The Women Speak ~ A Sermon in Eight Voice

Rev. Kristi Denham
Congregational Church of Belmont
February 1, 2009

Note: Each woman will step to the microphone and tell her story, then step back and to the center of the altar area until all voices have been heard. The words in bold at the very end will be spoken by all of us after the final woman has shared her story.

My name is Mary Magdalene. I am from the town of Magdalene. I am an independent woman. Jesus called me his friend. Others called me other names: whore...prostitute. But their names never touched me. They were only rumors based on the fact of my independence. I belonged to no man. I wasn't somebody's wife or somebody's daughter. I am Mary of Magdalene. That is enough for you to know.

But you should also know what I learned from my friendship with Jesus. I followed him wherever he went. I was more than his disciple, I was his confidant. He brought me his tears, his passions, his sorrows, as well as his wisdom, his joys, his courage. It was as if we had known each other a thousand thousand lifetimes. And so our friendship grew in fertile soil. Together we found ways to become the whole and loving human beings God had created each of us to be.

When he died, a big part of me died with him. I wondered how I would go on. I walked as if I were the living dead, numb with grief. Nothing mattered any more. I went to his grave alone just to be near his body -- Jesus, the man who loved me, whose touch had healed me, my heart's own soul. How could he be dead?

But then, of course, he wasn't. He found me in the garden near the tomb. He spoke my name and my grief was lifted like a deep fog suddenly dispersed by an ocean breeze. Jesus was alive and once again, so was I.

I have never allowed my fears to stop me from doing anything I wanted to do. Sometimes my courage has gotten me into trouble. Even the early church fathers tried to put me in my place...calling me whore when they should have called me friend or apostle.

Jesus called me friend. I have become a teacher. I have carried on his work. Some in the early church called me an apostle. I have stood up against oppression just as Jesus did. I have taught women to be brave. If all they can do is kill us, and death is just a door, of what shall we be afraid? I am an independent woman. I am Mary Magdalene.

My name is Meena. But you won't find my name in your Bibles. Women in my day were easily forgotten - like the Hispanic housekeepers who come and go in rich people's homes today, we were mostly invisible.

But I traveled with Jesus almost from the beginning. I had seen him on the streets of Capernaum and I knew he would not live long. Call it "women's intuition" if you will, but I knew that such a powerful, loving, outspoken teacher, attracting attention wherever he went, would not live long.

So I sold all that I had and bought an expensive, sacred oil used to anoint the dead or dying and I came to Jesus while he ate with his friends. I interrupted their meal to pour ointment on his body and to wash his feet with my tears. I dried them with my hair.

There were those who were outraged by my actions. Women were not welcome at these dinners. I had spent too much on the scented oil. My tears were too intimate a gift. My hair too free and sensual a means for drying the feet of a stranger.

But Jesus was no stranger to me. His eyes had met mine as he'd walked the streets of Capernaum. I knew his days were numbered. I knew I had to be with him from that day on.

Jesus told his friends that I would always be remembered, that the story of my actions would be told in memory of me. He was right. But I wish they would also have remembered my name. Was that too much to ask? I am only a woman, I know. But I was the first to understand the path Jesus would have to walk. My name is Meena.

My name is Albia. I am a Samaritan. Jesus passed by my place at noon many years ago. I had come to the well to fetch water in the heat of the day because I knew none of the other women would be there.

My life has been hard. My father died before I was born. My mother could not feed me. I was given to a village craftsman when I was eight, as a second "wife." (Yeah. Right.) I ran away. I was taken in by another family but ended up on the streets at twelve. Used goods. No bride price. An orphan. Married, abandoned, married, again. By the time I met Jesus there had been five.

What was amazing to me: He knew! Not just that I was an outcast - that was obvious. He knew the exact number of men who had used me.

But even more amazing to me: He talked to me! No respectable Jew spoke to Samaritans. No respectable anyone ever spoke to me. And men weren't supposed to converse with women in public. Period.

This man was different - very different. So I went to the heart of the matter. I was speaking with a holy man, no doubt about it. I asked the most important question: Where should I worship. Who had it right? Was the temple in Jerusalem the center of spiritual life or was the sacred mountain where Jacob wrestled with his angel the spiritual center? And Jesus taught me the simple truth: Spirit is everywhere. God is everywhere: In me, In you. Jesus truly was the Messiah, the liberator of my soul!

And then Jesus did a really amazing thing! He commissioned me to tell others what I now knew. His first missionary - Me! A woman! Used goods! God, through Jesus, called me to serve God's people. I ran to tell my family, my community, the people who had cast me aside as dirt. I told them what I had seen and heard. They listened. And that was amazing too! I have become a powerful witness to the love of God. I am a Samaritan, missionary, the first preacher of the good news that Jesus taught. My name is Albia.

My name is Jana. I am a widow. I had only two cents to my name. But when I go the temple to pray, Jesus sees me put all that I have into the money box. And he praises me. He tells everyone I am wonderful, that my faith is bigger than anyone's because I give everything to God.

Big deal! God gives everything to me! Why shouldn't I give everything back to God? I have health. I have strong feet for walking. I have eyes for seeing.

Everyday I am blessed with miracles. There is sunshine and rain and laughter from children. There are tiny sparrows dancing in the trees outside my small cottage. There are olives ripening on the tree in my yard and wheat growing and vegetable in the garden.

My neighbor's boys like my smile (I think) so they come help me care for my garden. And the rain comes just when I need it and the friends I have surround me with love. Who needs two cents when you have all of this?

Somehow the food comes when I need it. Somehow God always makes a way out of no way. Jesus says my faith is big. I say my faith is reasonable. I am just wide awake and I see God's abundance and love everywhere.

You know me from the story of the Widow's Mite. I am glad Jesus noticed me. My story is a good one, don't you think? My name is Jana.

My name is Lebana. My husband died at the hands of our neighbor Jorad. I had no sons but only daughters. So Jorad tried to claim our small plot of land with its cottage and garden as his own. He harassed my daughters, stole my donkey, threw weed seeds into my wheat.

I needed justice so I took my case to the local magistrate. He refused to hear me. I am just a woman. I have no husband, no sons, no father, no brothers. No one will speak up for me and my daughters. But I won't give up. Do you hear me? I won't give up!

Everyday I go to the judge. I pound on his door. I call up to his window. I demand to be heard. The judge doesn't care about me. He just wants me to go away. He has goons threaten me. I won't go away. He locks his doors and windows. I pound harder. Everyday I am there. He can't get any work done. Good. My girls and I are hungry. We can't get any work done either. We demand justice. And finally, even the unjust judge must give in to me. It pays to be a nagging, demanding woman sometimes.

Jesus told a parable about me. He said, Be just like me! Cry out to God day and night, like a did to that judge. Isn't it a kick? God loves demanding, persistent, strong-willed uppity women like me! My name is Lebana.

My name is Tamar. My daughter is dying and I had heard that Jesus of Nazareth could heal the sick. I had tried everything with no success. It couldn't hurt to ask. So I tracked him down at a neighbor's home. I didn't care that I wasn't invited. I didn't care that women are expected to keep silence in public. My daughter was dying!

I interrupted their dinner. I begged Jesus to come with me. The man ignored me. But I refused to go away. I pleaded. I begged. His disciples finally asked him to get rid of me. But he said, "I came only to help the lost sheep of the house of Israel. It is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs. This woman is a Canaanite. She has nothing to do with me."

I could have died inside at that moment, but I didn't. My daughter was dying. Jesus was my last hope. He may have just called me a dog. He may have been the meanest man alive, but I needed him. So I pleaded with him one more time. "Yes, Lord," I said, "But even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the master's table."

And that did it. Suddenly Jesus looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time. He realized that God's love extended beyond the boundaries of his prejudice, that my faith could be as great as any Jew's, that God was challenging him through me to widen his perspective, to offer his healing love to all.

I was Jesus' teacher that day. I am a Canaanite woman with a beautiful, healthy daughter. I am proud of my courage and my faith. Jesus saved my child. In some way I may have helped to save him. God works in mysterious ways. My name is Tamar.

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