Welcome to CBE’s Library

Tip: to find an exact phrase or title, enclose it in quotation marks.

We are equal, this we know, For the Bible tells us so.
Jew and Greek to God belong; Racial barriers are all wrong.

 

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They came from all over
     Bahrain, Turkey, Rome:
A little band of women
     with hope all their own
To learn and to study,
     To become stronger in their faith
To encourage one another
     In the footsteps of the saints.

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When the star in the sky is gone

When the kings and the princes are home

When the shepherds are back with their flocks

The work of Christmas begins

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Oh what my children of my youth
Will my Jesus do for you?
Will He take you to the mountain tops?
Will He bring you to the sea?

My Lord he'll show you
His Great Love
That He has given me

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As a woman preparing to seek ordination to the pastoral office in the Presbyterian Church (USA) I find myself encountering skepticism — a skepticism about my real identity. In light of my gender and career objective, some people immediately assume that I am a radical feminist.

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Several years ago I got an idea for a biblical novel; placing myself in the world of Mary the mother of Jesus’, I would write in her voice — a diary spanning thirty years and titled Mary’s Journal.

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My Dear Cohorts: The urgency of the occasion dictates the unprecedented action on my part of corresponding personally with all of you. Suffice it to say I would not interrupt your fiendish schedules were the matter not of utmost importance. I am deeply distressed with a new tactic the Enemy seems to be employing. Surely each one of you has admired my optimism through the centuries concerning our eventual overthrow of the Righteous. Indeed, as one reviews the rampant lapse in moral fiber throughout all the world in just the last earthlings’ generation, we all have cause for gleeful gloating!

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Rendered invisible
it has happened just too many times
times two squared
and more.

Even worse is being rendered visible
but not really important.
Your voice is not really that important they say.
It doesn’t have the right credentials,
Many books behind you ... a following... or enough degrees,
or how could you really have something to say
when you spend many of your days doing laundry,
wiping noses, changing diapers,
raising living human beings, instead of just words on a page.
Living words are not regarded with the same care.

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At my bedroom door an unarmed guard

stands statue-straight—a nightlight

once Christmas-wrapped in Mother's love.

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I foresee days when the gift of words will feel like a curse. On mornings when the labor is hard, I must remember to hold on to the hope of the joy. I must remember that I’m not alone. Annie Dillard reminded me of this: “At its best, the sensation of writing is that of any unmerited grace...you search, you break your fists, your back, your brain, and then—and only then—it is handed to you.”

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