A fine article appeared in The New York Times yesterday. It was written by a professor who was a guest in the English department at Gustavus Adolphus, a small, liberal arts college in St. Peter, Minnesota. As he writes, "I sat in on four classes, which were marred only by politeness — the deep-keeled Minnesotan politeness that states, as a life proposition, that you should not put yourself forward, not even to the raising of a hand in class."
He was asked by a young woman in class if he had noticed any differences between the writing of men and the writing of women. He said no, but this began a (gentle, unassuming) discussion with these young women about how to find their voices as writers.
He reflects on the conversation:
I’ve often noticed a habit of polite self-negation among my female students, a self-deprecatory way of talking that is meant, I suppose, to help create a sense of shared space, a shared social connection. It sounds like the language of constant apology, and the form I often hear is the sentence that begins, “My problem is ...”
Even though this way of talking is conventional, and perhaps socially placating, it has a way of defining a young writer — a young woman — in negative terms, as if she were basically incapable and always giving offense. You simply cannot pretend that the words you use about yourself have no meaning. Why not, I asked, be as smart and perceptive as you really are? Why not accept what you’re capable of? Why not believe that what you notice matters?
Another young woman at the table asked — this is a bald translation — won’t that make us seem too tough, too masculine? I could see the subtext in her face: who will love us if we’re like that? I’ve heard other young women, with more experience, ask this question in a way that means, Won’t the world punish us for being too sure of ourselves? This is the kind of thing that happens when you talk about writing. You always end up talking about life.
If you were to replace "writing" with "preaching," I find the same reluctance to take up authority in my students. I had a young woman in my office just yesterday who, in reading this article, said, "Yes! The guys seem to just step into the pulpit with such ease. I think, 'Who am I? What authority do I have to preach this?'"
When I was a student in the seminary at which I now teach, I rarely raised my hand. I rarely spoke in class. I remember having an idea about a discussion in Christology, but being very unsure if it was a legitimate insight. I didn't raise my hand, and watched a male student thrust his hand in the air and make the very point I had been ruminating on. I remember that as clearly as if it were yesterday. I remember it because I remember thinking at the same instance, "What's happened to me?"
Those of you who know me in my embodied form and have interacted with me in meetings or classrooms or worship since that day may find that anecdote hard to believe. But it's true. When I crossed from one side of campus (college) to the other (seminary), and became either the only woman in a class or one of two, I fell silent.
Granted, there were many reasons for this. Many of my fellow (I use that word intentionally) classmates weren't at all sure if I should even be in the room. Some of them had made their feelings clear to me. Better then to keep silent than to cause more strife, yes? And my personal interests weren't in the areas of philosophy or theology, not to the point where I craved coffee shop discussions that had no possibility of answers (e.g. anything on Trinitarian theology). But many of my classmates loved the loud debates, the "angels-dancing-on-the-head-of-the-pin" discussions. Such debates drove me from the room. (Note to present colleagues: Still do.)
Tell me about your kids. Tell me where you're from. Tell me how you see God at work in the here and now and I'll sit across from you all day. Talk about things that have already been debated by much brighter minds than ours and I'll start fiddling with my keys.
I won't make a blanket statement about all women everywhere, as there are many, I am sure, who would rather debate ideas than hear about your kids. But from what I have observed, the debate method of communication seems much more likely in a male-majority environment. I've seen this proved in Council meetings, classrooms, and faculty lunch discussions. I remember hearing this interaction in middle- and high-school. The boys--generally--would banter about nuclear war or some other topic about which they knew only enough to sputter, and they would grow louder as they knew less, only to then offer some lame summary statement that proved their ignorance as the teacher once again took control of the class. Girls, generally, sighed and waited for the clouds to pass. So girls, generally, haven't been reared to speak, to volley, to verbally jab and thrust. They have been reared, generally, to listen, to ask questions, and to wonder what is making these boys think they have to be so loud in order to be heard. Girls, generally, have been taught to use words to care. Boys, generally, have been taught to use words to prove themselves.
And so I find the young woman sitting across from me, marvelling at the way her male classmates stride into the pulpit with such confidence, while she--smart, gifted, articulate--is wondering if she is actually cut out for this job. (You are!)
So my work as a teacher of many men and fewer women is to create balance, both in the classroom and in their sermons. It is to listen for tendencies in their sermons that may exclude a portion of their listeners. Because, obviously, both kinds of conversation are needed. We need the "head" talks and the "heart" talks. We need people who stretch our minds and people who speak to our souls. In fact, the best sermons do both.
I need to encourage my students to present the male/female dimensions in their sermons, the yin/yang of preaching, the both/and that makes us hungry for more. Because it is in this Image that we were created, and it is this Image we must reflect.
So God created humankind in his image,
in the image of God he created them;
male and female he created them.
Genesis 1:27
Here's us with our souvenir mugs. We then handed the camera to the nice young man sitting next to us, and were already to smile for him but then Carlos Brown (not Thomas) broke through the line and ran the ball in for a touchdown. The fine young man not only ignored the play on the field, but took these great play-by-play pictures of us!
He's going to make it!
TOUCHDOWN MICHIGAN!
Our team ROCKS THE BIG HOUSE! 
I sped through the park to make it to the Delicate Arch viewing area before dark.
