She Was Never Meant to Be Silent: The Beauty of a Woman’s Voice

Tonight, a storm rolled through West Texas.

The rain came sideways, driven by a determined wind. It was the kind of rain we desperately needed, arriving with all the fury that nature sometimes requires to make things new. And then, almost as quickly, there was peace.

A cool blanket of air settled over everything, and the bright orange sky slowly transformed into extraordinary shades of pink and purple. The trees stood dark and strong against the fading light, their branches stretching across the sky. I stepped outside and marveled at it.

And as I stood there, I thought about femininity; a beauty that doesn’t ask permission to be seen.

Not the quiet, delicate, carefully contained version of femininity that women are sometimes taught to embody. But femininity in all its fullness. Beautiful and strong. Gentle and formidable. Capable of nurturing life and weathering storms. Maybe because I myself was sweaty and dirty after rearranging the garage in a rush to pull in our vehicles with the threat of hail. I’m not very much the delicate type. I’m with each passing year becoming less “contained”.

Tomorrow, October 15, the Catholic Church celebrates the memorial of St. Teresa of Ávila, a sixteenth-century Carmelite nun, mystic, reformer, writer, and Doctor of the Church. Yes, a woman. A Doctor of the Church. And not merely an honorary title, but a recognition that her theological wisdom has something to teach the entire Church. I find that rather extraordinary, and I cannot think of a more fitting woman to contemplate beneath a sky like this one.

Teresa lived in a world where women possessed very little authority. The Church of her time was no exception. Yet this woman, born in Spain in 1515, would become one of the most influential spiritual teachers in Christian history.

She founded seventeen reformed Carmelite convents. She challenged complacency within religious life. She wrote extensively about prayer, spiritual formation, and the soul’s relationship with God. She encountered opposition, suspicion, and resistance.

Yet, she persisted.

In 1970, Pope Paul VI declared her a Doctor of the Church, making her one of the first two women to receive that distinction. Think about that for a moment: a woman who could never have been ordained a priest became a teacher of the universal Church. Her writings continue to instruct bishops, priests, theologians, religious, and laypeople more than four centuries after her death.

In a 2011 general audience, Pope Benedict XVI called Teresa “one of the peaks of Christian spirituality of all time.” He described her understanding of humility as love for the truth and her determination as an expression of Christian courage.

Humility as love for the truth. Truth, and the courage to pursue it.

I recognize the irony some people see in my conversion to Catholicism. After spending much of my Christian life within evangelical Protestantism, I entered a Church that does not ordain women to the priesthood.

From the outside, that might appear to be a step backward for someone who cares deeply about women’s voices, education, dignity, and participation in the life of the Church. But my experience in both arenas has been quite different.

I have encountered a profound respect for the intellectual and spiritual contributions of women within Catholicism. Women whose writings are studied, whose theological insights shape generations, whose lives are held up as examples of extraordinary holiness.

St. Teresa of Ávila. St. Catherine of Siena. St. Thérèse of Lisieux. St. Hildegard of Bingen: four women recognized as Doctors of the Church, whose wisdom the Church asks us to take seriously.

And something else has become increasingly important to me: the accountability that accompanies spiritual authority within the Catholic Church.

Of course, the existence of accountability does not guarantee that accountability will always be exercised faithfully. The Catholic Church has experienced devastating failures of leadership, and those failures must never be minimized or excused.

But I value a structure in which even those entrusted with spiritual authority are themselves subject to authority.

And I find it meaningful that within this same Church, women who never occupied the priesthood have nevertheless shaped its theology, challenged its leaders, inspired reform, and become some of its most revered teachers.

What I’ve discovered is that the Catholic understanding of an all-male priesthood is not the same thing as a belief in male intellectual or spiritual superiority. Those are entirely different claims. Within a Church that maintains a male priesthood, I have found tremendous respect for women’s theological contributions, along with an established structure of accountability for those entrusted with spiritual authority.

Neither reality makes Catholicism immune to patriarchy or failures of leadership. But both have challenged assumptions I carried into my conversion. This doesn’t mean every Catholic woman feels heard or that there is no room for meaningful conversations about women’s participation and leadership. There is. And I know that I, too, am invited to contribute to those conversations when the opportunity arises.

For me, this has been one of the unexpected discoveries of becoming Catholic: I have found greater freedom to study theology, ask difficult questions, and contribute my own voice within a Church that does not ordain women than I sometimes experienced within communities that professed to value women’s contributions but placed significant cultural boundaries around them.

I want to tread gently here because I know many faithful, thoughtful, deeply loving people within evangelical Christianity. I was one of them, and I remain grateful for much of what shaped my early Christian life. But I also know that certain expressions of evangelical culture can carry a powerful patriarchal undercurrent.

Sometimes it is explicit. Other times it is much quieter. It appears in the expectations placed on women to be agreeable, avoid difficult questions, and to preserve the appearance of unity even when something inside them is unsettled.

It can be found in the subtle suggestion that a woman who asks too many questions is rebellious, that disagreement is disrespect, or that speaking openly about uncomfortable subjects somehow reflects a lack of Christian humility. And sometimes those expectations become so deeply ingrained that we stop recognizing them as expectations at all. We simply assume they are faithfulness. That’s some shaky ground to tread, my friends.

I have been thinking about the difference between believing something because we have prayerfully examined it and believing something because questioning it might disappoint the people around us. Those are two very different experiences of faith, and I wonder how many of us have confused them.

To Those Who Write to Me Quietly:

Something meaningful has happened since I began writing more openly about my faith, my conversion, and the things that weigh heavily on my heart. I’ve begun receiving private messages from readers who entrust me with their own questions, convictions, and experiences. I consider those conversations a tremendous privilege. Their confidence is sacred to me, and stories are shared not to be repeated, but simply to be heard.

Some of my writing generates lively public conversations. Other posts are met with what appears to be silence. Silence doesn’t necessarily mean nothing is happening. The most meaningful conversations are actually taking place quietly, beyond the comment section. And I understand why.

When faith is intertwined with our families, friendships, marriages, and communities, even acknowledging a different perspective can feel risky. I understand the instinct to remain quiet. And to those who are quietly questioning, studying, and searching: I see you.

You don’t have to agree with me. I certainly don’t have all the answers. But I hope you’ll give yourself permission to examine what you believe and whether those convictions have been formed through prayerful discernment or through the expectations of others. I want us to examine our convictions carefully enough to know why we hold them. To study history. To listen to voices outside the circles that have always affirmed our thinking. To distinguish between the teachings of Christ and the cultural expectations that have sometimes attached themselves to Christianity.

And, most importantly, to recognize that questioning what we have been taught is not necessarily the same thing as questioning God. Sometimes it is part of learning to seek Him more faithfully.

Tomorrow’s Gospel, Luke 11:47–54, is especially appropriate.

Jesus confronts the scholars of the law, condemning their hypocrisy and the ways they have hindered others from receiving the knowledge of God. In Luke 11:52, He speaks of those who have taken away the key of knowledge, neither entering themselves nor allowing others to enter.

These are strong words.

Jesus is not condemning religious learning or legitimate spiritual authority. He is confronting the misuse of that authority. There is a difference between teaching and intimidation. I find it striking that Jesus repeatedly challenged religious leaders who made access to God more burdensome for others. He was not afraid of uncomfortable conversations. And throughout the Gospels, women were among those who listened, questioned, learned, testified, and followed Him.

Our Christian communities should be places where thoughtful questions are welcomed rather than feared. Where women are encouraged to develop their minds as faithfully as their hearts, where unity is not mistaken for uniformity, and where genuine humility leaves room for the possibility that we still have something to learn.

For Teresa, prayer was not merely the repetition of words or the fulfillment of a religious obligation. It was friendship with God. And genuine friendship cannot flourish when one party is afraid to speak. If I believe God is truth itself, then I need not be afraid of pursuing truth with an open heart.

That doesn’t mean every personal conviction is correct. It doesn’t mean the Church’s teachings are ours to remake according to preference. It means we should have the courage to understand what we believe, why we believe it, and whether we have mistaken someone else’s expectations for the voice of God.

I keep looking at the photograph I took tonight. The storm passed, but the sky still carried its colors. The great tree stood in silhouette, its branches reaching in every direction. The horizon glowed with a warmth that seemed almost impossible after the force of the wind and rain.

Strength and beauty are not opposites. Neither are humility and conviction. And neither are femininity and a powerful voice.

Tomorrow, as the Church remembers St. Teresa of Ávila, I hope we will remember that the woman who helped reform religious life, taught generations how to pray, and became a Doctor of the Church did not accomplish those things by making herself smaller. She sought God with extraordinary determination, and she allowed that pursuit to change her life.

For those of you who read quietly, who wrestle privately, who are beginning to ask questions you once thought you weren’t allowed to ask, I hope you keep seeking.

I hope you will give yourself permission to seek the truth without allowing fear of someone else’s disapproval to determine where your search must end. Faith should lead us closer to Christ, not merely closer to the expectations of those around us.

After a storm has rearranged everything we thought was settled, the sky reveals a beauty we could never have imagined beforehand. The same can be true of the soul.

St. Teresa of Ávila, Doctor of the Church, pray for us.