I knew at a young age that I pushed the norms on what was seen as traditionally acceptable for an LDS woman to aspire to. Vague memories of emotional melt downs fill my mind, my body stretched out on the couch dramatically, tears rolling down my cheek as I lamented to my parents the tension I felt between my desire to “use” my college degree as a professional and the messages that living prophets had shared for the last few decades about women’s roles. “What’s the point?!” I wailed. Within the culture I was raised, wife and mother were clearly the ideal that a woman could, and should seek to obtain. If, after children, I decided to go into the workforce, that was of course my choice, but without question, career and self-development outside of what fell under the umbrella of “wife and mother” were certainly less than ideal.
While my father used his apologetic gifts to sooth my emotions and try to get me to see how it was possible, as President Hinckley had stated, to “be the woman of whom you dream”[1], I wasn’t buying it. I reached my teens just as LDS women’s education began to exit taboo territory, but conflicting narratives still swirled around me. In my Young Women’s classes, the phrase “all I ever want to be is mom” was a common one. My mother would patiently and quietly listen to my venting, squeezing my hand and encouraging me to not let go of my dreams. “You can find a way, Kajsa” she would tell me. “Do what hasn’t been done!”
For those Barbara Streisand fans out there, you may be familiar with the hit 80’s movie, Yentyl. A brilliant young Jewish woman, raised by her Rabbi father after the death of her mother, yearns for religious education but is silenced by her conservative 19th century European Jewish community. In one scene, as she browses through the books peddled into the town square by a bookseller, she is re-directed by the man to the women’s section, books with “lots of pictures.” “But I don’t want to read those books, I like these ones!” she counters, pointing to the religious volumes. “These are men’s books,” he counters, “sacred books. Picture books for women, sacred books for men!” he sings to the crowd as people pass by. “Why?!” she retorts, hands on her hips. “Because!” he counters, “that is what the law says.” “Where?!” she pushes on, “where is it written?! Show me where it is written. Here, in this book! Show me where!”
At a young age, I learned to ask that question---“show me where?!” and ask questions about the sources given to me. As a missionary, I served during the time that our mission housed the traveling exhibition of the Dead Sea Scrolls. In the spring of 2008, I remember entering the lobby of the Hill Cumorah Visitor’s center, my eyes immediately settling on a lengthy replica of the great Isaiah Scroll, found in the caves at Qumran in 1946. The Isaiah scroll, particularly, became a dear friend to me. During down time, I would stare at the Masoretic text of the Hebrew lettering, occasionally copying down characters, loving their beautiful shape.
When Rabbis would come in to the exhibit from Rochester or NYC to take their synagogue groups on tour, I would quietly follow behind, soaking in the knowledge they were passing on to the crowd, envying their ability to read the ancient Hebrew. A fire lit inside me then, a desire to study religion further, maybe even professionally, as a scholar. I wanted to know so badly how to read those texts, how to discuss the various approaches to their interpretation, and to be able to confidently form my own ideas about the scriptural narrative.
Once, before closing time when the visitor’s center was empty, I excitedly shared my goals with the Senior Missionary on site. This man had served in various leadership capacities in the church---Mission President, Stake President, Temple President---he had authored many books sold by the Church’s bookstore, Deseret Book, and had even taught BYU religious education courses. We idolized him. I idolized him.
After sharing with him my desire to study religion as an academic after the mission, a patronizing smile spread across his face as he patted my knee. “Trust me,” he said. “There is no need to go learn Hebrew or Greek. All that there is to know about these things, we already know!” While its likely he meant well, I felt my heart sink a bit as he continued---“I taught at BYU. I know ALL the big scholars, and have compiled binders of information on all these subjects---all the deep questions---there is nothing more to learn! We HAVE the answers. It would be better for you to embrace the simple truths of the gospel. They are what matters. There is nothing more to find that hasn’t already been found.”
The young feminist inside of me bristled---why should HE have the chance to study all the mysteries, and not me? Why should I take HIS word for it? Where is it written that all the great questions have been answered and there is nothing more for young woman like me to possibly learn by studying Biblical languages? Our conversation quickly shifted in another direction, me, refusing to show my annoyance and dismay at his response. Ironically, his words had the exact opposite effect of what he had intended. A seed had not only been planted that evening but also watered by the discouragement I received from my Priesthood leader.
Upon coming home from my mission, it seemed the obvious choice that I would jump into a career as a seminary instructor. Being the daughter of a seminary and institute teacher, there was so much about that world that I loved, and I knew I had the personality to connect with the youth in a way that could inspire them to be better disciples. Also, being a woman, I saw my sex underrepresented in the profession and assumed I could fill a much-needed demographic.
I visited a few seminaries and began the teacher training program. Somewhere within the first few sessions, I learned that the church’s policy disallowed women instructors to continue teaching should they become pregnant (after marriage, of course). Thus, many young women only taught for a year or two, as marriage and family is of course the priority and it was made clear that the “ideal” of the husband as a provider and the wife as the mother and nurturer was meant to be maintained by all employees. Upon learning this news, I was distraught. My mind flashed back to my teenage years, emotionally sprawled out on the couch, asking, “what’s the point?”
Here I was, almost 10 years later, asking that same question again. While my mind was not made up as to whether or not I would (or could) choose to stay home with my children once they came, the reality that in my potential career choice as seminary teacher that choice be taken from me was devastating. With sadness, frustration, and no small amount of tears, I discontinued the seminary prep course, and took a job in administration at the University of Utah. It should be noted that within four years of me making this choice, the church had changed its policy on women seminary teachers who become pregnant.
Notwithstanding the setbacks, the fire in my heart burned on, not extinguished. While at the University of Utah, I began to explore graduate programs in religious studies. After months of planning, taking the GRE, and being accepted into an MA program in Biblical Studies, I enrolled at Regent University, flying out to Virginia that next semester for my first “intensive.” Choosing this school was an unlikely choice; many expressed their concern over me attending a “Christian” liberal arts school. No doubt, I was bound to be exposed to all kinds of “anti” material that challenged LDS theology. In discussion with a friend who had the same career goals as I did, he mentioned that he too had considered that school, but after discussion with several persons in BYU’s religious studies department, he had decided against it. “It doesn’t really fit with BYU’s trajectory,” he had said. My mental response to that? “Why? Where is it written?”
Despite the naysayers, I couldn’t remember the last time I was so excited about something. My focus was undeterred, only growing as I enrolled for my first semester’s courses. “Introduction to Greek and Hebrew,” “Early Theologies,” and “The Ante-Nicene Fathers.” As my textbooks arrived in the mail, I would review each book almost as if it were ritual---my hands gently tracing the outline of the text, my fingers reverently turning each page, my eyes taking in the sacred knowledge.
Still stinging from the reality that seminary wouldn’t be an option for me, I began to investigate alternate potential opportunities. I learned, not missing the irony, that while seminaries and institutes terminated women employees upon pregnancy, BYU faculty were not under the same restrictions. Further, the few women employed at the church headquarters, known as the COB (Church Office Building), were also not under the same restriction. Additionally, BYU women employees could wear PANTS, unlike, as the time, their S&I colleagues. Oh happy day!
In retrospect, I have always known I was extremely fortunate to get hired by BYU’s Ancient Scripture department as quickly as I did. I graduated summer of 2014 and was listed for my first Old Testament course at the BYU Salt Lake Center that fall. I have no doubt that God’s hand was in it.
Fast forward to today, almost six years later. Feeds of various colleagues on Facebook show pictures of the first day of school at BYU, and my feed shows in the memories section photos in years past of me posting the same “first day of school” photos.
This year, obviously, is very different for me. Instead of posting start of school posts, I posted pictures of me homeschooling my son, of my toddler playing with playdough, and of my baby napping. I am not teaching, but I am, in many ways, “back in school.” This sacred time of retreat and reflection, study, and writing, for me, falls rhythmically along what has been a consistently punctuated equilibrium of no’s followed by unexpected and even bigger YES’s.
While considering my current situation, I reminded myself of Regent University’s statement on women in the ministry, addressing their policy and perspective on women serving in official, ordained capacities within the church. The words of the document push deep into my heart, overcoming me with what Stendhal terms “Holy Envy”---
“The finished work of Christ opened the door of redemption for all people without regard to gender, age, ethnicity, marital status or socio-economic status. As a result, people are set free from former bonds. At Pentecost, the outpouring of the Spirit empowered both men and women for the privilege and joy of ministry… Our "lived-theology" within the Church and seminary confirms that an inclusive atmosphere leads to mutuality, joy, respect and honor… While recognizing that the role of women in ministry leadership positions is a controversial issue in many churches, denominations and parachurch organizations, we commit to working for social justice and to fostering responsible dialogue with those who hold alternate views, while encouraging discussion within our seminary context. At the same time, we will not use the authority or the context of the classroom to challenge the giftedness and calling of any student on the basis of gender.”[2]
Strange indeed that Biblical scholars and ordained ministers of this institution had come to such a different conclusion than those of my own tradition.
It seems that once again, like Yentyl, I have
been told what is my place and what isn’t. What questions to ask and which ones not to. What answers are approved, and which aren’t. To those responses, I find myself pushing back with the question, “tell me where is it written?”
[1] https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/ensign/2001/05/how-can-i-become-the-woman-of-whom-i-dream?lang=eng [2]https://www.regent.edu/acad/schdiv/about/women_in_ministry.cfm#:~:text=We%20believe%20that%20women%20and,or%20domination%20by%20one%20gender.&text=Our%20%22lived%2Dtheology%22%20within,%2C%20joy%2C%20respect%20and%20honor.
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