The Women’s Ministry That Forgot the Women

The women’s ministry of my youth smelled like cucumber-melon lotion and potluck casseroles.
There were name tags in cursive, candlelit devotionals, and laughter echoing down fellowship-hall corridors lined with folding tables and crockpots.

I loved those nights. I really did. They felt like belonging.

But looking back, I realize we were rarely invited to talk about God.
Not really.
We talked about being godly.

We learned the spiritual art of hospitality and humility, how to support our husbands’ callings, how to raise “warriors for Christ.” We studied Proverbs 31 until it felt more like a job description than a poem.

The questions that bubbled under my skin - about theology, justice, mystery - were redirected toward contentment. When I asked why something was taught a certain way, I was told how to respond to it instead.

We became experts at keeping a quiet heart, not at interpreting Scripture for ourselves.

I didn’t see it then, but women’s ministry was quietly teaching me to orbit someone else’s faith. To be the encourager, the supporter, the spiritual glue - but not the theologian, not the teacher, not the question-asker.

It was sacred, but small.
And the smallness stayed.

We were told we were the backbone of the faith. I just didn’t realize the spine we were building was bending us in half.

Next time, I want to talk about what happened when that spine finally cracked - when I started asking what it really means to be a “help meet,” and why God might have never asked me to shrink in the first place. See you then.