MARY ELLENS' SUPER ANSWER TO HUNGER FOR MOTHERGOD

YOUR CONTRIBUTION HERE IS SO VALUABLE AND I AM DEEPLY TOUCHED. THIS
WILL GO ON ALL MY GROUPS. THE WISDOM HERE, THE POWER, THE PATHOS IS
REMARKABLE. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART.
THIS TOOK MUCH RESEARCH AND LOVE, THANK YOU AGAIN! RASA
----- Original Message -----
From: Mary Ellen
To: thecontemplatives@yahoogroups.com
Sent: Sunday, September 04, 2005 1:57 PM
Subject: [thecontemplatives] Re: THE HUNGER FOR MOTHER GOD - Part I

Hello All,

The need we have to put a "face" on God/dess has been with us
since time began. Sometimes, God/dess is seen as woman - sometimes
as an old man - sometimes as a woman and a man - sometimes as a
sacrificial lamb - and, even sometimes as Miss April 1997. Perhaps
this need stems from an innate desire to develop a relationship with
our vision of Deity.
Rasa's, posting on this subject brought tomind a couple of
prayers that I thought appropriate for the discussion. Plese take a
look at these and add some of your own.

The PRAYER OF THE MAGDALA (Mary Magdalene) from the Book of Perfect
Thought:

I was sent by the Power and came to those who thought of me.
I was found by those who sought me.
Behold me, ye who thought of me.
And ye who wanted to hear me, listen to me.
And ye who expected me, accept me.
And do not drive me away from before your eyes.
And let not your voice or your ear hate me.
Do not ignore me anywhere or at any time.
Be careful, do not ignore me, for
I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the despised one.
I am the harlot and I am the saint.
I am the woman and I am the virgin.
I am the mother and I am the daughter.
I am barren and I have many children.
I have many husbands and I am unmarried.
I am the physician who heals and I am the one who wounds.
I am the bride and I am the bridegroom.
I am the mother of my husband and my husband is my father.
I am the daughter of my husband, and my husband is my son.
I am the sister of my husband and my husband is my brother.
I am the slave of my father and I am the mistress of my son.


Or, the SONG OF ISIS (circa 300 B.C.):
I was sent by the Power and came to those who thought of me.
I was found by those who sought me.
Behold me, ye who thought of me.
And ye who wanted to hear me, listen to me.
And ye who expected me, accept me.
And do not drive me away from before your eyes.
And let not your voice or your ear hate me.
Do not ignore me anywhere or at any time.
Be careful, do not ignore me, for
I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the despised one.
I am the harlot and I am the saint.
I am the woman and I am the virgin.
I am the mother and I am the daughter.
I am barren and I have many children.
I have many husbands and I am unmarried.
I am the physician who heals and I am the one who wounds.
I am the bride and I am the bridegroom.
I am the mother of my husband and my husband is my father.
I am the daughter of my husband, and my husband is my son.
I am the sister of my husband and my husband is my brother.
I am the slave of my father and I am the mistress of my son.
For I am the first and the last
I am the venerated and the despised
I am the prostitute and the saint
I am the wife and the virgin
I am the mother and the daughter
I am the arms of my mother
I am barren and my children are many
I am the married woman and the spinster
I am the woman who gives birth and she who never procreated
I am the consolation for the pain of birth
I am the wife and the husband nd it was my man who created me
I am the mother of my father
I am the sister of my husband and he is my rejected son
Always respect me,
For I am the shameful and the magnificent one.

And, this from our Moslem sisters:
I am the Bosnian woman,
raped and beaten by
Serbian soldiers as
my husband is forced to look on,
and the world turns away.
The blood that runs from the bodies of
Algerian women
runs from me,
and stains the ground for all the world to see.
I am the woman on a Baghdad street corner,
begging journalists for a can of milk
so that I may feed my starving child.

I am the mother in Palestine,
mourning her eight year old son,
shot in the head by a soldier's rubber bullet.
I am the Egyptian daughter
struggling to survive in a Cairo slum,
as the government lines its pockets with foreign aid money,
and the desert dust rises to choke the young.
I am the Indonesian woman
who makes $2 a day
sewing basketball sneakers for the NBA,
while restlessness burns the country around me.
I am the Iranian student,
sporting jeans and Mickey Mouse tee shirts
under my black chador, laughing and loving,
still recovering from an eight year war that cost the lives of so
many men.

I am sister, wife, daughter, and mother to 500 million men.
I am all of my 500 million sisters,
and they are me.

I have always been more
than a threat
or a symbol of hatred and oppression.
I have always been more than
a terrorist's helpmate.
I have always been more than
a veil or a scarf.
I have always been more than
one wife of many.
I have always been more than
a green card special.
In all of these myths,
I have always been voiceless,
when the truth is so much
louder.

I have never been that easy for you to
pin down,
yet I have never been the mystery that
you have created for me.

I am the warrior daughter of Khadija, A'isha,
Maryam, and Sara.
I am the mother of prophets,
the wife of khalifas,
the sister of shaheed.
I am the woman who wakes at dawn to face Makkah in prayer,
bowing in submission only to The All Knowing.
I am fighting jihad,
fighting daily to maintain
iman and identity,
to open the closed eyes of the world.

I am the woman who raises her voice
among men
to shout:
Takbeer!
Allahu Akbar!


Brightest Blessings,

Mary Ellen