for our lifetime of conversations in your kitchen rocking chairs.
Sono in debito con te donna saggia .
ma famille, de qui je suis venu.
To every woman in search of the imago Dei within herself, may you find Her.
We each bear the song of the Savior within our wombs. Women have borne the weight of silence in the church since the beginning of time, disappearing as we groan on all fours, ushering life into this aging world. There are few women who have broken through Christianitys glass ceiling, as it relates to our gender. The female has been required to remain submissive, bleed, and bear. We wear our breasts like hidden shields of shame rather than a breastplate of righteousness. Our wombs, though muffled, can still be heard. If we pause and listen, one might hear the faint, but victorious rumble rooted in the earths soil.
I am woman, imago Dei , an image bearer of God, chosen to carry a message of creation, death, and ultimately ever-bearing life.
Foreword
Dear Bold Reader,
It seemed wise to write this foreword as a letter. This book is so profoundly intimate, thoughtful, and life-changing that it seems ill-conceived to use a normal structure. As a man, I dont enter the Red Tentit is a holy space that is not mine to inhabit. However, I have spent too many decades of my life grateful that I am not allowed into that realm. I confess, however, that I shudder deep in my bones at the thought of walking into any sacred space. There is something foreign, dangerous, and alluring that I resist as I return to trade bleared, smeared with toil. I prefer the daylight of the ordinary to the dark unknown of mystery. Also, I dont.
Christy invites me, a man, to stand at the threshold of what I will never suffer, or birth; what I will never know as a loss or a privileged joy. She invites me to behold, wait in mystery, and let the smell of life fill me with desire. There are realities I will never grasp or comprehend as a man, but as a human being, I am meant to receive and to hold in awe. This labor of love is an invitation into the heart of God our mother.
Christy addresses our reluctance, if not fear and, for some, revulsion, to conceive of God as a mother. She doesnt resolve the biblical or theological issues, but she calls me to remember my grandmother and at least to wonder why the being of God who is neither male nor female is not seen through the experience of the feminine as much as through the lens of the masculine.
Studies have shown that women read more than men, especially in areas that make men feel uncomfortable. I fear that few men will read this book. I suspect that most readers will be women and I strongly urge you to ask your partner or friend to read this book with you. Tell him it will not only help him know your suffering and joy with higher intensity, but will enable you both to embrace sex, gender, and mystery with greater pleasure.
Most importantly, this book opens to us all a way to share the glory of love as we are born into the delight of God. We are loved. God loves us beyond what we can name or embrace. I closed this book and thanked my grandmother for being the face of God. My beloved wife will finish our letter to you.
Beloved Reader,
Dan is a man who knows more about the heart of a woman than any other man I have ever known. However, he is correct: he has not been in nor will he ever be invited into the Red Tent. It is a sisterhood that knows a monthly process that brings either a loss of hope or relief, for some a lifetime loss of never having a full womb, and for others a bitter loss of the miscarriage or stillborn. Also, for many a weight of glory that is more than we can ever fathom. It is physically, socially, economically, and spiritually complex to be a woman. It always has been.
What I found as I read Christys holy and beautiful book is coming home to my body. There are so many voices that delegitimize a womans experience, especially as we age. When I walk into a nice store to look for clothes, salespeople dont see me. It is as if the female clerk doesnt know what to do with an aging face and body. I am a reminder to younger women what will one day happen to the beauty of their body. I am invisible to men and, I am a reminder to younger women. As I read Christys book, I was reminded of my scars and the warfare of infertility, miscarriages, leakage, seepage, pain, and far, far more joy. I love being a woman, and yet it is and has always been something far more complex than what it seems my husband suffers. There is no point to compare the cost of living in a fallen world, but Christys work allowed me to enter what it means as a woman to be fearfully and wonderfully made. I regretted not having this book when I was a young woman, and I can assure you that my daughters, daughter-in-law, and granddaughters will receive this book as a present. I, too, hope my son and every other man I love will read as well. Theology of the Womb is a gift I trust you will receive and offer to everyone you love.
Dan and Becky Allender
Bainbridge Island, Washington
February 20, 2019
Preface
M y Momma tells me that when I was still in her womb, she would go to prayer meetings for Catholics who were prophetic. In one of those meetings, it was prophesied that I would lead the assemblies in praise. She would always reminisce on their words. Christy, they said you would lead the congregations in worship and singing ... Spoiler alert: I rarely sing in public. I have a pretty good singing voice, but I lack the faith or naivet needed to be a worship leader. What I do have, however, is a stubborn gift of hope, and I am a better author than worship leader. Either way, my passion runs deep, and I persist in my pursuits until I achieve what I set out to accomplish.
My spiritual development was that of a passion-hungry orphan destined for a convent. When I was in middle school, I prayed for the gift of speaking in tongues. My youth pastor told me to start practicing by saying words in repetition. I practiced almost every night for a year, to no avail. I even broke up with my eighth-grade boyfriend, Luke, telling him I needed to focus on God more, but, looking back, wish I had at least kissed him a few times before radically claiming my celibacy. You see, I have always been desperate for God. In high school at a church revival, I went up to the altar call hoping that I would get slain in the Spirit, but the weight of the evangelists hand felt heavier on my chest than the Holy Spirit power. As I rocked back and forth and was laid down on the floor, my legs covered with a blanket so as not to be inappropriate, I lay there wondering if this was really what the Holy Spirit felt like. At the ripe age of seventeen, when the Brownsville Assembly of God church in Pensacola, Florida was having a revival and gold dust was appearing in their services, I drove five hours by myself to see it. As I told you, I have the gift of hope, but not of faith, and I wanted to see it with my own eyes. In the midst of thousands of people, I never saw the gold dust or laughed prophetically, but I was still an avid believer in the Spirit.