Holy Woman by Louise Omer
Holy Woman (2022) is a profound memoir by debut author Louise Omer about what it means to be female in a religion that worships a male God. Omer recounts her journey to and from organised religion – how, growing up in a family of non-believers, she found her way to God, and what it took for that relationship to slowly unravel. On her journey, Omer seeks to find how women and queer people can experience belonging in vigorously patriarchal religions – and whether there’s such a thing as a ‘holy woman.’
Part travel diary, feminist theology and confessional memoir, Omer’s pilgrimage takes you deep inside the world of faith, sexuality, agency and identity. As she says in an interview with Better Reading, it all hinges on one important question:
“Could I resolve the conflict between my two identities, feminist and faithful?”
As a teenager, Omer joins the Pentecostal Christian Church in an effort to seek community, to find purpose and to help others. In her twelve years with the church, she meets and marries her husband, becomes a preacher and begins her journey as a feminist writer.
However, as her marriage breaks down and she’s thrust from the safety and sovereignty of religion, she decides to leave it all behind and begin a pilgrimage around the world in pursuit of a divine feminine.
Broken up into ‘before’ and ‘after’, Holy Woman jumps between past and present, lending Omer’s religious years a fervent, devout aura, while coating everything she goes through ‘after’ in a persistent film of bone-deep uncertainty. From the precarious starting point of her divorce, we see her travel the world on a real ‘hero’s journey’: facing trials, overcoming obstacles, pondering previous and present challenges, and most importantly of all, approaching the vulnerable subject of religion with grace and honesty.
In a way, it is difficult for Omer to pin down exactly what it was that made her seek out religion in the first place. Yet some of the most interesting parts of the book are when Omer questions her past decisions and actions when joining the church. And while there is a rage burning within her, she always attempts to reason with all of her experiences:
“Faced with life's brutality, it was solace to believe things were ordered and arranged. Suffering was resurrected by meaning… Limiting religious authority to men meant that male interpretation was seen as objective truth.”
While these revelations often hurt, they make it easier to make sense of the past. It is both moving and heart-breaking to follow her fall from grace. She wonders how she could have been so blind to the control that it exercised over her life, and why she needed many small things to add up before she could truly open her eyes.
“Such is the insidious potential of ideology; implied by symbol and story, it may never be discussed in full.”
While Holy Woman is Omer’s own individual reckoning with religion – and therefore naturally limited to a white woman’s experience with Christianity, in particular Pentecostalism – she does a great job of exploring perspectives besides her own. Her interviewees are Christian, Muslim and Jewish; sometimes straight, other times queer; sometimes women, other times non-binary. Through their voices, she explores patriarchy and religion, the limitations of a male God and the female experience in various countries, as well as issues like abortion, menstruation and sexuality. Omer’s journey towards the divine feminine is personal but it is universal, and it attempts to leave no one out.
“As Susann's spirituality was inspired by her experience as a woman, Elin's queer identity informed her faith. I’d followed my community's heteronormative expectations and had the privilege of ignoring homophobia. When you fit in, you don't question the dominant paradigm. Conformity is invisible until it chokes.”
Interestingly, Omer refers not only to God as ‘Him’ with a capital ‘H’ but also her husband – the two become intertwined, often inseparable. Here, the patriarchal nature of religion, as well as the power structures it enforces, is ever-present. Omer explores these consequences eloquently.
“Do you ever talk to Him?' she asked, her cocoa-coloured eyes open wide.
What to say? The line of power: Husband, Pastor, God. Patriarchy was not a whip but a smile. The subtle erosion of certainty. I confessed: 'No, Mum. He was controlling.’
This is what I didn't say to my mother with her dark, wet eyes: You were there when He and I began. You loved Him, too. Why didn't you warn me?
And more, this: Mum, I kept saying yes. I kept saying yes.”
Holy Woman sweeps you away. It is written with such openness and profound grace, with so much passion and such raw emotions, that you cannot help but be carried along on the tides of her anger and revelation. Through her search for a holy woman, Omer becomes a beacon for others in her gumption and resilience. By the end, there are no clear answers: it is up to each of us to pronounce ourselves – if not holy – then at least whole.
Fruzsina Gál is an aspiring writer, born in Hungary but living in Australia. She has been a reader all her life, and her first short story, 'The Turul' was published in Griffith University's 2018 anthology, Talent Implied. Her writing is often focussed on identity and the effects of immigration on the self. You can find her online at www.fruzsinagal.com or @thenovelconversation.