Teaching Theology and Religion, ISSN 1368-4868, 1998, vol. 1 no. 1, pp 20^26.

Hospitality: A Feminist Theology of

Education1
Jane McAvoy
Lexington Theological Seminary

Abstract: This article presents a methodology for a

feminist theology of education based on reflection of
women's educational experience in light of historical
and contemporary theological works, especially the
writing of Julian of Norwich. It argues for hospitality
as a metaphor for theological education and suggests
an understanding of the student, teacher, and
environment of education that can create hospitality
in the classroom.
At the end of her first term of theological study,
Andrea's advisor called her into his office to discuss
her final paper. She remembers him saying, ``You can't
write, and if you can't write, you can't think.'' She
stumbled out of his office and walked back to her
dorm. As his words rang in her ears, every bit of selfconfidence drained from her. She returned to her room
totally defeated and planned to pack her bags.
Reflecting on this experience, she observed that she
acted ``just like a girl'' not only by running from the
situation, but also by unquestioningly accepting his
evaluation of her work (McAvoy 1994).2
I have been haunted by this story. While I want to
believe it is not true, I know at some gut level that it is
genuine. It is the kind of ``forbidden tale'' that Thomas
Ogletree suggests has power because it reveals variants
of our own stories. Such stories disclose the fact that
students' ``private troubles have a social basis''
(Ogletree 1985, 5). Indeed, this story is a Rorschach
test of theological education. Those who ponder the
student's motivation and failure wonder why she and
other ``misfits'' cannot succeed in the system of
theological education. Those who are struck by the
insensitivity of the professor question the role of
vocation in theological education. Those who ask what
kind of system could allow this to happen contemplate
the environment of theological education.

A theology of education must attend to the

problems and possibilities of the student, the teacher,
and the environment of theological education. If it is to
be true to life, it must acknowledge and reflect upon
the lived practice of an education that tells Andrea she
cannot write.
Starting Points for a Feminist Theology of
Education
To suggest a theology of education is to realize that
education is sacred work. Maria Harris describes
teaching as a ``noble, beautiful and graced activity''
because at the heart of teaching is the power of
students to re-create themselves and the world around
them (1991, xvxvi). Rebecca Chopp (1995) calls this
saving work. In order for saving work to occur, the
teacher needs a sense of vocation that honors the
possibility of the sacred appearing in the midst of
education. It requires caring for the souls of our
students (hooks 1994, 13), and recognizing those rare
moments when ``one true voice calls and another
responds'' (Griffin 1992, 173).
A theology of education would do well to revive the
notion of teaching as a ministry that does not replicate
the role of the pastor or the chaplain but does realize
that all teachers, especially those of us involved in
theological education, have found our calling in
teaching. It is in this realm that we live out our faith
as we use or misuse our God-given talents. A theology
of education must recognize instances of the misuse of
this sacred work and point towards a wise and careful
use of our educational gifts.
To examine and imagine this sacred work requires a
careful analysis of the lived experience of education,
especially the experience of students in education. In
other words, a feminist theology of teaching is
grounded in praxis. While the Cornwall Collective

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Published by Blackwell Publishers Ltd, Oxford OX4 1JF, UK and 350 Main Street, Malden, MA 02148, USA

Hospitality

(1980) and Mudflower Collective (1985) began work in

this area, few of the recent works on theological
education have taken this approach.3 What a feminist
theology offers is a method of reflective practice and
attention to how this practice affects the marginalized,
especially women.
A look at women's experiences in theological
education is instructive precisely because it exposes
the limits of educational structures by showing why
some people do not fit into the current system. This
approach claims that women are not totally other than
the majority, but as outsiders experience more acutely
the limitations that adversely affect all students (Boys
1985, 115).4 Like canaries in the coal mine, women
point to problems that pollute the environment.
Reflecting on their experiences is a way to lead
theological education to better surroundings.
I have been haunted by Andrea's story because I
know it is a metaphor for women's educational
journeys. This does not mean that all women
experience theological education as silencing, but that
as a woman in theological education, I know that
women are silenced. Reflecting on this lived practice
not only gives voice to women's educational
experiences, it gets to the heart of the problem and
possibilities of theological education.
How Theological Education Silences
Women Students
Gail Griffin terms an experience like Andrea's a
``marked moment'' because one is marked by the
``Hush!'' of the Fathers. It is a ``moment where the fire
within, the burning to speak, meets the fire without,
the resistance'' (1992, 97). Such resistance comes in
many forms. One study documents the ``microinequities'' between male and female students in
graduate education. Women are interrupted more than
men, and are less likely to be recognized to speak
(Sandler and Hall 1986, 3). One student shared with
me the vexing experience of always raising the first
question in her ministry class which was totally
ignored until a male student repeated her question
later in the class period. Another student remembers
the many ways she and another theological student
tried, unsuccessfully, to get the professor to let them
speak in class.
Why does such silencing occur? It is tempting to
blame these moments on unusually insensitive
instructors, with poor interpersonal skills. But if this
is the case, such practices are allowed to continue,
which suggests that they happen in a climate that
permits silencing to occur. As one student explained to
me, the reason women students have marked moments
is because the pedagogical model of theological
education is designed for bright young men who have
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always been successful. Its premise is that such

students are resistant to education and need to be put
in their place to learn the limits of their understanding
(McAvoy 1994). It assumes they will know how to
resist and how to come back from such exchanges with
a fighting spirit. The problem is that it does not work
with many women. They rightly experience these
moments as resistance, but do not respond as expected.
This, ironically, can be interpreted as refusing to take
their place, which in turn leads to more resistance on
the part of the teacher. It is a climate that Sandler and
Hall describe as ``chilly'' for women because of the
lack of encouragement and a feeling of general
devaluation (1986, 16).
It is important to realize how much the theme of
resistance shapes our interactions with students. Too
often we interpret students' behavior as resistance and
act according to the climate of resistance. The
Cornwall study rightly points out the persistent
problem of feminists who mirror the very system of
education that has marked them. They note specifically
how this is manifested by Caucasian women in relation
to students of color (1980, 38). To address the climate
is not to blame a few white male professors, it is to
admit to a system that we misuse to understand anyone
who threatens, challenges, or refuses to respond to our
authority.
The tragedy is that women students respond to this
theological climate by silencing themselves. As Griffin
points out, it begets ``in the Daughter mechanisms by
which she gags herself'' (1992, 97). Often women do
everything but respond to their teachers. They become
shy, run scared, apologize for their work, and assume
blame for all criticism (Aisenberg and Harrington
1988, 6874). One student told me she chose not to
speak in her ministry seminar because it crushed her
when anyone opposed what she said. ``I can't handle
it,'' she confessed; ``I totally fall apart.'' Such responses
reinforce the key insight that women suffer from the
sin of self-contempt.6 Their struggle is not with
knowing it all, but with believing that they know
anything at all. They lack confidence.
Julian of Norwich: A Voice From the Past
Understanding and responding to women's gagging
strategies requires theological reflection on the nature
of sin. Here I have found most instructive the writing
of the medieval mystic Julian of Norwich, in part
because she so poignantly describes the sin of selfcontempt and its theological consequences. I agree
with Janet Schaller that reflecting on the work of
female mystics may be fruitful to the mentoring of
women (Schaller 1996, 168).7 Such a reflection is a
creative retrieval of theological tradition that strives
for the kind of meaningful analysis that expands our

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McAvoy

present understanding (Groome 1988, 1819).8 It is

merely using the same kind of reflective practice for
theological writing that guides our teaching.
Julian of Norwich was a 14th century English
anchoress who is known for her work Showings. This
work is a theological analysis of a series of visions that
she experienced in May of 1373. A first draft was
probably written soon after that event, and a second
and longer edition was written later. While the work
was not widely known in its day, it has received
considerable attention in recent years due to Julian's
use of feminine imagery to describe God. It is often
characterized as a ``feel good'' kind of theology
because it contains the constant refrain, ``all will be
well'' (Julian 1978, 149).
A closer reading of Julian reveals that she knew that
all was not well. Indeed the heart of her revelations is a
struggle with this realization. Denise Baker has argued
that Julian was haunted by the enigma of sin (1994,
64), because neither the traditional solution, which
attributed sin to human free will, nor the heretical
solution, which attributed evil to a power counter to
God, concurred with her experience. Julian struggled
with these definitions precisely because they were
based on a theory of resistance to God that she did not
feel. Her problem was not the willful neglect or
disobedience of God, it was the intense feeling of
unworthiness before God.
Julian writes, ``Sin is the sharpest scourge with
which any chosen soul can be struck, which scourge
belabours man or woman, and breaks a man, and
purges him in his own sight so much that at times he
thinks himself that he is not fit for anything but as it
were to sink into hell'' (244). For Julian, sin is the
feeling that one is not fit to stand in the sight of God
because of one's impure state. Therefore, one must rid
the self of this essential state in order to appease God.
It is existential self-contempt. The problem, of course,
is that to purge oneself of one's essential nature is
impossible, and slowly Julian realizes that selfcontempt must be the result of a doctrinal error.
Seeing this, she begins to claim purgation as false sight.
It is ``the spiritual blindness that we fall into by our
first sin,'' and all the wretchedness, suffering, and pain
that results. This blindness is manifested in what Julian
calls the ``secret sins'' of impatience and despair which
contribute to our pain (166167). What we are blind to
is the nature of our contempt. The sinner projects selfwrath onto God and in the process gives divine
justification for internal rage. Julian argues that divine
wrath is not logical because wrath results from a lack
of power, wisdom, and goodness which are not
characteristics of a powerful, wise, and good God,
but rather are the products of a powerless self (262).
The source of this understanding of sin is the 13th
showing, known as the parable of the Lord and

Servant. It is a vision of a servant who is sent on an

errand at his Lord's bidding only to fall into a hole.
Julian describes the reality of sin from the perspective
of the servant in the hole. From there he is ``blinded in
his reason and perplexed in his mind, so much so that
he had almost forgotten his own love'' (268). Of all the
pain that he felt, Julian notes that what seems most
astonishing to her is that he lay alone. Here Julian sees
sin as a physical separation from God, not an internal
rebellion of the will, and the suffering that the servant
experiences is due to his inability to see his loving
Lord. Grace Jantzen (1988, 206) notes that the longer
he lingers, the worse his suffering becomes, so that he
becomes blind to the compassion of God, blind to his
own worth in the Lord's sight, and eventually blind to
his deepest nature and own worth.
Julian provides a crucial key to our understanding
of the problem of theological education. Teachers
interact with women students as if they were guilty of
the sin of rebellion of the will and thus need to be
taught how to repent of their pride, when in reality
they have fallen into an alienating educational climate
and respond in the self-condemning acts of impatience
and despair. Thus Andrea is ready to pack her bags,
``acting just like a girl.''
But must she give in to her own despair? It is this
reflection on the consequences of sin that occupies
Julian's mind. If sin is the purgation of self, what is
salvation? Julian reaches inside the vision of the
parable to articulate an original understanding of
God's grace and human redemption. The point of the
parable is to realize that God does not blame the
servant for his fall, but rather desires to reward him for
his good will and great desire by sending Jesus to
communicate God's concern. Otherwise God would
appear ungracious. Julian's point here is to preserve an
idea of the goodness and honor of God. The moral is
the two-fold compassion of God that refuses to blame
a well-meaning servant for his failure and the sending
of another to communicate this concern. The saving
role of Christ gives humans a new perspective on the
intrinsic worth of their essential nature.
Therefore, the key to overcoming sin is to adopt the
perspective of God as revealed in Christ. Julian
describes this process as contrition understood in its
original sense as the wearing away of something hard.
Julian writes that a person is caught in the throes of
purgation ``until contrition seizes him by the
inspiration of the Holy Spirit and turns bitterness into
hope of God's mercy. And then the wounds begin to
heal and the soul to revive, restored to the life of Holy
Church'' (244). Contrition is the process of wearing
away self-contempt.
What Julian does not explain is how this process of
contrition takes place in her own life or in ours.
Through a comparison of the two versions of her
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Hospitality

work, we can conclude that Julian is able to overcome

her own self-contempt and emerge a revived soul.9 A
key to this process may be the context in which she
lived. Margaret King has argued that women in the late
Middle Ages needed a ``place of refuge from the
violence and tyranny of the male, and a place of
nurture for the virtue and dignity of the female'' in
order to think and live (1991, 237). While we know
little about Julian's life, scholars agree that during her
years of writing and reflection she lived as an
anchoress. It was a life of seclusion which provided
freedom from worldly responsibilities for spiritual
contemplation. For Julian this would mean freedom
from societal definitions of theology and time to
contemplate the definitions implicit in her revelations.
What does this suggest for the education of women
today? Certainly not a return to locking up women in
cells or suggesting that teachers become rescue workers
who save damsels from the hole of education. Instead,
Julian raises some key questions that are worth our
consideration in analyzing Andrea's story. What kind
of educational enclosure would facilitate Andrea's
process of contrition? Who could provide the necessary
compassion to enable her growth?
A Reformation of Education as Gracious
Hospitality
Susanne Johnson has argued that theological education
needs to embody an environment of hospitality which
confronts the ``dominant group with the moral
imperative to give hospitality to the stranger'' (1993,
343). It builds on the biblical idea that hospitality is the
virtue of establishing committed relationships of
mutual welcome between guests and host and realizes
these moments as occasions of grace. Hospitality is a
practical virtue that enables peace and harmony
without negating the radical difference between host
and stranger (Koenig 1985, 110). Such an educational
environment secures a ``social space'' for the
marginalized and facilitates the development of their
theological voices (Johnson 1993, 348).
The hospitable teacher is a crucial element in this
environment. Thomas Groome suggests that teachers
need to possess psychological hospitality, an empathy
with students (1988, 1617). We need to be mindful of
ourselves as teachers and care about our students
(Harris 1991, 159). Building on the same theme, Henri
Nouwen (1972) writes that such hospitality is the
fostering of compassion to overcome the fear of the
stranger. He argues that it requires an ability to listen,
receive, and grow in gentleness and receptivity.10 This
involves a willingness to hear the experiences of
students as well as to share one's own life experience
with them. Ogletree notes that this kind of hospitality
changes power dynamics in the classroom. While a
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student needs the recognition of the teacher, when a

student tells her stories she is in power (1985, 4). Like a
host, we must welcome the stranger. ``When you open
your house for the stranger, you might become his
guest. . . . When you teach, you might learn from your
students'' (Nouwen 1972, 57).
Realizing that you might learn from your students
requires a revisioning of one's relationship to the
subject matter as well as the student. It requires an
``intellectual hospitality'' that lets go of the control of
knowledge in order to facilitate the thinking of our
students (Groome 1988, 17). It includes a degree of
intellectual humility that must accept the possibility
that we might learn from the other (Alexander 1996,
145). Unfortunately, this kind of hospitality is often
characterized as intellectual laziness or ineptitude
when in fact it requires the greatest love for and
interaction with theological tradition. It is a creative
and suspicious retrieval of the past that seeks to
remove distortions, uncover life-giving memories, and
expand present understanding and living in the world
(Groome 1988, 19).
A good example of this kind of psychological and
intellectual hospitality is described by Nel Noddings
who tells of her experience of giving the gift of a story
to her students. At the end of class she read a short
story to her students. After her reading, a student
asked the perennial question, ``Will we be tested on
this?'' ``No,'' she replied, ``it's just one of my favorite
stories and I wanted to share it with you.'' Amazingly,
her students did not consider this wasting their time,
but were delighted with her willingness to share of her
intellectual interests and to welcome their response
(Noddings 1993, 135).11 Such gifts are indeed gracious
hospitality.
The reception of such gifts depends on the ability of
students to respond to hospitality. Students need to
possess self-esteem to participate in learning, even if
this engagement is only at the level of asking if the
content of a day's lesson will be on the test. It requires
that they ``become at home'' in their own houses
(Nouwen 1972, 54). As Ogletree notes, marginalized
people cannot be expected to feel at home in an alien
climate. Instead of fitting in and before they can
respond to hospitality their task is to bring into view
features of their own experience that have been
suppressed (1985, 5).
For women this will involve a reckoning with their
self-contempt. Schaller calls for transformation of a
woman's self-image through a ``kenosis'' of self-doubts
and negative image. ``In order to claim a self created in
the image of God, one needs to relinquish the negative
or limited self-image and self-doubts to which too
many women cling (1996, 168).'' 12 While it is
something a woman must do for herself, Schaller
notes it is almost impossible to do without the

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McAvoy

encouragement of another. Interestingly, Griffin

observes that while encouragement is one avenue
toward this growth, even resistance and discouragement can be the catalysts for women's self-realization
(1992, 98).
The classroom is one of the most important forums
for this encouragement and resistance. As Griffin
notes, to have a voice is not to speak, but to be heard
and empowered by one's context (1992, 174). An
encouraging classroom requires an openness and
intellectual rigor that recognizes the ``value of each
individual voice'' (hooks 1994, 40). Others have
described the classroom as a free or secure space for
learning. It is a place ``where people can find that
safety in space and time that promotes their own
subjectivity, their coming into right relationship, and
their discovering of God's presence in their lives''
(Groome 1988, 16). It is creating in the classroom the
kind of enclosed environment that gave Julian free
space for reflection.
Creating such a space will necessitate that everyone
participates responsively in a community of learners.
Anyone who has struggled with student involvement in
class discussion will realize this is no easy task. But bell
hooks reminds us that we should not expect equality in
the classroom but rather should strive for an equal
engagement in the class according to our relative
status. ``We are all equal here to the extent that we are
equally committed to creating a learning context''
(1994, 153).
The ability to create an encouraging classroom
depends in large part upon the hospitality of the
surrounding educational climate, or as Groome notes,
it requires ecclesial hospitality (1988, 18). This includes
not only the ability to teach for and towards an open
community of faith, but requires an institutional
willingness to attend to the needs of the strangers in
its midst. It confronts the dominant group with the
limitations of the status quo and challenges it to respond
by allowing strangers a voice in the shaping of the
educational environment. As Johnson notes, the goal is
that ``the host-stranger dialectic eventually gives way to
solidarity in the struggle for justice'' (1993, 347).
Is this kind of hospitality possible? Upon returning
to her dorm, Andrea was greeted by a student
colleague who volunteered to help her rewrite her
paper during the quarter break. With her colleague's
encouragement, she slowly realized that she could
rewrite the paper. This act of contrition helped her to
restore her confidence. She resubmitted the paper and
received a passing grade. The experience, she reflects,
``taught me that I can write, so I can think.'' Her
growth was facilitated by a resistant and then
encouraging teacher, and a compassionate colleague.
Unfortunately, this is the end of her story. Few people
knew then or know now about her educational

struggle. Neither the classroom climate nor the

institution of theological education was affected by
her experience.
Confessions of a Repentant Educator
Andrea's experience is a wake-up call for all of us
involved in theological education. It is easy to
disregard her experience or to pride ourselves that we
were not the teacher involved in it. Instead we need to
reflect on our own teaching and think about how our
students perceive it. It is a task which Johnson argues
will need to begin in repentance because the reality of
our educational practice falls short of the vision of
educational hospitality (1993, 348).
I, for example, recently taught a class at an
undergraduate college that I considered my most
successful attempt at creating a hospitable teaching
environment. The class formed a close sense of
community and together we engaged in rigorous study
of women mystics. There was only one problem. I had
become increasingly perplexed by the consistent
tardiness of two African-American female students. I
could not understand why they were intentionally
disrupting our classroom community, so I made a short
and directed comment about their behavior which
crushed them. What they heard me say was, ``You're
black, you're tardy, you're lazy.''
I wish I could report that I immediately realized the
effect of my remarks, but the truth of the matter is it
took a whole cast of students, colleagues, and
administrators before I realized the seriousness of the
situation. What I learned in the process was that a
climate of racial oppression had been increasing at the
school. Minority students would come to class late,
leave early, and avoid class with long breaks because
they felt isolated and unwelcome.
I finally realized that my students were not being
arrogant, they were removing themselves from a
community that made them feel marginalized. I was
stunned to realize I did not even know about the racial
climate on campus or think that my students would be
affected by it.
A large dose of humility, a public apology, and
individual conferences with one of the students helped
restore a bit of hospitality to the classroom, although it
was not back to class as normal. Nor should it have
been, since normal was inhospitable to two of my
students. Campus-wide workshops scheduled for this
year may help improve the institutional climate,
although it will be difficult to create the kind of
institutional solidarity that Johnson argues is
necessary.
As to the students involved, I just do not know. I
live with the knowledge that I may be the silencing
voice in their academic careers. Mostly, I hope that
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Hospitality

Griffin is right when she observes that moments of

resistance can lead to educational growth.
Now I realize that a theology of hospitality is
difficult to live out. Yet I remain convinced that our
critical reflection and diligent effort to work towards
an educational climate of hospitality is key to the
future success of theological education.
Notes
1.

2.
3.
4.

5.
6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

I am grateful to Hiram College for granting me a

sabbatical in 1997 and to Vanderbilt Divinity School and
Divinity Library for offering me hospitality during the
writing of this article.
This and other student experiences described are taken
from interviews conducted in the summer of 1993. The
student's name has been changed.
Rebecca Chopp calls for discussion of education based on
lived practice (Wheeler 1991, 6789). An important
contribution to this study of lived practice is Carroll (1997).
Here I have in mind an analysis that parallels Gail
Griffin's discussion of the liberal arts college. Through
an interplay of anecdote and analysis, Griffin discusses
the mundane, practical, personal, and dynamic character
of education (1992, ixx).
Susanne Johnson (1993, 348) also notes this problem.
First noted by Valerie Saiving (1979), this analysis of
women's sin is applied to educational theory by Belenky
(1986). More recently, Margaret Guenther (1992) has
applied this analysis to mentoring women.
Here again I am indebted to the work of Gail Griffin
who uses reflection on Joan of Arc to Jane Eyre to
analyze college women's experiences of education (1992,
77106).
In relation to medieval mystics, Margaret Miles calls this
kind of a reading not a misreading but a ``disobedient
reading'' which strives to uncover the effect of the text
(1989, xiv).
For an example of this growth, compare chapter 6 of the
Short Text with chapter 8 of the Long Text. Baker's
book (1994) is built on the comparison of these two
drafts to show the progression of Julian's thought.
Nouwen (1972) characterizes this as self-detachment.
Likewise, Groome (1988) builds on the idea of empathy
as ``kenosis''. A contrasting analysis is given by Griffin
who describes the comparison of the teacher as the
``motherheart'' of teaching (1992, 37).
A medieval example of this same kind of hospitality is
found in Kempe who records how Julian listened to her
theological concern, engaged her in reflection on the
advice of the church fathers, and encouraged her to
continue in her own spiritual reflection (1985, 78).
Carol Lakey Hess calls this a sacrifice of the sacrifice
(1993, 362).

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