I stand at the gate.

I look back at what was.

I look forward at what should be.

My name is woman, and so I wait.

I stand here with my Bible

And read the signs that form the gates’ barrier.

It is made of Scripture fragments.

1 Timothy 2 is the whittled stake that holds
it up.

Slivers of Ephesians 5 block my view.

And splinters of 1 Corinthians bar my way.

God, what did you mean them all to say?

What answer can I give?

I wonder why?

I hold the whole of Scripture in my hand.

I don’t understand

Why these few shavings of passages block
my way.

And so here, in today, I wait.

I converse with Hulda, Deborah, and Junia.

I contemplate Priscilla and all the women who walked this way.

Where was their gate?

What allowed them to lead, to speak, to prophesy?

And I wonder why I must wait

Here at the gate.

I see those with braided hair and gold and pearls.

They walk past me; they have no gate.

I see men in suits and ties, yet

Not all lift their hands in prayer.

No gate.

I can’t go on ahead,

I can not lead, I must be led.

But I have things to say, words to give.

God speaks to me.

No title, no pastor, no female chair.

They say I don’t belong up there.

The chairs are all taken by suits and ties.

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