Here we are again, talking about women...

“Thank God you protected Me from those people.” -Not Jesus

I’ve been thinking lately about who handed me the faith.

Not who impressed me.

Not who won debates.

Not who had the biggest churches or the cleanest doctrinal statements.

Who actually carried Jesus to me.

A lot of them were women.

Lottie Moon taught me that devotion to Christ should cost something.

Cheryl Bridges Johns showed me that Spirit and intellect are not enemies.

Fleming Rutledge taught me to preach the cross bigger than my tribe.

Sojourner Truth reminded me that sometimes the people closest to Jesus are the ones the religious establishment explains away.

Shirley Arnold preached like she believed the gospel would knock us down.

Gerry White sparked my curiosity about the Old Testament.

Mandy Smith helped me see God’s power by embracing my own vulnerabilities.

And before all of them—

my mother.

A kids pastor in the 80s.

Before “leadership pipelines.”
Before podcasts.
Before churches figured out how to celebrate women publicly while quietly keeping the keys.

She preached to children.
She prayed.
She discipled.
She did the work.

No platform.
No spotlight.

Just faithfulness.

And if I’m honest—

I would not be in ministry if women had stayed in the places some Christians still think they belong.

That should bother us.

Not because it settles every theological question.

But because at some point we should become suspicious of our (the church’s) odd fascination with being “right.”

I belong to a fellowship that, decades ago, had the courage to affirm women in ministry.

That matters.

But if I can say this as family—

sometimes we have celebrated our theology more than we have practiced it.

We wrote statements. We looked right on paper.

And before we congratulate ourselves too much, maybe we should ask why we felt so good about that. The statement was never broadly implemented.

But this isn’t really about one issue.

This is about something deeper.

There is something in us that loves being right.

And Christians baptize it.

We take our understanding, polish it until it shines, frame it, defend it, and then slowly—almost without noticing—we begin bowing to it.

Not Jesus.

But to our understanding of Jesus.

We divide churches over it.

We pass policies over it.

We elevate leaders because they protect it.

We look down on brothers and sisters who read the same Bible and somehow arrive at different places.

And all the while we convince ourselves this is faithfulness.

Shocking thought:

Maybe we do not understand as much as we think we do.

Maybe being able to quote Greek verbs and systematize Romans doesn’t mean we’ve mastered the mind of Christ.

Maybe certainty is easier than humility.

Maybe defending our position feels safer than kneeling at the cross.

Because the cross is lower than we think.

Nobody kneels at Calvary carrying trophies.

Nobody gets extra grace for winning doctrinal arguments.

Nobody arrives, and Jesus says—

“Thank God you protected Me from those people.”

At the cross, everybody comes empty.

Everybody.

And if that’s true—

then maybe the church should carry itself with more trembling than triumph.

I love the church.

I really do.

But man—

sometimes I wish the church I know in the Southeast—the Protestant, evangelical, homecoming under the trees with sweet-tea church I grew up around—felt less like the family’s weird aunt.

You know the one.

Always offended.
Always suspicious.
Always explaining why somebody else shouldn’t be speaking.
Always protecting something.
Always one committee meeting away from a split.

Quick to correct.

Slow to listen.

Certain about everything.

Curious about nothing.

Meanwhile Jesus keeps showing up in places we swore He wouldn’t.

Among people we underestimated.

Using voices we did not authorize.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Church history is full of Christians who had verses.

And still missed God.

That possibility should terrify us.

I do not want a church that worships uncertainty.

But I also do not want a church that worships being right.

I want a church low enough to repent.

Low enough to listen.

Low enough to say:

“This is where we stand.

And Jesus may still have something to teach us.”

Because if Pentecost taught us anything—

it is that the Spirit has never asked our permission before falling on sons and daughters.