A Prayer:
“For the Hidden Hallelujah Within You”
Holy One of quiet miracles,
God of the whispered “yes,”
God of the hidden alleluia—
In the tender spaces of our lives,
where healing is unfinished
and hope feels fragile, you are there.
Living Gospel Inclusivity and Empowerment Now- https://bridgetmarys.blogspot.com/2025/10/rev-dr-bridget-mary-meehan-arcwp-chat.html
Monday, April 6, 2026
Sunday, April 5, 2026
Like Mary Magdalene, the first witness to the Resurrection, Roman Catholic Women Priests today are proclaiming the Good News by Rev. Dr. Bridget Mary Meehan ARCWP
Like Mary Magdalene, the first witness to the Resurrection, Roman Catholic Women Priests today are proclaiming the Good News—often without institutional recognition, but with deep spiritual authority.
In his insightful article, “How Rome Suppressed Its Own Ruling on Women Priests”
https://www.ucanews.com/news/how-rome-suppressed-its-own-ruling-on-women-priests/112623,
From my perspective as a woman priest and bishop in the Association of Roman Catholic Women Priests, I would say: what Holmes uncovers is not entirely new—but it is profoundly important to name it clearly in this moment of the Church’s unfolding renewal.
The heart of the issue is memory—and whose memory counts.
Holmes points to historical evidence that, for centuries, women exercised significant ministerial leadership in the early Church—especially as deacons, but also in priestly functions. Scholars like Gary Macy and Phyllis Zagano have demonstrated that the meaning of “ordination” itself developed over time. It was not always restricted in the rigid, juridical way it later became.
What Holmes rightly challenges is the narrative that the exclusion of women from ordination is somehow unchanging or divinely fixed. History tells the story.
What happened?
Over time, as the Church aligned more closely with imperial structures and patriarchal culture, leadership became increasingly clericalized, centralized, and male-dominated. The voices, ministries, and even the liturgical roles of women were gradually diminished, reinterpreted, or erased.
This is not simply theological development.
It is also institutional consolidation of power.
And when institutional power feels threatened, history can be selectively remembered.
Holmes names this dynamic with honesty. And that honesty is a gift to the Church.
But here is where I would go one step further.
This is not only about recovering what was lost.
It is about recognizing what the Spirit is doing now.
Across the world, in inclusive Catholic communities, women are already serving as priests—breaking open the Word, presiding at Eucharist, offering pastoral care, and building communities of equals rooted in Gospel love.
We are not waiting for permission to embody what we believe is already true.
Like Mary Magdalene, the first witness to the Resurrection, women today are proclaiming the Good News—often without institutional recognition, but with deep spiritual authority.
And like her, we are sometimes told our witness does not count.
But the Risen Christ still says:
“Go and tell.”
The deeper theological question is this:
Can the Church recognize that the Spirit may be restoring what was once present—and calling us into a fuller realization of Gospel equality?
If Rome suppressed aspects of its own tradition, then the task before us is not shame—but conversion.
A return.
A remembering.
A re-opening.
A Church faithful to Jesus cannot silence the voices he calls.
Jesus did not choose leaders based on gender, status, or ritual purity.
He chose those who were open to love, to justice, to transformation.
And that same Spirit is moving now.
Holmes’ article is part of a growing chorus—scholars, theologians, and lived communities—all pointing toward the same truth:
The exclusion of women from ordained ministry is not inevitable.
It is a choice.
And what has been chosen by the Church,
can be changed by the Church.
Until that day comes, we will continue to live the answer.
At open tables.
In communities of equals.
In the breaking of bread and the sharing of love.
Because the Spirit is not waiting.
And neither are we.
Colm Holmes raises a critical and courageous question—one that many in the Church are now asking with renewed urgency: Did Rome suppress its own tradition on women in ordained ministry?
From my perspective as a woman priest and bishop in the Association of Roman Catholic Women Priests, I would say: what Holmes uncovers is not entirely new—but it is profoundly important to name it clearly in this moment of the Church’s unfolding renewal.
The heart of the issue is memory—and whose memory counts.
Holmes points to historical evidence that, for centuries, women exercised significant ministerial leadership in the early Church—especially as deacons, but also in priestly functions. Scholars like Gary Macy and Phyllis Zagano have demonstrated that the meaning of “ordination” itself developed over time. It was not always restricted in the rigid, juridical way it later became.
What Holmes rightly challenges is the narrative that the exclusion of women from ordination is somehow unchanging or divinely fixed. History tells the story.
What happened?
Over time, as the Church aligned more closely with imperial structures and patriarchal culture, leadership became increasingly clericalized, centralized, and male-dominated. The voices, ministries, and even the liturgical roles of women were gradually diminished, reinterpreted, or erased.
This is not simply theological development.
It is also institutional consolidation of power.
And when institutional power feels threatened, history can be selectively remembered.
Holmes names this dynamic with honesty. And that honesty is a gift to the Church.
But here is where I would go one step further.
This is not only about recovering what was lost.
It is about recognizing what the Spirit is doing now.
Across the world, in inclusive Catholic communities, women are already serving as priests—breaking open the Word, presiding at Eucharist, offering pastoral care, and building communities of equals rooted in Gospel love.
We are not waiting for permission to embody what we believe is already true.
Like Mary Magdalene, the first witness to the Resurrection, women today are proclaiming the Good News—often without institutional recognition, but with deep spiritual authority.
And like her, we are sometimes told our witness does not count.
But the Risen Christ still says:
“Go and tell.”
The deeper theological question is this:
Can the Church recognize that the Spirit may be restoring what was once present—and calling us into a fuller realization of Gospel equality?
If Rome suppressed aspects of its own tradition, then the task before us is not shame—but conversion.
A return.
A remembering.
A re-opening.
A Church faithful to Jesus cannot silence the voices he calls.
Jesus did not choose leaders based on gender, status, or ritual purity.
He chose those who were open to love, to justice, to transformation.
And that same Spirit is moving now.
Holmes’ article is part of a growing chorus—scholars, theologians, and lived communities—all pointing toward the same truth:
The exclusion of women from ordained ministry is not inevitable.
It is a choice.
And what has been chosen by the Church,
can be changed by the Church.
Until that day comes, we will continue to live the answer.
At open tables.
In communities of equals.
In the breaking of bread and the sharing of love.
Because the Spirit is not waiting.
And neither are we.
Saturday, April 4, 2026
Easter Homily: "Love is Rising And We Are Part of It” by Rev. Dr. Bridget Mary Meehan, ARCWP
https://bridgetmarymeehan.substack.com/p/easter-homily-love-is-rising-and?r=2kfqor
Christ is rising—again and again—in us and in our world.
Nathan Yuill delivered 124 Easter baskets to Alaska hospitals
Just days ago in Alaska, a 12-year-old boy named Nathan walked the halls of a children’s hospital—not as a visitor, but as a patient.
Nathan is battling stage four Hodgkin’s Lymphoma cancer.
He knows fear.
He knows pain.
He knows the long nights.
And yet—he chose love.
Nathan created and delivered over 100 Easter baskets to other children in the hospital—so they could feel joy.
In a place of suffering, he created joy.
In the midst of illness, he became a healer.
While carrying his own cross, he lifted others.
This is resurrection.
Not someday.
Not far away.
But right here—breaking open in love.
And this is exactly what we celebrate on Easter.
We do not gather to deny the wounds of the world.
We gather to proclaim that God is present within them—transforming them from the inside out.
As Elizabeth Johnson reminds us, resurrection does not erase the cross—
it reveals God’s presence in the midst of it.
So we dare to believe:
violence will not have the last word,
injustice will not prevail,
and death is not the end.
Love is.
Love is rising, and we are part of it.
And this resurrection is not only something that happened long ago.
As Ilia Delio teaches, it is a cosmic awakening—
God’s life rising in all creation,
drawing everything toward wholeness,
toward unity,
toward love.
We glimpse this even now.
Recently, a spacecraft was launched toward the moon—fire and light carrying it beyond our atmosphere into the vast mystery of space.
The Artemis II mission launch, which took place on April 1, 2026—sending astronauts on humanity’s first journey toward the Moon in over 50 years reminds us that we are part of a universe still unfolding, still becoming.
And yet, the same creative energy that lifts rockets toward the moon
is the divine love that lifts human hearts toward compassion.
The same Spirit moving through the cosmos
is the Spirit that moved Nathan
to bring joy to others in their suffering.
This is resurrection:
God’s life rising everywhere—
in the expanding universe,
in courageous love,
in every act of compassion that refuses to give up.
We see it all around us:
when people stand for justice in peaceful demonstrations in every state in our country
when survivors- like Nathan- become healers,
when inclusive communities-like ours- open their tables and say, “You belong.”
Each of these is an Easter moment.
Each proclaims: Love is stronger than death.
Love is rising, and we are part of it.
Like Mary Magdalene, we are sent forth—
not just to speak the Good News,
but to live it.
To be people who choose love in the face of suffering.
To be communities of radical welcome.
To be signs of hope rising in a wounded world.
The same love that bursts forth from the tomb
is alive in the beating of our hearts,
in the unfolding of the universe,
in every act of compassion that makes all things new.
So let us rise—
as Easter people,
as bearers of light,
as witnesses to a love that will never die.
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Love is rising, and we are part of it.
Dialogue Homily Question:
Where do you see “love rising” in your life or in our world right now—and how might you be called to share that love?
Or
Where have you experienced resurrection—hope, healing, or new life—in the midst of struggle?
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