March madness, women in theology, elite 8 vote

Come vote!

Mar 26, 2024

Gentle reader,

Welcome back to March madness, Church Blogmatics style. Even if you didn’t vote in the first round, you can still scroll down to vote in the elite eight.

The elite eight, top books by women in contemporary theology

By the Renewing of Your Minds: The Pastoral Function of Christian Doctrine by Ellen T. Charry

Trauma and Grace: Theology in a Ruptured World by Serene Jones

Sisters in the Wilderness: The Challenge of Womanist God-Talk by Dolores S. Williams

The Kindness of God: Metaphor, Gender, and Religious Language by Janet Martin Soskice

Jesus, Humanity, and the Trinity: A Brief Systematic Theology by Kathryn Tanner

God, Sexuality, and the Self: An Essay 'On The Trinity' by Sarah Coakley

Enfleshing Freedom: Body, Race, and Being by M. Shawn Copeland

Are Women Human? Penetrating, Sensible, and Witty Essays on the Role of Women in Society by Dorothy L. Sayers

Vote in Round 2:

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Voting for this round will close at Wednesday March 27th, at 8pm Central Time.

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I shared this poem on social media yesterday:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

A poem for Holy Monday, by Beth Felker Jones

Yesterday’s palms now ground down, juiced, 
having been through it, what with the mud and the donkey feces,
already the green is going
to rot in the unfiltered urban sun,

and wives around the city are shaking their heads 
as they hold dirty cloaks up to that same harsh light
facing what comes of having been thrown 
in the path of a king. Sighs go up. That stain is not coming out. 

Look here, a young couple have scrimped to buy the doves 
required at the temple, approaching the cash register
they jump back on encountering yesterday’s lowly one, 
now dark with bright authority, as he sets about turning tables on just about everything, 

and a cage goes clattering to the ground; it’s scanty lock pops open.
You’d think the birds would get out of there; 
instead they consider their options
and flutter to his shoulders unfazed, nuzzling at his cheeks.

He laughs and lifts one on his finger, looks on it with affection,
almost as though he’d made it, out of clay, a gift for his mama. 
He holds it out to the young mother. It transfers gladly to her hand,
altar to altar, to pigeon pie, to rise to heaven plentiful.

Grace & peace,

BFJ

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