Preached by the President of the House of Deputies, Julia Ayala Harris
March 10, 2025
Chapel of Christ the Lord, Episcopal Church Center
Power Falls When Women Rise
Faith that does not move is empty. Justice that does not act is an illusion. Words of comfort mean little when chains still bind, when justice is only promised but never delivered.
Harriet Tubman knew this truth.
Born into slavery, she escaped—but she did not stop there. Risking her life, she returned again and again, leading others to freedom. She was hunted, threatened, underestimated—but she could not be stopped. She refused to let the structures of oppression define the limits of possibility. When the world told her to stay in her place, she moved. When the powerful told her to stay silent, she spoke with her feet.
Harriet Tubman understood what we must remember today: liberation is not a moment. It is a movement. It is not a gift from the powerful. It is the work of the people. And it is never finished.
Thirty years ago, the world gathered in Beijing for the Fourth World Conference on Women, where 189 nations made a revolutionary commitment to gender equality through the Beijing Declaration and Platform for Action. It was a watershed moment when the global community affirmed, with one voice, that “women’s rights are human rights.” This wasn’t merely a diplomatic achievement—it was a sacred covenant, a promise to future generations that gender justice would be central to human flourishing.
And yet—here we are.
Still fighting to protect the gains we made. Still watching as hard-won rights are stripped away. Still hearing the cry of those suffering.
Because we do not live in a moment of progress, but a moment of regression.
Let us name the reality before us: democracy is in decline. Progressivism is in retreat. Authoritarianism is resurgent. And when democracy crumbles, when fear takes hold, when nations turn their eyes inward instead of outward, it is women—especially the most vulnerable women among us—who bear the cost.
When economic precarity rises, it is women in mixed-status families who live in constant fear of separation. When migration policies harden, it is undocumented women who suffer first, cut off from healthcare, justice, and safety. When gender-diverse people are stripped of legal protections, it is transgender women, nonbinary individuals, and others
marginalized by rigid gender norms who face the highest risks of violence and exclusion. When climate catastrophes worsen, it is Indigenous women who are left to protect the land with little power to stop its destruction.
These forces are connected. Because this is not just about women’s rights. This is about the fate of humanity; the fate of the earth itself.
If we do not center the voices, the wisdom, and the leadership of women—cis and trans, nonbinary folks, and all those marginalized by systems of patriarchal power—then our world will not survive the crises of this age.
And yet—here we are.
Gathered in this place, proclaiming once again that the arc of history is not decided by the powerful alone.
We know how these stories usually go. A man seizes power through violence, convinced that his might and terror will secure his rule. He believes he is invincible, beyond accountability. The story of Abimelech, a ruler who seized power through bloodshed, reminds us that empires do not fall in the way the powerful expect. And yet, time and again, the downfall does not come from an army or an empire.
It comes from a woman.
Abimelech’s reign was built on blood, his path to power paved with the bodies of those he destroyed. But in the end, it was one woman—nameless in the text—who saw the walls closing in and acted. A single stone, well-placed, and the whole corrupt foundation collapsed. Even in death, Abimelech fought to rewrite the story, demanding that his servant finish him off so no one could say, “A woman killed him.”
But history has a way of remembering the truth, remembering the millstones thrown by women who throw them.
The story of liberation is full of women like this—women whose names we may never know, but whose courage changed everything.
Harriet Tubman was one of them. She changed history. She was feared. And she was free.
And the truth is, there are millstones still to be thrown.
There are systems of injustice still standing—economic, political, social—held together by those who believe they are untouchable. But if history teaches us anything, it is this: they will not stand forever.
And yet, even in this time of regression, we witness sparks of divine possibility breaking through. We see it in the indigenous women of the Amazon who have successfully defended ancestral lands against devastating extraction. We glimpse it in the global
movement of young climate activists, led disproportionately by young women, who refuse to surrender their future to indifference. We recognize it in our own church, where women’s leadership continues to transform not just who stands at the altar, but how we understand the very nature of ministry itself.
These are not merely political victories—they are sacramental moments, visible signs of an invisible grace working through human hands and hearts committed to justice.
It looks like the Church refusing to be silent. It looks like faith communities standing in the gap when governments fail. It looks like naming hard truths—not just when it is easy, but when it is costly.
And my friends, let us be clear: this will cost us something.
It will cost us comfort. It will cost us power. It will cost us wealth. It may cost us our reputations.
But that is nothing compared to what it costs to stay silent.
Some of us have been knocking for a long time.
We have knocked on the doors of power, demanding justice. We have knocked on the doors of our own institutions, demanding change. We have knocked, over and over, on the doors of nations who signed the Beijing Declaration and said, You made a promise—now keep it.
And sometimes, it feels like no one is answering.
And yet, there is something about persistence that shakes even the most stubborn doors open.
The systems of oppression may seem immovable. The doors may seem locked. But we know how this works.
We knock, and we keep knocking. We speak, and we keep speaking. We march, and we keep marching.
Because we know how this story ends.
Not with oppression having the last word, but with justice rolling down like waters. Not with cruelty reigning forever, but with the risen Christ breaking every chain. Not with despair, but with the sure and certain hope that God is not done yet.
We are not done yet.
As we gather in these sacred days of the 69th Commission on the Status of Women, we are called not simply to deliberate, but to dedicate ourselves anew. When you leave this chapel today, carry this question in your heart: What millstone of justice is waiting in your hand to be placed precisely where systems of oppression seem strongest?
For some, it will mean bringing the voices of those most marginalized in your communities directly into these halls of power. For others, it will mean returning home with renewed commitment to implement the very policies we advocate for here. For all of us, it means embodying the truth that our prayers and our policies, our worship and our witness, cannot be separated.
We are not here simply to commemorate Beijing’s promises—we are here to fulfill them. We are not here just to honor Harriet Tubman’s legacy—we are here to continue it.
For the sake of our mothers. For the sake of our daughters. For the sake of our undocumented sisters, our trans and nonbinary kin, our families navigating borders both visible and invisible. For the sake of our humanity. For the sake of this earth.
We will not wait. We will not be silent. We will not stop.
We are not here just to honor Harriet Tubman’s legacy—we are here to continue it. And the time is now.
Amen.
