by Karen Topakian
Pope Francis recently re-affirmed the Church’s position on not ordaining women as priests. According to the Pope, since Jesus chose only men to serve as his apostles, the Church cannot ordain women.
Here’s an example of why women might not have served.
Bartholomew, a fisherman, walked quickly through his small courtyard toward the gate.
Sapphira, his wife, hung a wet sheet onto the clothesline, while watching him steal past his fishnets.
“Aren’t you going fishing today?”
“I’m going to hear the prophet, Jesus,” answered Bartholomew.
“Come listen. You’ll like him.”
“What about all this work?” asked Sapphira, waving at a pile of wet laundry, a young child wheezing and a stack of encrusted bowls. “And don’t give me that ‘god will provide’ business.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“But you did the last time a prophet sailed through Nazareth. I had to stay up all night cooking and cleaning.”
“I don’t think your friends Mark, Luke and John want women around. When my friend Mary went, they sneered at her, ‘Show us your ankles.’ Others called her a whore.”
“What do you expect men to do when she cinches her robe so tight.”
“A woman at the well told me she believed in Jesus and wanted to follow him but your buddies wouldn’t allow her near him. She couldn’t break through the stucco ceiling.”
“Again, with the ceiling?”
Bartholomew put his arm around her and pulled her close to him. “I really think he’s the one.”
“The one, what?” she responded wriggling herself free from his grasp.
“The Messiah,” answered Bartholomew beaming.
“Is he? Probably promising he’ll make Galilee Great Again! If he says he can perform miracles, why doesn’t he get us a new oil lamp…that doesn’t leak?”
He looked at her crestfallen.
Sapphira reached for her husband’s hand. “What’s the matter with our religion? I thought you liked Judaism. What, you don’t like Rabbi Jacob?”
“I like Rabbi Jacob but how many times is he going to read from Leviticus? All those rules!”
“He’s reminding us how to live our faith.”
“Enough already about avoiding the cloven hooves and the unclean. I get it.”
Saphhira dropped his hand and resumed hanging up the wet laundry.
“You’ve changed. I remember when you enjoyed fishing, repairing your nets and teaching our children,” exclaimed Saphhira. “Now it’s Jesus this and Jesus that.”
“He says things I’ve never heard before,” confessed Bartholomew.
“You want to hear things you’ve never heard before? You’re a lousy husband. There I’ve said it. I guess my mother was right.”
“His words stir my heart.”
“I’ll give you something to stir, “ said Saphhira pointing to a pail of milk and a butter churner.
“He’s promising us a better life.”
“What’s he going to do, put food on our table, clothe us, keep us warm? You’re supposed to do that, you big lug. Because that’s your job as a husband and a father.”
Bartholomew shook his head, saddened by his wife’s negativity and walked out.
Sapphira pulled another sheet out of the pile and shook it within an inch of its life.
“What’s this one promising, the keys to heaven?”