Letting Her Bleed

On Preaching

Today, the Gospel reading was the story of the hemorrhaging woman. Only, my church didn’t hear about it at all, really.

I wonder what it is about a male-only priesthood and a woman who’s been bleeding for 12 years that makes the first and second readings – whatever they were – simply more inspiring for a homily…

I wonder why clergy might find themselves talking about Satan and Sun Tzu’s The Art of War today instead…

The rage I felt listening to the liturgy from my couch today – as I nursed a hip injury that left my leg buckling in the parking lot – made it difficult to know where to even begin this reflection. How are we still here? How can it be that a story featuring not one but two women as the central characters of healing miracles is just sidestepped in favor of… seemingly anything else?

A month ago, I was at a commencement ceremony for a Catholic graduate school. My parish priest was in attendance with a superior of his religious order, to watch one of their seminarians graduate. I approached and said hello, as we rarely see each other outside the parish hall. Father looked to his companion and introduced me, “This is Madison, she’s a wonderful preacher!”

I scrunched my nose but said thank you and looked at the floor. I don’t identify as a preacher. I don’t feel called to preach. I would rather he have said “writer” or “thinker.” But he had seen my Catholic Women Preach reflection, or perhaps my latest with US Catholic. I don’t like being on camera, but nevertheless, I preached.

With my eyes at the ground, I missed what must’ve been a telling response from his superior, because Father quickly added, “Oh, I don’t let her preach at the parish!”

I looked up and quickly laughed, “But on the internet, I can do whatever I like!”

“That’s true.”

We exchanged a few more pleasantries, then I returned to my seat next to a couple of religious sister friends of mine who happen to attend the same parish with this same priest.

“I just had the most hilarious interaction,” I said, recounting. Neither of them laughed. In fact, Jane scoffed.

“I don’t let her?”

There, it sank in. He had said, “I don’t let her.”

I don’t let her.

I don’t let her.

I don’t let her.

For the last five weeks, it’s been ringing in my mind every time I step foot in a church.

I don’t let her.

This comment revealed much about how this particular priest perceives his own power, how he views his responsibilities in the context of the parish community, and what he thinks of women. Interesting, given the context. My husband and I attend because of the incredible diversity of races, gender identities, ages, vocations, and abilities. The parish is run by laypeople, many of whom are Black elders whose families have been attending for decades. The food pantry, the collections, the campus ministry, the children’s word, the parish renewal process, the LGBTQ+ ministry: ALL are run by women.

Still, Father spoke truthfully: He never lets women – lay or religious – preach.

“I don’t let her.”

The audacity of this claim has rocked me.

And I heard its echo as I listened to today’s homily. Aside from a stumbling misrepresentation of Jewish purity laws thrown out to explain the badness of blood, today’s preaching erased the women in the story, the central characters!

The hemorrhaging woman is the one who makes the miracle happen; she reaches out to Jesus. She claims the healing she seeks. She has been bleeding, nonstop, for over a decade. She has been separated from her community. In this scene - this divine moment of encounter with Jesus - she preaches a message of God’s healing attention with a vulnerable ownership of her body and her blood. Her story seeps into our pages. She makes men uncomfortable. She reminds us of how half of the world’s population lives.

After, Jesus raises a little girl from the dead. We didn’t hear anything preached about her, either.

Photo: Women’s Ordination Conference

For too long, I’ve given a cursory thumbs-up to the movement for women’s ordination. I’ve aligned myself from a purely logistical perspective: The Catholic Church is in desperate need of priests. Why not let women?

"I don’t let her.”

This exchange moved my mind.

I don’t let her?

My gut response in that moment had been, “Yeah, well, I don’t care! It’s not my calling!”

Oh, Madison. But what about all the women for whom it is?

The pain I feel - at being underestimated, belittled, laughed aside - is nothing compared to that of the women who know, deep in their soul, that the Spirit begs them to preach. The women looked over and told “No.” A gaping wound.

And now, every week, I’m seeing with renewed clarity the ramifications of what the Christian message sounds like without the women. The empty space around which the Church is built contains a form and it is female. A gaping (side) wound.

We’ll let her bleed, just don’t look at her. Don’t listen to her cries.

If she bleeds enough, she will be cured eventually.

Let her.

Nevertheless, many preach.

Over the last two years in particular, I have been blessed by the homilies of numerous Catholic women and nonbinary friends: Laurie Brink, Barbara Reid, Karen Ross, Nicole Varnerin, Vanessa White, Katie Davis-Crowder, and more. They have been invited – by brave priests and insistent laity – to showcase their gifts to the unimaginable benefit of the gathered.

As I listened to today’s terrible homily, I just kept thinking “What about the women?”

She was there. Let her preach.

And yet even to that, my blood boils. Why must we be given permission? Why can’t we listen to the Spirit moving within us? The hemorrhaging woman didn’t wait to be told. She also didn’t ask! She reached out and claimed what she knew should be hers.

Like the preacher today, the men in her story were either afraid of her blood or found her a waste of time. Some chided Jesus for not tending to the young dying girl sooner. As if He didn’t see and honor them both. This is pitting women against each other, to distract us.

Still, I hate those who love “Talitha Koum!” You are grown-ass women, not little girls! You are not dead, you are the one who bleeds! But this, too, is pitting women against each other. It’s been distracting.

So, I have more to release. I’ve long identified with the woman’s bleeding; My own hemorrhage nearly killed me 8 years ago.

But now, I move my eyes. I see her reaching. I see her finally growing weary of her marginalization. I see her tearing at that garment, those beautiful vestments robing the person of Christ. I see the power flowing into her. I see her, I let her, and I watch in awe.

Fearsome, indeed.