She squats facing you on the walls of medieval churches and castles in Western Europe, not only in the areas of Celtic predominance that New Age fantasies have come to associate with pre-Christian matriarchal spirituality and power. In the village of Kilpeck in Herefordshire, she's a goofy little cartoon of a crone reaching forward from behind her legs to spread her labia wide.
What the hell?
A warning against lust?
A talisman to ward off evil?
The Church as Mother of the Faithful? (OK, that's a stretch, if you'll pardon the pun.)
She's a riddle, that girl. She's keeping it to herself. Whatever her secret is, it's important.
At our retreat last week, she sat on the altar at the other end of the Temple from the Lingam. We needed her there, as a talisman against toxic masculinity, and to remind us that we're only part of the Mystery. That without her, we wouldn't be here. And that, indeed, she's within us too. When we're permeable, when we're open. When we're treasuring what isn't ready to emerge into plain sight, within ourselves, and within each other. When we're bringing forth what's within us, and (as Jesus says in the Gospel of Thomas) what we bring forth will save us.
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