genesis 10 that's what matters: that I hear their voices and then let them be seen, honored, celebrated. And my theology would tell me that such has already happened, is happening; that God hears them/us. That God sees them/us. That God names them/us.

Between the lines or not - we exist, we speak, we roar, we live, we matter.

Life on the planet is born of woman. (Adrienne Rich)

Nothing Much Changes

Human beings, who are almost unique in having the ability to learn from the experience of others, are also remarkable for their apparent disinclination to do so. (Douglas Adams)

Genesis 9 is filled with hope: dry land, clear skies, new life. Genesis 10 begins with hope as well: God's covenant to never again destroy life. Sealed with a rainbow. The spoken commission: Be fruitful and multiply. The implied commissions: Move forward. Create families. Trust in My promise of faithfulness. Know life and love.

As with Adam and Eve, the cycle begins. Now with Noah, his sons, and their wives, the cycle resumes.

Despite witnessing the Control-Alt-Delete that just occurred. Despite experiencing the destruction of the earth and most of its people. Despite being umbilically attached to an ark for 40 days. Despite hearing God's expansive promise that there will never again be another flood. Despite it all, humanity is what emerges from that wooden vessel - in all its earthiness, rawness, and depravity. And with it, with us, hope emerges, as well.

The story held in the remainder of Genesis 9 leaves us reeling a bit. We've just experienced this amazing emergence from the waters into the beauty of a rainbow. After days and nights of darkness and damp, we breathe in the fresh air. And then we see Noah plant a vineyard, harvest the grapes into wine, get drunk and naked, be covered up by his sons and then curse them for such. Our heads are spinning. So quickly we move from "This is the sign of the covenant that I have established between me and all flesh that is on the earth" (Genesis 9:17) to "Cursed be Cannaan; lowest of slaves shall he be to his brothers..." (Genesis 9:25).

Where's the hope in that? Here is where I find it. Despite it all, nothing much changes. We are the same people - beautiful, frail, flawed, creative, destructive, glorious, crazy, sober, not. And perhaps more importantly, God is the same God - faithful, loving, gracious, kind, all about second (and infinite) chances.

We could read this story and feel a tinge of remorse, a sadness already creeping into our bones as we predict what turning more pages will bring. Or we could read this story in light of the larger narrative (even what we've already encountered in only the first 9 chapters) and feel a surging sense of hope.

Nothing much changes - humanity or God. That is good news. If, despite the reality of humanity (or maybe because of) God remains constant that tells me something insanely, wildly important and beautiful: who and how I am is not all that shocking. Who and how I am is worth creating for. Who and how I am is worth saving. Who and how I am is worth re-creating for. Who and how I am is worth being faithful for. Who and how I am is worth loving.

Nothing much changes. Thank God.

To err is human, but it feels divine. (Mae West)

Our humanity is a poor thing, except for the divinity that stirs within us. (Francis Bacon)

A Breath of Fresh Air

I live in the Seattle area where the winter is long, the sky stays gray, and it's just generally damp and yucky for months on end. When the sun comes out on a rare day in winter or certainly as spring begins to arrive, most of us can hardly wait to get outside and just breathe. There is something renewing and life-giving and even hopeful about emerging from the months of darkness into the bright, clear skies, taking a deep breath, and realizing that the seasons will actually change, the sun will re-appear, and life will go on. 

This is what Genesis 8 feels like to me. The text is inviting me to emerge from the gray and cold and step into the bright, clear skies of hope. It's like a breath of fresh air.

I imagine that this is just a small taste of what it must have felt like for Noah, his wife, his sons, and their wives as they finally stepped outside the ark, looked around, and breathed in fresh, spacious air. Undoubtedly, the shock of the devastation around them, the new, palpable awareness of loss, and the reality of what lay ahead may have been enough to send them cowering back inside. But even in the midst of such, there had to be a glimmer of hope.

Hope - when the dove returns.

Hope - when the cover is removed from the ark and dry land is seen.

Hope - when God says, "come out..."

Hope - when Noah builds an altar to mark God's faithfulness and care.

Hope - when God says, "never again will I curse the ground because of humankind..."

Hope - when we read the poetry of the last verses of this chapter: "As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, shall not cease."

Hope - a breath of fresh air.

Cycles continue. Seasons continue. The darkness and light of day and night continue.

In the midst of my own gray, my own hovering in the cold, my own seemingly-endless darkness at times, I can count on the sun, the warmth, and the light - in due time. I can count on hope. I can count on breathing fresh air again.

This kind of hope is not in the absence of devastation. It's hope in the midst of.

Noah, his wife, their sons and their wives lived in a hope that was in the midst of. They stepped outside of what had been dark, dank, and depressing - and yet had saved them - into the dry, spacious, air around them - and breathed in.

Hope, like breath - in the midst of.

A good reminder for me today. Sort of like a breath of fresh air.