As we work to free ourselves from the confines that patriarchy has encoded in our relationship with the divine feminine icons of our faith, we can follow a new path forward that embraces the parts of ourselves needing our forgiveness, acceptance, and deep wisdom to emerge.

We meet today’s liturgy in the infamous creation story of Genesis. This story is often read in a way that leaves Eve at fault for human suffering and the formation of original sin. But as we greet Eve with fresh eyes, we might observe more of her innocence, childlike ignorance of evil, and embodiment of the maiden archetype that is often depicted in artwork of her throughout time. We intuit that she is curious, playful, and precious. And we might instinctively wish to protect her, as we would any young woman who is not fully aware of evils within the world.

We then move into a psalm and second reading asking its reader to sing a new way of being into the world. We are asked to step into a world that invites us to praise and feel joy. How are we to do this when so many of us embody shame and guilt, handed to us in youth through a very old way of reading the creation story in Genesis? Forging this new path forward may help us transcend such patriarchal interpretations of faith. By way of this transformation, we understand that the shame and guilt we took on through a familiar telling of the creation story in Genesis is that of an old paradigm, one which we must surrender in order to feel the type of praise and joy that’s promised to us in today’s liturgy.

The Allelujah reveals to us that Mary is full of the grace that the second reading speaks of. Mary shows to us in the Gospel of Luke a different kind of creation story, one where Eve is an ancestor to Mary. We often learn how to be from lessons our ancestors teach us, if only we listen. And we know that Mary listens. Mary asks questions. Mary ponders what meaning might be revealed in the words Gabriel expresses, and is understandably troubled by them. She reflects on what this future might mean, given the society she’s existing within, one where violent death comes to women who become pregnant out of wedlock. One where, as Eve was, women are blamed and punished. Mary’s cousin Elizabeth is brought into the story, reminding her that she will not be alone on her journey. And as someone who was a part of a culture in which people communed with their ancestors on a regular basis, Mary inviting Eve to help her cultivate the courage and strength to move forward on this path, regardless of what others might think, is not an improbability.

In her book A God Who Looks Like Me (1996), feminist theologian Patricia Lynn Reilly reflects on how Eve and Mary have been put against each other by church fathers and theologians through time. Reilly states the following contrasts as inherent in our learned interpretation of the feminine as Catholics: Eve is elevated disobedience while Mary is elevated obedience; Eve is elevated sexuality while Mary is elevated virginity; Eve is the Fallen Mother while Mary is the Sacred Mother; and Eve is the Human Mother while Mary is the Heavenly Mother (163). Reilly states: “We were left with a set of either-or propositions that denied us any sense of wholeness. Either we emulated Madonna Mary, denying our sexuality, or became Whore Eve, denying our sanctity and worthiness” (167).

Reilly invites us to reflect on the possibility of a deeply loving relationship between Eve and Mary in our efforts to relieve ourselves from the intensely internalized hegemonic patriarchy Catholics are especially plagued with. Reilly states that by reclaiming our original goodness, sexuality, and autonomy, we can approach these stories with more reverence for the divine feminine within them. As we reflect on a communal relationship between these two divine icons of our faith, we can actually walk the new paths forward offered to us in today’s psalm by liberating ourselves from the covert misogyny taught to us by our suffering church for too long.

In my attempts to bring Eve forth within our reflections on today’s liturgy, I’ll offer both a meditation and icon on her archetypal nature.

In Patricia Lynn Reilly’s book A God Who Looks Like Me, Reilly offers the following meditation on Eve: 

Those among you who are curious, who lust for life in all its fluidity, dare with me: Bite into life, eat of the fullness of its possibility. Take, eat of the fruit, the good fruit of life. Open to the depths of goodness within you. Believe in your goodness. Celebrate your goodness. Live out of the abundance of who you are as a Child of Life. Affirm the Original Goodness of your children and your children’s children until the stories of old hold no power in their hearts” (135).

In the second episode of the podcast Turning to the Mystics, host James Finley states: 

“Community at the deepest level is your oneness with God. That is your ultimate identity. The next circle out from this meditative standpoint is just one other person in whose presence you know you’re not alone on this path, that you bear witness to each other as seeking this path, which is like contemplative church […] As you gather, eventually you discover that the whole world is your community.” 

This concept has validated my seeking of community while engaging with the path of contemplative Catholicism, one that is grassroots and between equal parties, rather than through an organization with a hierarchy, and therefore more subject to corruption. Isolation is a symptom of patriarchy, but solitude and time for authentic contemplation is not. It’s my belief that solitude allows us to participate within community in more earnest and intentional ways. 

The communities that have been the most profound for me on this path are the ones that are between real people in real time. For me, this has looked like working with a spiritual director and having intimate relationships and friendships in which we are actively engaging with personally meaningful faith journeys that we can support each other with. Where do you find authentic community for your healing on the Catholic path? If you haven’t yet, I suggest starting with deepening your commune with Eve and Mary, and letting them guide you from that unified place.

The attached icon of Eve is by Robert Lentz, OFM. Lentz’s reflections are as follows:

“This icon celebrates the memory of our first mother. She belongs to a time long before history and is shrouded in mystery [… Eve] holds in her hands an opened pomegranate, whose Hebrew name, rimmon, comes from the word rim, to bear a child. The pomegranate is an ancient middle-eastern symbol of the womb because of its red juice and it’s numerous seeds or offspring. It was carved on the pillars of Solomon’s Temple as a symbol of fertility. In this icon it represents all the descendents of Eve, the human race, and our debt to her and all our fore-mothers.”

Image description: Eve, an older woman with white hair and bronze skin, wearing a pinkish robe, with a halo behind her head. In both hands, she holds forward a pomegranate cut in half to reveal the seeds inside.