The Feminine Face of God: The Unfolding of the Sacred in Women

“An honest, compelling, surprising, and vastly reassuring book about the spiritual life of women . . . This landmark book is spiritual precisely because it is authentic.”—Joan Borysenko, Ph.D., author of Minding the Body, Mending the Mind

With a foreword by Jean Shinoda Bolen, M.D. 

For many contemporary women, the old patriarchal models of religion are no longer relevant, forming a need to look beyond the male-oriented past to a wider, more fulfilling spiritual horizon. In this fascinating and thought-provoking book, Sherry Anderson and Patricia Hopkins show how many women have redefined traditional beliefs and rediscovered their own unique spiritual heritage—The Feminine Face of God. Anderson and Hopkins guide you through the sacred garden of:

• Childhood—seedbed of life's sacred passage
• Leaving home—finding your own inner authority
• Relationships—new perspectives on intimacy
• Spiritual practice—the importance of guidance and discipline
• Sexuality—a wild card constantly cracking open the heart
• And much more

As women enter their sacred garden and learn the art of inner listening, they acquire the tools for living, loving, and praying authentically. In The Feminine Face of God there are seeds for growth: for creating and sustaining intimacy and love in a new way; for a new understanding of sexuality; for a new vision of family, a family of choice in a community of love.

Chapter 1
THE QUESTION THAT WOULDN’T GO AWAY
 
Shekhinah. Shekhinah. The word simply popped into my mind like an uninvited guest and wouldn’t go away. At times it seemed to disappear, but then it would come again, quietly, this strange word—Shekhinah. It seemed to be waiting patiently for me to pay attention to it. After hearing it in my mind for three days I tried saying it out loud. “Shekhinah.” It had an interesting sound. And when I said it, I felt a soft tug somewhere deep inside.
 
I began to ask my friends if they knew what it meant. It sounded as if it could be Hebrew, but although I knew some Hebrew, it was not familiar to me. When my husband and friends were unable to help, I tried the library in our small town but found no answer there either. Shekhinah. Shekhinah. It was becoming more insistent now, demanding my attention.
 
Still puzzling over what it could mean, I was sitting in my bedroom one morning when my friend Joan hurried through the door. She strode across the room and thrust a book into my hands. “Let’s try this,” she said. I glanced down at the blue cover on which the word Kabbalah was written, and turned to the index. Running my finger quickly down the S. column, I read, “Shekhinah: the feminine face of God.”
 
The words sent shock waves rippling down my spine and goose flesh bristling on my bare arms because I realized at once that the Shekhinah was not an uninvited guest at all. She had been announced to me with great ceremony in a powerful dream a full month earlier.
 
In the dream, I happily soar high above the clouds on a great golden dragon until I wonder, “Is this all there is?” The dragon immediately descends to earth, alighting at the side of a jewellike temple on a large body of water. I want to enter the temple, but I’m afraid to go in alone. I turn back to the dragon, hoping it will come and protect me. But this temple is human-sized and the dragon will not fit through the door.
 
I begin to climb the stairs to the entrance anyway, and now I see a ferocious temple guardian with bulging eyes looming menacingly in the doorway. Black dogs snarl on either side of him. With uncharacteristic bravery I continue walking, and as I stride through the door the guardian and his dogs evaporate as if made of fog.
 
Once I’m inside the doorway, an old man with long robes and a white beard emerges from an inner hallway to greet me. Without actually speaking, he lets me know that his name is Melchizedek. He is wearing a handsome dagger with a handle of turquoise and jade, and as soon as I notice this he presents me with a matching dagger, indicating that I am to wear it on my right side. Then he motions me ahead of him. It is clear that he expects me to lead the way.
 
I step into a long hallway with a high ceiling and red tiles on the floor. Walking slowly, we eventually come to a pair of polished wooden doors at the end of the corridor. I open them silently and lead the way into a large, empty room. A plain wooden stage is set against the far wall. At the back of the stage is a built-in cabinet. I approach the cabinet and pull open the doors.
 
I am dumbfounded by what I see. Rolled onto finely carved wooden poles is the most sacred object in Judaism, the Torah. I learned as a child that the Torah contains the five books of Moses written on parchment by an Orthodox scribe, and that if even one letter has been written incorrectly, the Torah cannot be used. I have never actually seen a Torah close up or held one, since these privileges were permitted only to men when I was growing up. But now I lift this Torah carefully out of its cabinet and cradle it to me tenderly as if it were a baby.
 
Then I notice something unusual. Instead of a mantle of velvet covering the scrolls, or a simple ribbon holding them closed, the Torah has been sealed shut by a dark round blot of red wax. I look at Melchizedek. “This is a very special Torah,” he says. Pulling out his dagger, he breaks the seal and rolls open the scrolls. They are absolutely blank. “The Torah is empty,” he says, “because what you need to know now is not written in any book. You already contain that knowledge. It is to be unfolded from within you.”
 
“What is this Torah for?” I ask.
 
My question seems to set in motion the next sequence of events. Without speaking Melchizedek lifts the Torah and lightly places it inside my body, from my shoulders to my knees. I accept this gratefully, feeling my body as a sacred vessel.
 
At once, a great commotion breaks out behind us. Spinning around, I see that the room is now filled with long-bearded patriarchs wearing black coats and trousers. They’re holding hands, laughing, singing and dancing jubilantly around the room. They pull me into their celebration. As I dance I seem to see Moses, King David and King Solomon, and Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. They, too, are dressed in black coats and trousers, dancing with such heartfelt abandonment that I catch their joy and am filled with it. Ecstatically we whirl round and round the room, laughing.
 
Finally the dancing stops and I ask, “What is this all about?” Melchizedek answers, “We are celebrating because you, a woman, have consented to accept full spiritual responsibility in your life. This is your initiation as one who will serve the planet.”
 
As I wonder what this means, he continues, “And you are not the only one. Many, many women are coming forward now to lead the way.”
 
“But who will be our teachers?” I protest.
 
“You will be teachers for each other. You will come together in circles and speak your truth to each other. The time has come for women to accept their spiritual responsibility for our planet.”
 
“Will you help us?” I ask the assembled patriarchs.
 
“We are your brothers,” they answer, and with that the entire room is flooded with an energy of indescribable kindness. I am absolutely confident in this moment that they are our brothers. I feel their love without any question. They say then, “We have initiated you and we give you our wholehearted blessings. But we no longer know the way. Our ways do not work anymore. You women must find a new way.”