Prisca/Priscilla (and Aquila)

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This is sermon #3 of 6 in my series on women leaders in the Gospels & the early church. Today’s focus is on Prisca, aka Priscilla, whose husband and ministry partner is Aquila.

--Rev. Stephanie Spitzer-Hanks, 6th Sunday in Easter, 2026, Homer Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, Homer, New York

If you prefer to watch instead of read the sermon, the video should begin at the beginning of the sermon.

Acts 18:1-27, abridged from The Voice

From Athens, Paul traveled to Corinth alone. He found a Jewish man there named Aquila, [who with] his wife Priscilla had recently come to Corinth from Italy because Claudius had banished all Jews from Rome. Paul visited them in their home and discovered they shared the same trade of tent making. He then became their long-term guest and joined them in their tentmaking business.

Each Sabbath Paul would engage both Jews and Greeks in debate in the synagogue in an attempt to persuade them of his message…Eventually, though, some of the Jewish people stopped listening and began insulting him. He shook the dust off his garments in protest.

Paul said, “I’ve done all I can for you. You are responsible for your own destiny before God. From now on, I will bring the good news to the outsiders!” He walked out of the synagogue and went next door to the home of an outsider who worshiped God. 

At the end of 18 months, Paul said goodbye to the believers in Corinth. He wanted to travel to the east and south to Syria by ship; so, accompanied by Priscilla and Aquila, …the three of them sailed east to Ephesus where Paul would leave Priscilla and Aquila. Paul [continued traveling]…visiting city after city…strengthening the disciples in each place.

Meanwhile, back in Ephesus, a Jew named Apollos made contact with the community of believers. He had been raised in Alexandria. Apollos was eloquent and well educated in the Hebrew Scriptures. He was partially instructed in the way of the Lord, and he added to his native eloquence a burning enthusiasm to teach about Jesus.

He taught accurately what he knew; but he had only understood part of the good news, specifically the baptism preached by John, the forerunner of Jesus. So, when Priscilla and Aquila heard him speak boldly in the synagogue, they discerned both his gift and his lack of full understanding. They took him aside and in private explained the way of God to him more accurately and fully. 

Apollos [traveled] west, into an area where Paul had recently been, to preach there…Upon his arrival, he was of great help to all…who had, by the grace of God, become believers.

Sermon Transcript

We continue in our series about women leaders in the Gospels and in the early church. So far we have explored the contributions of Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Susanna, who were disciples of Jesus and financial supporters of his ministry, and Lydia, whose enthusiastic embrace of the gospel prompted the establishment of a church in her house in Philippi.

This week, we turn our attention to a woman named Prisca, who also went by the nickname Priscilla. When she is mentioned in Acts and in the letters of Paul, she is always mentioned alongside her husband, Aquila.

The two of them are mentioned a total of six times, and four of those times, Priscilla is mentioned first, ahead of Aquila.

I mean, it is a big deal that she is named at all, considering alllll the women in the Bible who get the “daughter of so-and-so” or “so-and-so’s wife” treatment.

For comparison, consider Peter’s wife: he is a contemporary of Paul, who also was a leader in the early church, who also went on missionary journeys to found and encourage new churches. Peter has a wife—who even traveled with him—and we never ever get to know her name. Which leads us to think maybe she didn’t take an active role in the work Peter was doing in the world, preferring to stay in the background.

Yet we get to know Aquila *and* Prisca, so clearly she took an active role in their ministry. We never hear about one without the other. *And* four out of six times, Prisca is mentioned first. Why would that be?

No reason is given. Perhaps she had a stronger force of will, or maybe it was her superior intellect that brought her name to mind ahead of her husband’s. Maybe she was born to a higher social class? We just don’t know.

But as I’ve said time and again, the biblical authors chose their words carefully. Who gets mentioned and how, matters.

So what was special about Prisca?

Well, even though we read her name six times in the Bible, the mentions in Paul’s letters are brief—one or two verses of greeting within a passage where he greets lots of people whom he has worked with in all the various places he has traveled. Those mentions are like this one from 1 Corinthians:

“The churches of Asia send greetings. Aquila and Prisca, together with the church in their house, greet you warmly in the Lord.”

Or in 2 Timothy: “Greet Prisca and Aquila and the household of Onesiphorus.”

So, not a lot to go on there. But in his greeting in his letter to the Romans, Paul does add some interesting detail:

“Greet Prisca and Aquila, my coworkers in Christ Jesus, who risked their necks for my life, to whom not only I give thanks but also all the churches of the gentiles.”

What’s this about risking their necks for Paul? Who knows, Paul was always getting into trouble, it could have been anything. But whatever it was, Prisca and Aquila put themselves at risk in protecting Paul.


Paul thanks them, and adds the thanks of “also all the churches of the gentiles.” Which gives us a hint that this pair was influential not just in one house church in one city, but that they were well-known throughout the region.

We get the most information in the book of Acts, chapter 18, which Joanne read parts of for us. Let’s take a closer look at that passage.

We catch up with Paul in his interminable travels as he heads to Corinth, in the south of Greece. There he meets the married Jewish couple: Aquila & Priscilla. They had just been evicted from their home in Rome, “because Claudius had banished all Jews from Rome.”

But why did the emperor Claudius banish all the Jews from Rome? At this time very early in the Christian church, it was all very confusing—was Christianity a subset of Judaism? After all, Jesus had been Jewish, and all of his early followers were also Jewish. So there was conflict between Jews who followed Jesus and those that did not.

There was also conflict *within* Christian churches on whether and how to admit non-Jews—in the translation I am using today, these folks are called “outsiders,” but most translations use the term “Gentiles,” which just means “not-Jewish.” Should the non-Jewish folks be required to follow Jewish ways of living and worship, or should a new way be found to be a new kind of believer who follows Christ, regardless of one’s ethnic background?

So, there was a lot of conflict to go around. And it is probable that the disturbances between Jews who followed Jesus and those who did not got to be too much for the Roman authorities, so the emperor Claudius kicked them all out to maintain order.

This ban on Jews lapsed with the death of Claudius about 5 years later, and Jewish folks (both those who did and did not follow Jesus) began returning to the city, which is how Paul was able to send greetings to Prisca & Aquila in Rome just a few years after the events of our story today.

All that to say, Prisca & Aquila had been forced to leave Rome and the home they had made there, and Paul met them where they had settled temporarily in Corinth. It’s unclear whether they were already followers of Christ or whether Paul won them over. What is clear is that they all *really* hit it off. Turns out they were all in the same trade—tent making. Paul moved in with them and they all went into business together, making tents.

But you know Paul, he wasn’t in Corinth just to stitch some canvas together. He was there to preach the way of Christ! So, every Sabbath he would go down to the local synagogue and debate anyone who would engage with him, whether they were Jewish or Greek.

As time went on, the Jewish people at the synagogue tired of Paul’s relentless debating. The text says that “some of them stopped listening and began insulting him.” So, “He shook the dust off his garments in protest” and left.

I love that. “He shook the dust off his garments in protest.” It was a little like shouting, “I know when I’m not wanted!” before slamming the door on the way out.

But there is a precedent here—Paul’s dusting himself off echoes Jesus’s instructions to the Twelve in Matthew, when Jesus sent them out on mission. He gave them instructions on where and how they were to travel, and he ended with this: “If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, shake off the dust from your feet as you leave that house or town.”

Now, I don’t know who needs to hear this today, but let me tell you: it is ok to disengage from folks who refuse to engage in good faith with you. It is ok to step back and step away from situations and from people who do not welcome you, who insult you, who do not listen to you. It is ok to shake the dust from your clothes and just walk away. You do not need to spend any more of your time and energy on folks who return your good will with insults.

And so Paul had had enough of the folks in the synagogue and their refusal to listen and their insults. He said, “I’ve done all I can for you. You are responsible for your own destiny before God. From now on, I will bring the good news to the outsiders!” He walked out of the synagogue and went next door to the home of an outsider who worshiped God.” And where presumably he was given a warmer welcome.

This arrangement in Corinth—living with Priscilla and Aquila, working together to make tents during the week, and seeking out converts to the way of Christ on the weekends—it all lasted a year and a half.

Then Paul was ready to move on, and this time, Priscilla and Aquila traveled with him. The three of them traveled by boat from Corinth (which, again, is in the southern part of Greece) to Ephesus (which is in the eastern part of Turkey).

After staying just a short while with them, preaching in the synagogue there, Paul left the couple in Ephesus, while he continued on, “visiting city after city…strengthening the disciples in each place.”

Which would have been, like, his favorite thing to do.

While Paul was traipsing across the Middle East, Aquila and Priscilla were getting settled into Ephesus and founding the church there.

At some point, the community of believers in Ephesus was approached by a Jewish man named Apollos. Apollos was from Alexandria, a city that was world famous for its library and was widely regarded as a seat of higher learning. Apollos had clearly taken advantage of his city’s opportunities for scholarship, since he is described as “eloquent and well educated in the Hebrew Scriptures.”’

And he also was enthusiastic! He was ready to speak out with eloquence and elegance about Jesus!

But there was a problem: he had only learned part of the story. He lacked a full understanding of the way of Jesus. What he knew he spoke boldly and convincingly, but he only knew so much.

Priscilla and Aquila listened to Apollos speak in the synagogue, and they immediately read the room and thought, “Here is a guy who is smart, well-spoken, and eager. All he needs is a little tutoring.”

So, the text says “they took him aside and in private explained the way of God to him more accurately and fully.”

Let me underscore—it was *they* who pulled him aside and explained to him. And this is one of those instances where Priscilla’s name gets listed before Aquila’s. Perhaps because she was the one who was more active in doing the explaining?

This is an instance of a woman (alongside her partner) giving instruction to a man. This is significant, because 1) it would have been unusual at the time, and 2) in many churches today, it would still be unusual. But here, it happens, and no one seems troubled by the occurrence of a woman instructing a man in matters of theology.

In fact, Apollos seems to have taken it all rather well! After his private tutoring at the hands of Priscilla and Aquila, Apollos is ready to branch out on his own, following in the footsteps of Paul to another church where he could preach the gospel of Christ. The text says:

“Upon [Apollos’s] arrival, he was of great help to all in [that region] who had, by the grace of God, become believers. This gifted speaker publicly demonstrated, based on the Hebrew Scriptures, that the promised Anointed One is Jesus. Then, when the Jewish people there raised counterarguments, he refuted them with great power.”

Apollos went on to become as influential a leader in the early church as Paul. Paul mentions him several times in his letters as a fellow missionary who moved from church to church, city to city, preaching and inspiring believers.

But what if Priscilla and Aquila hadn’t pulled him aside that day? What if they hadn’t decided to help him learn? What if he had refused to listen? Things could have been really different if Prisca and Aquila had not stepped in and spoken up.

Sometimes we think we aren’t smart enough, or we won’t be able to find the right words, or we feel too self-conscious to speak up to another person about matters of faith, to share the effect that God has had on our own lives.

Priscilla and Aquila could easily have thought they weren’t right for the job of tutoring Apollos. After all, they were tentmakers, and Apollos was a scholar from one of the most famous universities around!

But speaking about our own experience of faith doesn’t take a college degree or specialized training. What it takes is courage and a willingness to step out of our comfort zones to tell someone how our faith has impacted our lives and our values and how our faith influences the decisions we make and the things we put our energy and time into. I mean, why would we keep something so significant to our lives a secret?

Now, I am not suggesting that you go knock on doors or stand on street corners passing out religious pamphlets. What I am saying is—be ready to share what matters to you with people who matter to you, when the opportunity arises.

I think that Stef helped some of you to make a good start of it when she asked the question, “Why do you choose to come to Homer Congregational Church?” She recorded those answers and made a video, a part of which she shared on our social media this past week, and there is more on our YouTube channel. It is absolutely worth a watch.

May it inspire you to reflect on why this church and your faith matters to you. And may we all have the boldness of Prisca and Aquila in speaking up when it matters, when we have important matters of faith to share, when it is the right thing to do.

But also remember: if you find yourself in spaces where your authentic self is met with hostility and insult, where your attempts at earnest dialogue are shut down, you can and should shake the dust off your clothes, walk out that door and into one that is open to you.

So let us go from here to wherever you go this week, with the courage of our convictions and a readiness to share with our neighbors and friends why your faith matters to you.

Amen!

Lydia

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This is sermon #2 of 6 in my series on women leaders in the Gospels & the early church. Here we meet Lydia, who has always been a personal favorite of mine. More to come…

--Rev. Stephanie Spitzer-Hanks, 5th Sunday in Easter, 2026, Homer Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, Homer, New York

If you prefer to watch instead of read the sermon, the video should begin at the beginning of the sermon.

Acts 16:11-15

We [traveled to] Philippi, a Roman colony and one of Macedonia’s leading cities. We stayed in Philippi for several days. On the Sabbath day, we went outside the city walls to the nearby river, assuming that some Jewish people might be gathering for prayer. We found a group of women there, so we sat down and spoke to them. One of them, Lydia, was a business woman originally from Thyatira. She made a living buying and selling fine purple fabric. She was a true worshiper of God and listened to Paul with special interest. The Lord opened her heart to take in the message with enthusiasm. She and her whole household were baptized. Then Lydia urged us, saying, “If you believe I’m truly faithful to the Lord, please, you must come and stay at my home.” We couldn’t turn down her invitation.

Sermon Transcript

This is #2 in a series of 6 sermons about women leaders in the Gospels and the early church. Last week we learned a bit about some of Jesus’s disciples who were women: Joanna, Susanna, and Mary Magdalene, who was sent by Jesus as the apostle to the apostles. She was a pretty big deal.

This week we start in on the early church, where Paul’s fingerprints are all over everything—you almost cannot tell a story about the early church without also talking about Paul.

Paul had a habit of traveling to a new place, preaching, welcoming newcomers to the Way of Christ, helping to establish churches, often getting arrested, and later being released, and then moving on to do it all over again in a new place.

In the passage read for us today, that is exactly what he is up to. We catch up with him and his traveling companions as they head into Philippi, which is in what we now know as Greece. So this was the first time we are hearing about the gospel being preached in what we now call Europe.

On the Sabbath, Paul and his friends head down to the riverside, where they had heard that some Jewish people gathered in prayer. There was a group of women there, who included a woman named Lydia.

Now you can just tell right away that Lydia was a firecracker. She is originally from Thyatira, which was a city in the area we now know as Turkey, which was famous for dyeing purple cloth. Lydia brought these skills with her and set up her own business trading in purple fabric in Philippi. 

It is not specified how she was able to own her own business, which would *not* have been typical at all for women during that time. Was she a widow, who had inherited the business when her husband died? Maybe? We just don’t know. But we do know that she was probably fairly wealthy, since purple dye (which was made from glands from snails that lived in the Mediterranean Sea) was very expensive to make and to buy. Another tip off that she was wealthy is the fact that she employed her own household servants.

So, Lydia was among this group of women who had gathered at the riverside, where some Jewish folks had gathered to pray on the Sabbath. She is described as a “true worshiper of God.” Lydia may have been Jewish, or she may have just been attracted to and curious about the Jewish religion. Again, it’s not clear. But she was there for the prayer service, and she was ready to learn.

On that morning, as Paul spoke to those gathered there, the text says that “The Lord opened her heart to take in the message with enthusiasm.” 

A couple of weeks ago we read about the disciples on the road to Emmaus, and the text said that their “hearts burned within” them, when Jesus opened the scriptures to them. I wonder if this is a similar experience for Lydia: “The Lord opened her heart to take in the message with enthusiasm.”

I wonder what that might feel like?

The experience was so powerful for Lydia that she insisted on being baptized right then and there—and not just her, but she brought everyone who worked in her home along to be baptized, too.

And then, she was not going to let Paul and his companions go—she insisted that they come and stay in her home. I can just imagine her keeping Paul up half the night, asking him questions, soaking in everything he could teach her about the Way of Christ.

While Paul and his friends were staying with Lydia, he still went back and forth to the riverside, reaching more people with the gospel of Christ. 

Then Paul got into trouble over a slave girl that yelled at him every day, until he got so annoyed with her that he healed her of an evil spirit, just to shut her up. If you didn’t know, Paul had a little bit of a cranky personality.

Now the enslavers of this girl were angry with Paul, because they had been making money off the girl, who had been able to tell people’s fortunes—that is, until Paul cast the evil spirit from her. They were so mad that they had Paul and his friend Silas arrested, beaten, and thrown in jail.

Then there was this whole incident where Paul and Silas were keeping their cellmates up to all hours with their loud praying and hymn-singing—that is until there was an earthquake that broke all the doors open and unfastened all the prisoners’ chains.

The jailer woke up and saw that the prison doors were all wide open, and, knowing he will really be in for it with his boss for letting all the prisoners escape on his watch, he grabs his sword and is about to kill himself with it, but just at that moment, Paul pipes up, “Don’t hurt yourself, Mr. Jailer. We are all still in here!”

(If you haven’t already gotten the picture—Acts is a pretty action-packed book, full of some WILD stories.)

Then the jailer and *his* household convert to the Way of Christ, and *they* are all baptized. It’s a big night. In the morning, Paul and Silas are released from prison (legally, and without the aid of any earthquakes). 

And *then* we get the next and last mention of Lydia in the Bible: in the very last verse in this action-packed chapter, we read this:

“After leaving the prison they went to Lydia’s home; and when they had seen and encouraged the brothers and sisters there, they departed [from Philippi].”

In this one verse we learn that in the days since her own conversion and baptism in the river, a house church has begun to thrive in Lydia’s home. Her home was a meeting place for “the brothers and sisters” who had joined her in following the Way of Christ.

And this is how the gospel of Christ spread through the known world: Paul would blow into town, preaching, converting folks. A group of believers would start meeting in a home. Then Paul would move on, but the church would remain—worshiping and growing in faith and love for God and one another.

In the beginning of this new religion that we now call Christianity, there were no church buildings. No pews, no hymnals, no priests or pastors in robes and stoles. No institution as of yet. That came later.

What they had in the beginning was a group of believers, and someone who had a house they could meet in to pray, and sing, and share what they knew about God, and about the Way that Christ had shown them.

And some of those houses belonged to women. Lydia was one, and we will meet others over the next weeks.

I love Lydia for her enthusiasm. Just the words Luke uses to describe her: She listened to Paul “with special interest.” “The Lord opened her heart to take in the message *with enthusiasm.*” She “urged” them to stay with her. They “couldn’t turn her down.” 

This is a woman who knows what she wants and is not afraid to insist on it! And nobody is criticizing her for being too bossy or telling her to be quieter or more demure—she is being praised for it!

As a gal who has never been particularly meek or timid or submissive, I appreciate having Lydia held as a role model for outspoken women like me. Maybe some of you do, too.

Paul could get cranky in some of his letters, and for good reason, because a lot of these early churches had people disagreeing with one another, and they developed factions within the church that were threatening to tear it apart. Sounds familiar, right? Such problems still plague churches today.

But the letter he wrote to the church at Philippi—the church that Lydia was *instrumental* in founding—was full of joy and gratitude for them. He said:

“I thank my God for every remembrance of you, always in every one of my prayers for all of you, praying with joy for your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now. I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work in you will continue to complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.”

That reminds me of this church: of Homer Congregational Church.

Y’all have been on this green for a good long time. The people who started meeting here to worship way back in 1801 made a choice to “partner in the gospel” and by the grace of God, here we all are, 225 years later, still gathering on this green.

I know only a few of us get the printed worship guide on Sunday mornings, and I don’t know whose idea it was to print this on the bottom of the front page, but this is what it says:

“Grateful to the native peoples upon whose land we stand, we have gathered on this Green since 1801—Still Growing Deeper as We Do God’s Mission.” 

Paul’s words to the Philippians could just as well be addressed to you:

“I thank my God for every remembrance of you…praying with joy for your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now. I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work in you will continue to complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.”

You have had many leaders over the years. I really enjoy looking at the array of portraits of past ministers hanging on the other side of the wall behind me. Some really impressive beards.

And soon it will be time to welcome someone new. I know you are hoping it will be very soon, but there is still need for patience! I pray that your new pastor will have the enthusiasm of Lydia! And that you as a congregation continue to hold the gospel and one another close, and continue to joyfully work together and with your new pastor, when she or he comes at last.

I know many of you feel anxious and are ready for this in-between time to end. But try to remember that this is just one dip in this congregation’s 225 year journey so far! Keep the faith. Keep growing deeper as you do God’s mission, while you wait for your next Lydia, or maybe Paul.

But while we anticipate that day, may you continue to hold on to the blessing Paul gave to the Philippians, and that today I give to you:

“I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work in you will continue to complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.” Thanks be to God!

Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Susanna

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This is the first of a series of sermons about women as leaders in the Gospels and in the early church. It was inspired by this sermon about the two disciples on the road to Emmaus. More sermons in this series to follow!

--Rev. Stephanie Spitzer-Hanks, 4th Sunday in Easter, 2026, Homer Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, Homer, New York

Ceballos Fernández, Lázaro A.. The Proclamation, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt University Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://act.library.vanderbilt.edu/artworks/59863 [retrieved April 27, 2026]. Original source: Beth Maczka, Beth@BethMaczka.com.

If you prefer to watch instead of read the sermon, the video should begin at the beginning of the sermon.

Luke 8:1-3

Soon afterward Jesus went on through one town and village after another, proclaiming and bringing the good news of the kingdom of God. The twelve were with him, as well as some women who had been cured of evil spirits and infirmities: Mary, called Magdalene, from whom seven demons had gone out, and Joanna, the wife of Herod’s steward Chuza, and Susanna, and many others, who ministered to them out of their own resources.

Sermon Transcript

Last week, as we were on the road to Emmaus, I rattled off a list of names of women who were Jesus’s disciples and also a list of women who were leaders in the early church.

But then I got to thinking, what if rattling off a long list isn’t the best way of learning about these women? We have time. We can spend some time learning about and being inspired by them, and along the way, we can also learn a thing or two about the early church—how Jesus’s teachings spread, churches were formed, what they got up to, what sort of challenges they faced. And maybe that would inspire us, too, as we do our best to be the church in this day and age.

So for the next six weeks that I am here in the pulpit, we are going to look more closely at some of these women, and the ministries they were part of, and the churches they helped lead.

This Sunday I thought it would make sense to begin with some of the women who were disciples of Jesus: Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Susanna. And there were others! But this morning we will focus on these three.

We meet them early in Jesus’s ministry in Luke 8, which we are going to spend some time unpacking:

“Soon afterward Jesus went on through one town and village after another, proclaiming and bringing the good news of the kingdom of God. The twelve were with him, as well as some women who had been cured of evil spirits and infirmities: Mary, called Magdalene, from whom seven demons had gone out, and Joanna, the wife of Herod’s steward Chuza, and Susanna, and many others, who ministered to them out of their own resources.”

There’s a lot happening in these three verses.

First we learn something about the shape of Jesus’s ministry—the man really never stood still! He traveled, a LOT, “moving through one town and village after another.”

It is estimated that in the three years of Jesus’s ministry, he walked 3000 or so miles—maybe more! And yes, there are people in the world who have taken the time to note all of Jesus’s journeys, track the distances on a map, and tally up the results. I am going to take their word for it!

So he walked around 3000 miles, based on trips recorded in the Gospels. And he did all of this traveling to “proclaim and bring the good news of the kingdom of God” to anyone who would listen. This was who Jesus was—once he set out on his mission, he kept going, moving from place to place, preaching the kingdom of God anywhere he could draw a crowd—by the seaside, on a hilltop, on a plain.

He also had many conversations with folks on his travels. He was challenged by people who had other perspectives on the right way to be in relationship with God. He healed people.

And along the way people who witnessed all of this dropped what they had been doing and started following him. We call those people disciples, which is a Bible word for student or follower. And there got to be quite a few of them.

At one point Jesus decided to choose 12 men from this crowd of disciples, who were referred to from then on by the very original name: “The Twelve.”

These guys were disciples, but then Jesus gave them another role—he figured he could cover even more ground, heal more people, if he deputized the 12 to go out on their own, apart from Jesus. Their new role was that of “apostle”.

Now apostle is another Bible word—it just means “one who is sent on a mission.”

But even though the Twelve had been chosen from among a bunch of disciples and been sent out as apostles, they didn’t spend all their time away. They also spent a good bit of time being disciples, and learning from Jesus. It was sort of a dual role.

So, back to the passage we are looking at:

“Jesus went on through one town and village after another, proclaiming and bringing the good news of the kingdom of God. The twelve were with him, as well as some women who had been cured of evil spirits and infirmities:”

Ok so the Twelve were there, as were some women who had been cured of evil spirits and infirmities.

Infirmities we get, right? We pray all the time for ourselves and our loved ones who are facing illness. But being cured of evil spirits? That hits a little different, and I don’t know about you, but the whole idea of curing folks of evil spirits or casting out demons makes me uncomfortable. It feels a bit too Pentecostal for me.

When I read such passages, I do not imagine Jesus or his apostles casting out actual demons. For me, it’s a metaphor—a way for people in ancient times to express an idea they didn’t have any understanding of: things like mental illness, addiction, or what we might understand today as invisible or hidden disabilities: things like chronic pain, diabetes, or autism (to name a few).

They would have called all of these things “having an evil spirit” or “being possessed by a demon.” When Jesus healed someone, whether that illness was visible or invisible—it was a miraculous, life-changing encounter with the divine. And many people who had such healing, life-affirming encounters with Jesus, chose to become disciples and follow him in his travels, just to be close to him.

And that was the case for the women named here: Mary Magdalene—and by the way, Magdalene was not her last name. It just means she came from the town of Magdala.

But these three women: Mary Magdalene (who had not one but SEVEN demons cast out of her), and Joanna, and Susanna had been healed by Jesus in one way or another, and they became his disciples.

And not only did they learn from Jesus, they also funded his ministry from their own financial reserves.

Jesus was an itinerant preacher, traveling around Israel with a crowd of disciples—his ministry required some significant funds to keep going.

These three women: Mary, Joanna, Susanna—and many others—kept everyone fed and in tunics and sandals. They knew that the kingdom of God is not built on an empty stomach. It was their practical support—money in the offering plate—that kept Jesus’s ministry afloat.

These three women were with Jesus from early in his ministry, and two of the three are mentioned as witnessing Jesus’s death—Mary Magdalene and Joanna. So they clearly had staying power—they stuck with him through the years of travel, the bickering among the Twelve, the persecution from religious leaders, the confusing parables—all of it. They were there, supporting Jesus from early on to the end.

And Mary Magdalene didn’t give up even then—she is also mentioned—multiple times, and in all four gospels, as one of those who rose early on the third day after Jesus’s death, and discovered that his tomb was empty. Even Jesus’s death couldn’t keep her away. She was *extra* committed.

But here I am going to take a moment to talk about what the Bible *doesn’t* say about Mary Magdalene. Nowhere in the Bible does it say that Mary Magdalene was an adulteress, or a prostitute, or a fallen woman of any kind.

I have told you already all of the Bible passages that mention her: she was healed by Jesus of seven demons, she was a disciple of Jesus, she funded his ministry, she witnessed his death, she witnessed his resurrection. That’s it.

Yet there are rumors that persist about her being somehow sexually tainted. Where did that idea come from?

Well, we can thank Pope Gregory the first. He preached a sermon in the year of our Lord 591 that identified Mary Magdalene as the woman in Luke chapter 7 who washed Jesus’s feet with her tears, dried them with her hair, and then anointed his feet with perfume.

Now *that* woman *was* described in the Bible as sinful, and her sin was part of a whole conversation among some Pharisees who said that Jesus should not be letting her touch him.

But that woman was UNNAMED. We do not know her name. It definitely was not Mary Magdalene, or I’m pretty sure Luke would have said so.

Yet, Pope Gregory felt he knew better, and that the woman with the tears and the hair and the perfume was Mary Magdalene. And the misidentification stuck.

And then through the centuries, religious artists often depicted Mary Magdalene as a sexual object. And even in our modern times, if you’ve seen a movie or a play or read a novel based on Jesus’s life—odds are that Mary Magdalene was depicted as somehow tempting or seducing Jesus. It’s a whole trope.

But it’s wrong. It was wrong when Pope Gregory started this rumor back in the the 6th century. It wasn’t until 1969 that Pope Paul the 6th finally set the record straight and officially clarified that Mary Magdalene was indeed *not a prostitute.* But even so, her reputation as a woman with a checkered past persists.

Mary was not a woman with a checkered past. Unless you count being possessed by seven demons as checkered. Which I don’t.

And even if she had a checkered past, it really wouldn’t make a difference to me. I don’t care about who she did or didn’t have sex with. But a lot of people did care, and used that slander as a way of diminishing her value as a person, as a disciple of Christ.

So she was not a fallen woman. What she *was* was the first to discover the risen Lord, and the one whom Jesus tasked to tell the others. In John’s gospel, he tells it this way:

“Jesus said to her, “But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’ ” Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord,” and she told them that he had said these things to her.”

That is the image I chose for us to look at today—that of Mary Magdalene bringing the news to the disciples—news that she brought from Jesus himself—that he had risen from the dead.

She was the one chosen to tell them. She was the first person to see the risen Christ and the first to share the news of the resurrection with the disciples. She had been sent by Jesus on a mission: She was the apostle to the apostles!

———

What can we learn, how can we take inspiration from these women: Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Susanna?

Their experience of Jesus was life-affirming and life-changing—they gave their all to follow him. They spent their time learning from him. They funded his ministry. Their gifts enabled more people to have their suffering relieved by Jesus, their gifts enabled more people to hear Jesus’s message about the kingdom of God.

Aren’t these all things that we also could, or should, be doing? Shouldn’t our experiences of Jesus to draw us nearer to him? Shouldn’t we be taking in his words, learning from him how to live? And shouldn’t we be finding ways to fund and further Jesus’s mission in the world—relieving the suffering of others, and spreading the good news about the kingdom of God?

These women persisted in following him, through long days of travel, into situations where they were not necessarily welcomed. They followed Jesus all the way to his arrest, his trial. His execution.

Do we follow Jesus, even when it is hard?

Mary went and told the others about Jesus’s resurrection. Some of the disciples called her story a “idle tale.” I bet most of them didn’t believe her. But she didn’t care. She knew what she had experienced of the risen Christ, and she was not going to be quiet about it.

Are we quiet about Jesus, about who he is, about how our lives are changed because of his presence in our lives?

And there is also a lesson in here somewhere about not judging a person based on what other people say about them. For centuries, Mary’s reputation was smeared—perhaps because folks were threatened by her—by this woman whom Jesus chose to be his apostle? Perhaps the temptation to knock her down a peg or two—to put her in her place—was too great.

But let us not fall into that temptation. Let us not tear others down out of spite or jealousy. Let us not let any rumors about someone’s sexual history (or anything else) diminish their value as a person, as someone made in the image of God, like each of us are made in God’s image.

One of the reasons so many people were drawn to Jesus was that he had the ability to cut through all the noise and to see each person for who they truly are. He sees each one of us—each of us is a child of God, beloved by God, called to do God’s work in the word, with the gifts each of us have been given.

May we take Mary and Joanna and Susanna as our inspiration to answer God’s call on each of us to respond in faith and persist in following Jesus.

Amen.

The Other Disciple on the Road to Emmaus

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This sermon was the inspiration for the sermon series to follow: at the beginning I wonder about whether the unnamed disciple (i.e. not Cleopas) on the road to Emmaus could have been a woman. Which later got me to thinking I need to spend some more time learning and preaching about the women who served as leaders in the Gospels and in the early church. Sermon series to follow!

--Rev. Stephanie Spitzer-Hanks, 3rd Sunday in Easter, 2026, Homer Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, Homer, New York

Hochhalter, Cara B.. On the Road to Emmaus, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=59269 [retrieved April 27, 2026]. Original source: Cara B. Hochhalter.

If you prefer to watch instead of read the sermon, the video should begin at the beginning of the sermon.

Luke 24:13-35, New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition

Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.

And he said to them, "What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?" They stood still, looking sad. Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, "Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?"

He asked them, "What things?" They replied, "The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place.

"Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, and when they did not find his body there they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said, but they did not see him."

Then he said to them, "Oh, how foolish you are and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?" Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.

As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, "Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over." So he went in to stay with them.

When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him, and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, "Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?"

That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem, and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. They were saying, "The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!" Then they told what had happened on the road and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

Sermon Transcript

This morning I’m going to talk about how sometimes our expectations keep us from being able to see what is really happening, or maybe our expectations blind us to what could be possible.

How many of you, when Lori read this story to us, in your mind’s eye you pictured three men—Jesus and the two disciples—walking and talking along the road to Emmaus? (Don’t worry, I won’t make you raise your hands!)

The text names one of the disciples—Cleopas (which is a man’s name)—but the other disciple not only doesn’t get named, but Luke also never uses any singular pronouns in this passage. It’s always “they” when referring to both of the disciples together, but Luke never says “he” when referring to either of them.

So why did we (and I include myself here) assume it was a male disciple? We are not alone in this assumption—every artistic rendering of this story I could find showed two dudes walking with Jesus. I picked this image because it is at least a bit ambiguous. That center figure *could* be a woman.

And the truth is, that second disciple could just as easily have been a woman as a man. She could very plausibly be Cleopas’s sister, or wife.

After all, the 12 disciples *were* all men, but they were just a subset of a larger group of disciples, which definitely included women. Cleopas even mentions his female co-disciples in this passage: he said to Jesus, “some women *of our group* astounded us” with their news about how they had gone to the tomb that morning and found it empty.

So clearly, the Three Marys (Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of Jesus, and Mary of Clopas) were part of the group of disciples. Other female disciples named in the Gospels include: Joanna, Susanna, and the sisters at Bethany—Mary and Martha.

And then in the early church—there were several more women named as leaders in Acts and in Paul’s many letters. There was another Mary (the mother of John Mark), Priscilla, Chloe, Lydia, Apphia, Nympha, Euodia, Syntyche, and Junia—who were all mentioned by name as leaders in the church—and then there were the other women who were referred to by their relationships, such as the four daughters of Phillip, who were considered prophets.

So why did we assume both disciples on the road to Emmaus were men? Because that is what we expected to see.

Because it didn’t take too terribly long before the male leaders of the early church conformed to the cultural standards of their day and pushed the women aside, out of leadership roles. Because for most of Christian history it has been only men serving as pastors and priests.

Because some people pluck out from Paul’s letters—which he wrote to specific churches facing specific challenges—they pluck one or two verses that say that women should be silent in church. And they ignore all the other examples Paul gives of actual women *not being silent*—who were leaders of the church, whom he names in his letters, and of whom he speaks with respect and admiration.

So with all of that history behind us as well as the current practice in many other churches today being that women must be silent and submissive—it is completely understandable that we would not recognize that the second disciple could very well have been a woman.

———

But speaking of those two disciples, the question I have every single time I read this passage: How on earth could they not recognize Jesus?!? Like, how?!?

They are walking along, Jesus starts to overtake them (because of course Jesus is a speed walker). Jesus asks, “What are y’all talking about?”

And they are like, “Who are you, you total stranger?”

They have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA who he is. These disciples. Of Jesus.

And they say, “We thought Jesus would be the messiah, the one who would come to redeem Israel (and through Israel, the whole world). But it turns out, we were wrong on that point, since he allowed the religious and political leaders to execute him three days ago.

“I mean, yeah, the women of our group have told us this wild tale about not finding his body in his tomb, and instead finding a bunch of angels who said that Jesus is alive. But how can that be? It is really too far fetched to be believed.”

That’s when Jesus calls them fools and then proceeds to give them a detailed theological discourse in which he walks them through every single instance in the Hebrew Law and Prophets that explains who the messiah is, specifically in relation to who Jesus is, and what his death really meant.

And still, through all of that, they had absolutely no idea who he was. Because they didn’t expect Jesus to show up like that. What they knew is that Jesus died three days ago. They expected that Jesus would stay dead. And can you blame them?

They didn’t expect that Jesus could rise from the dead, and walk alongside them. Jesus failed to meet their expectation of staying dead.

Friends, Jesus also fails to meet *our* expectations. But at the same time, he exceeds them.

What are some foolish expectations we have of Jesus?

Well there is the popular one, that if we just believe in Jesus, then life will be easy. That if we follow Jesus, we will be blessed with wealth, and health, and a good parking spot at the mall.

Jesus promises none of those things. So if that is what we expect from him, he will fail to meet those expectations.

Some folks expect Jesus to be vengeful and to sanction violence in his name. The current Secretary of Defense thinks this. He prays prayers of retribution in worship services held at the Pentagon. He expects that Jesus will bless war, and he is not alone in thinking this. Will Jesus fulfill this expectation? I don’t think so, and neither does the Pope. (To be clear, I don’t always agree with the Pope, but on this point, I do.)

So what should we expect of Jesus? We should expect him to surprise us, to show up in surprising ways, in ways that we maybe cannot imagine could be possible. I don’t think Jesus *means* to be sneaky, and catch us out. It’s just that we often try to constrain him with our expectations, and so when we look where we expect him to be, then he is not there.

So,where can we expect to see Jesus? Well, he did give some pretty clear direction on this point. In Matthew 25, Jesus was explainig how things would go at his final judgment, and he says that those who will inherit the kingdom of God will be the ones who served him during their lifetimes. He said:

I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.

So, if we are looking for Jesus, we can always find him among the poor, the hungry, the stranger, the sick, the incarcerated. With the sad, with the lonely, with the grieving, with the dying.

He also pretty clearly said that whenever we bless bread and break it and share it with one another, that he would be there. So maybe that’s why the light bulb finally clicked on when Jesus sat with those two disciples at table, and Jesus blessed the bread, and broke it. Then they knew who he was.

And that is when they remembered that their hearts had burned within them when Jesus had been speaking with them earlier, when he had “opened the scriptures” to them. What does that feel like—to have one’s heart burn within? Has your heart ever burned within you? What were the circumstances of that?

I think it must not be so common an experience. Not the kind of thing that happens every day. I think the experience of being faced with a truth so whole, so complete, so life-changing that it is not enough for your brain to simply process this truth. You also feel it in your heart, it burns within your soul. I think most of us probably only experience that a few times in our lives.

But that is what those two disciples felt, and could it be that you or I could feel it, too? Or at least, could you imagine what that might feel like, to finally see Jesus when you weren’t expecting it, to be so surprised by the joy of resurrection, that your life must be forever changed.

We have to stop trying to constrain Jesus with our small-minded and foolish expectations of him. We have to stop living as though he is there to serve our own ends, but to understand that we will find Jesus in the unexpected, we will find him in relationship with others, in moments of connection, in moments of joy.

Where might you recognize Jesus this week? Where can you expect to find him? In the face of a stranger in need? In the face of a friend whose life is falling apart? In your own dark moments of grief? In the joy of seeing a new baby? In the buds on the trees, and the bulbs breaking forth from underground? In the communion of sharing a meal? Where might you encounter the risen Christ?

Jesus doesn’t mean to be sneaky. We can find him. We just have to remember where to look, and to be open to finding him where we least expect.

To Be Human Is To Be Consumed: A Spirituality of Pregnancy

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This summer the fun folks over at First Presbyterian Church of Waco are putting on a series of talks for their Christian Formation hour in which they are tackling the theological and spiritual implications of humans as consumers. Certainly the term “consumerism” has a negative ring to it, but is it always a bad thing to be a consumer? Are we not, at least in some ways, consumers by design? And are there ways in which we are the ones being consumed? Discussion topics include: beekeeping, the microbiome, pregnancy, agroecology, and more. Guess which one I was asked to speak on!

“Take, eat. This is my body, broken for you.”

“Take, drink. This is my blood, poured out for you.”

These (or similar) words are spoken over communion tables all over the world, Sunday after Sunday. As an ordained minister in the United Church of Christ, I have spoken these words myself, holding aloft a broken loaf of bread or a full cup of wine. These words invite us to consider the sacrifice of Jesus’s broken body and shed blood and to participate in a holy meal that binds Christians together. But I wonder: have these words ever also invited us to reflect on pregnancy, birth, and breastfeeding?

I think that sometimes we shy away from talking about the spirituality of pregnancy because we think that reflecting on birth can only apply to half the population—and not even half, since every person with a uterus does not use it to gestate a baby, for a myriad of reasons. But I maintain that birtheology is a topic for every human to explore. Were we not all participants in at least one birth? It may be that many of us have only the one experience, and any memory of it has been lost to us. But each of us has been born, thus reflection on birth is for every body.

To give birth is to be consumed.

I spent five and a half years of my life pregnant and/or breastfeeding. FIVE AND A HALF YEARS of sharing my body with a small human or two. I’ve spent the past thirteen (and counting!) years of my life supporting new and expecting families in some way—as a birth and postpartum doula, as a childbirth educator, as a lactation counselor. I speak from experience about the toll it takes on a body to gestate, birth, and provide the primary nourishment for another human being.

This is my pregnant body, broken for you.

The pregnant body may not actually be broken, but it can certainly feel that way. Heartburn, nausea, vomiting, leg cramps, constipation, hemorrhoids, back pain, pelvic pain, fatigue. Depression and anxiety. As the uterus grows, it squishes the bladder (causing more and more frequent urination) and the diaphragm (causing shortness of breath). I could go on, but I think you get the idea.

This is my blood, poured out for you.

In a healthy pregnancy, there is no blood. Menstruation only occurs when conception has not, so for nine months we get a reprieve from periods. But there is a whole other organ, the placenta, that we grow to manage the transfer of oxygen-rich blood to the growing fetus, and to keep the baby’s blood separate from the mother’s. Consider that—the pregnant body grows an entirely new organ to support and protect the baby, and then discards it after the baby is born. We grow it alongside the baby, and then throw it away when it is no longer needed. There is no other occasion that the body does this.

But if, thanks to the placenta, blood is carefully managed in pregnancy, it certainly flows during birth. Once the placenta detaches from the wall of the uterus, all those blood vessels that were supplying the placenta are now bleeding freely. This is one of the more dangerous moments in birth, and why many women in centuries past did not survive. The amount of blood loss is carefully monitored by medical care providers, and if there is too much, then medications are administered to prevent life-threatening hemorrhage.

Human milk is made from blood. Take, drink.

When counseling new parents about lactation, I frequently say, “Breastfeeding may be natural, but it is not instinctive, at least not for the mother.” Nursing a newborn involves a steep learning curve, with a lot of trial and error. It is a labor of love, as much as gestating and birthing a baby is. And it is incredibly taxing on the body. Some parents feed their babies from their own bodies for hours, or days, or weeks, or months, or even years. Each drop of milk is a gift, created by the mother from her own blood, given to sustain and nourish her baby.

To gestate and birth and sustain new life is to be consumed.

For me, giving birth was a transcendent experience. Mind, body, and spirit melded into one, with no distinctions. I speak to my own experience, but I have witnessed and heard others say something similar—that birth is a spiritual experience. Here I have elaborated at length the physical elements of pregnancy, birth and breastfeeding, because these are spiritual experiences firmly and deeply rooted in the physical. And lest we think only a certain type of birth “counts”: a person does not need to forgo an epidural for giving birth to be one of the most physically grueling experiences they have ever known.

But also: what joy to participate in such a visceral way in the intimacy and splendor of creation!

In bringing each of us into this world, the broken bodies and shed blood of our mothers give us a glimpse of the self-sacrificial love of Christ and of what it might look like to willingly be consumed to bring life to another. These are the gifts of God for the people of God, shown to us through something as mundane and holy as birth. Thanks be to God!

Reverend, Mother, Doula

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This is a sermon I preached at my beloved Trinity Church of Austin over a year ago, and then I preached a similar version at Lakeshore Baptist Church in Waco several months back. I had forgotten that I never posted it here! The sermon was originally part of a series of sermons by women in the congregation on the theme: The Stories That Shaped Us. In it I was able to tie together the strands of my experience to explain how I came to be who I am: reverend, mother, doula. It’s highly autobiographical, with a bit of God-talk thrown in here and there. It is, after all, a sermon.

In the sermon I reference a passage from the beautifully gut-wrenching article, Mothers as Makers of Death, and the Biblical passage describing the strange meeting between the devout man Simeon and the baby Jesus and his parents (Luke 2:25-35). At this meeting Simeon is so overcome with emotion that he composes the Nunc dimittis, a song which has been a bedrock of Christian prayer since the 4th century . You don’t have to go read these texts to understand my words here, but both are worth your time.

Below is the audio recording from Trinity, for those of you who like listening, and the written version, for those who like reading. They don’t match exactly, because sermons are like that. I type mine all out, word-for-word how I plan to say it, but then when I actually say it out loud in a house of God, sometimes things go a little off manuscript. I blame the Spirit. But the recording and the text are mostly the same, so if you listen or if you read, you’ll get the idea of what I was trying to say. I hope you like it, and also learn something. ♡

Image from page 126 of "Legends of the Madonna, as represented in the fine arts. Forming the third series of Sacred and legendary art" (1852) https://flic.kr/p/oeBFWQ

Image from page 126 of "Legends of the Madonna, as represented in the fine arts. Forming the third series of Sacred and legendary art" (1852) https://flic.kr/p/oeBFWQ

Reverend, Mother, Doula
Rev. Stephanie Spitzer-Hanks

This series is about stories that have shaped us. My story is:

I am a reverend. And a doula. And in between there I became a mother. 

And it happened pretty much in that order: reverend, mother, doula.

I went to seminary—a Baptist seminary, Truett seminary at Baylor in Waco, because I was born and raised Baptist. Not sure why I went to seminary, really. I think I was looking for answers. Which I got, but maybe not the ones I was looking for.

I didn’t go to seminary thinking about being a preacher. The only preachers I’d ever heard had sermons with three points and a sports analogy, usually football-related. There was also usually some shouting involved. And I don’t like shouting.

So, the first time I ever heard a woman preach—and she spoke in her normal woman voice, and told a story, and used zero sports analogies—I was blown away. I realized for the first time that I could do that, and better yet, I wanted to.

But, while Truett is a moderate Baptist seminary, where women were encouraged to take preaching classes, when it came time to graduate, we were not offered the same opportunities as our male classmates in finding church ministry positions. There are certainly Baptist churches out there with female clergy—the church I attend in Waco is one. But these churches are few and far between.

At the same time I was getting ready to graduate, I got connected with a tiny United Church of Christ congregation outside of Waco who were looking for a pastor. With me and the UCC, it was love at first sight. A denomination that didn’t bat an eye at ordaining women and/or LGBT ministers? A place where I could simply do the work of ministry that I felt called to, without constantly having to fight and justify my place at the table? Sign me up!

For five years I pastored that congregation. They ordained me. They loved me. They taught me a TON about how church families are not so different from biological families. There’s a lot of dysfunction, but also a lot of love, which *usually* is sufficient to smooth over the rough spots. They hosted my wedding to my dear husband whom I met while I was their pastor. And then after a while, it was time to move on.

Now, I didn’t always know I wanted to be a pastor or a doula, but I always knew I wanted to be a mom. My husband is 8 years younger than I am. I was 33 when we got married, he was 25. Bless his heart—he still wanted to marry me when I told him I didn’t want to use birth control from day one. I knew that my mother and my sister had had miscarriages—I know now (but I didn’t then) that 1 in 4 women will experience miscarriage in their lives. 1 in 4. But many women never talk about it. Chances are good that one of the women next to you or in front of you or behind you today has lost a baby they wanted very much. May we all offer grace to one another, not knowing what hidden grief another person carries.

I didn’t want to wait and increase my risk not being able to get pregnant. I know now (but I didn’t then) that 1 in 8 couples will experience infertility. And we ended up being one of those 8. Every month I didn’t get pregnant was a crushing blow.

In this period of trying, we moved to The Netherlands, where we both started working on two-year Master’s degree programs. We figured if it hadn’t happened by the time we moved home, we would look into our options then. And then, I found out I was expecting. Surprise! Joy! And then I realized I’d be giving birth in a strange land and have to learn to navigate a medical care system that was foreign to me.

But this is where I got SUPER LUCKY. The Netherlands defaults to a midwifery model of care. Pregnant people are attended by highly skilled midwives who are fully integrated into the medical care system, unless there is a complication that requires the care of an OB. I had no idea about the tremendous benefits that midwifery care offers, but I soaked it all in, gratefully. 

And then after the baby is born, every single parent in The Netherlands gets a postpartum care worker WHICH IS PAID FOR BY INSURANCE. For free, a woman came to my house every day for a week to check on me and my new baby, do household tasks that needed doing so I could spend all my time healing and bonding with my baby and figuring out how to breastfeed her. That woman was a source of strength for me in a very vulnerable time. I will always be indebted to her.

Not just for how well she supported me, but because she, and my midwives, and my prenatal yoga class—all of these women together showed me a new way. 

Becoming a mother is terrifying, but it also can be empowering. I had never known this was possible.

But once I knew, I didn’t want to keep this information to myself. After we moved back to the US, I became a doula, because I knew that American mothers were not getting the kind of support that I had benefitted from in The Netherlands. And I wanted to do what I could to change that.

So for those of you who are asking yourselves, “A do-what? What did she say she became?” A doula is a person who works with new and expecting families, giving them informational, emotional, and physical support. 

A birth doula provides prenatal support and actually attends the birth itself—but not as a medical professional. Doulas are not midwives, though lots of people get us confused with them. We are also not just for home births. In fact, in the over 100 births I have attended, not one has been a homebirth. The vast majority have been in hospitals, with OBs attending to the birthgiver’s medical needs, while I provide guidance and empathy, grounding and love. It’s an amazing job.

In addition to birth doulas, there are also postpartum doulas (and many doulas, like myself, do both)—who do what that Dutch woman did for me—come into the home in the months following a birth, and nurture the birthgiver, so that the parents can focus on bonding with their new baby. 

A doula provides informational, emotional, and physical support to new and expecting families. And to that list I would add spiritual support—after all, I *am* a pastor at heart. And new mothers NEED spiritual support.

We are so tempted to gloss over how heavy it is to give birth. It is physically and emotionally and spiritually grueling to carry and birth a baby, and whether the baby came out through her vagina or her belly, that sort of experience is not something to “bounce back” from. And yet that is what we expect from mothers, that they jump right back to the life they left, only now with stretch marks and a newborn. 

Did you know that the United States is the only industrialized nation NOT to provide any sort of paid leave for mothers? 

Do you know what that does? It erases us. It erases our experience. It makes the public policy assertion that we do not need support. We are FINE. We can go right back to work a couple of weeks after giving birth, because nothing all that important has just happened here. Move along people. There’s nothing to see.

We see what we want to see when it comes to new mothers, and we as a society do not want to see anything below the surface. Let’s stick to the pastels and the perfect nursery. And if any hint of misery should rise up to the surface, let’s be quick with the assertion that “All that matters is a healthy baby.”

Which, by the way, is one of my biggest pet peeves. Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not say this to a newly postpartum parent, ever. Yes, it matters that the baby is healthy. But how the mother is treated matters, too. How she feels MATTERS.

In the non-scripture reading I selected for today, the author wrote (and we heard read to us before):

The conversations I had with other new mothers stayed strictly within the bounds of the list: blankets, diapers, creams. Every conversation I had was the wrong conversation. No other mother congratulated me and then said: I’m overcome by the blackest of thoughts. You?

These sentences resonated with me deeply, because in my own experience as a new mother and in facilitating support groups for new mothers, these are the conversations new mothers are DESPERATE to have with one another, with anyone who wants to really listen, really see who they are and who are willing to plumb the depths of what they are feeling. And so, every chance I get, I provide space for a mother to pour out what is in her heart, no matter how dark or scary it may sound.

Because as scary as it sounds, mothers *are* makers of death. We know how it feels to have a piece of ourselves walking around in the world, open to any harm that may blow through. And  our children are actual, literal pieces of ourselves—I tell my children all the time: I MADE you. I created every bit of you in my womb, so you better believe I get to tell you what to do.

Mary the mother of Jesus knew this, just as much as, maybe even more than any new mother. I mean, a lot of stuff had already happened with her—a visit from an angel, that donkey ride while extremely pregnant, giving birth in a barn, and then those smelly shepherds showing up out of nowhere before she’d even stopped bleeding.

So now, when she and Joseph head into the Temple to present the baby Jesus to the Lord, she is probably not even surprised when some really old guy asked to hold him and then burst into song. But then I wonder whether she was surprised at his last remark to her. Really in an almost offhand way, he tosses out this statement: “and a sword will pierce your own soul, too.” 

Most (almost exclusively male) Bible commentators have no idea what to do with this statement. They remark on how it doesn’t seem to fit with what came before, and offer a couple of half hearted suggestions on what it might mean, but ultimately shrug their shoulders and move on to the verses they can make head or tails of.

But when I read that line, I knew EXACTLY what it meant. It meant the same thing to Mary as it means to every new mother. We are run through with the terror, the blackness, the sure knowledge that this beautiful and precious baby that we just brought into the world, will die. And there is not a damn thing we can do about it. It stops us in our tracks and breaks our hearts into pieces. 

As Claudia Day wrote: “This is why mothers don’t sleep…This is why mothers don’t look away from their children. This is why, even with a broken heart, a mother will bring herself back to life.”

And we do. At least we try to. Not every mother is able to overcome the blackness. The weight is too heavy, especially when there is no one near who will help carry this load.

Did you know that 1 in 7 new mothers experience postpartum depression? Did you know that 1 in 10 dads do? Because it is not just hormonal. It is also situational, and being a new parent rocks your socks, shakes you to your core.

___

My doula business name is revdoula. Which is weird, and a lot of people don’t get it. They think the rev stands for revolutionary, not reverend. And I purposefully leave it a bit ambiguous, because I would love to participate in a revolution in the way we treat mothers. I am part of that fight.

But ultimately, I named my business revdoula because I wanted to try to pull these two halves of my story together, to weave together my advocacy for mothers and my theological reflection on birth-giving. 

Because each of us have participated in this act, the act of birth. Not all of us are mothers, true. But every single one of us has a mother, who gave birth to us. Who carried us, created us, and brought us into the world. 

And I believe that each one of us can learn something about who God is, and how She relates to us, by reflecting on birth. I believe we begin to learn about who God is from the very beginning, from the moment of our own births. For good or for bad, we form beliefs about who God is based on how our mothers nurtured us, from the very beginning of our lives. 

And so is there any more important work for us, as people of faith, who want every soul to know they are loved by God, than to support the mothers in our midst? If we can show love—by ensuring that they get the care they need, physically, emotionally, spiritually—as they make the rocky passage into motherhood, then not only will that woman benefit, but her child will know from the very first moments of life, the nurturing and enfolding love of Mother God through her. Everybody wins. 

And you don’t need to be a reverend or a doula to do that. You just have to have eyes to see the struggle that every. single. mother. is going through, no matter how much she tries to put on a brave face. You just have to make room in your conversation with her for her to feel safe enough to share the fears she harbors in her heart.

You also have to recognize that the structure of maternity care in the US is not what it should be, and you have to join the fight (dare I say, the revolution?) to bring more humane and compassionate care to birth-givers and to the tender, vulnerable months afterward.

Any one of us can do that. And every one of us should. Amen.

The part of the story we'd rather forget

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Unless you are a part of a church that follows the liturgical calendar, you might not know that The Twelve Days of Christmas refers not only to a really annoying Christmas carol (FIVE GOOOLLLDDD RINGS!!), but also to the season of Christmas. That's right, Christmas is not just one day, it's twelve days, and it doesn't even start until December 25th. It ends the night before Epiphany, which is today, January 6th, the day the Magi finally show up. We usually crowd them into the stable with the shepherds and the bewildered Holy Family, but actually it takes them 12 days to find the baby Jesus. They were taking their directions from a star, which I guess takes longer.

Every year I really enjoy the memes about how if the three wise men had been women, they would have asked directions, shown up on time, and brought useful gifts like diapers and a casserole. But instead they brought gold and some spices, for which I'm sure Mary sent them a lovely thank you note, wishing all the while that they'd included a gift receipt.

Jan de Bray. The Adoration of the Magi. 1674, oil on canvas, Historical Museum of Bamberg, Germany.

Jan de Bray. The Adoration of the Magi. 1674, oil on canvas, Historical Museum of Bamberg, Germany.

So Christmas ended yesterday, and today is Epiphany, and we celebrate the Magi finally finding Jesus by eating King Cake and starting to get excited about Mardi Gras. But for me, there is always a shadow to this day. As much as I love an excuse to eat cake, I can't think about the Three Kings without also thinking about the babies who were the tragic casualties of the Magi's trip to see the baby Jesus.

It turns out that the memes aren't entirely accurate, and the Magi actually had asked directions. Before finding their way to Bethlehem, they stopped in to see Herod, who was king of Judea at the time. In what had to be a pretty bonehead move, they asked him,

Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.’ When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. They told him, ‘In Bethlehem of Judea.' --Matthew 2:2-5

Super job, "Wise" Men. Which of you had the bright idea to ask the sitting, irascible king where the new rival to his throne had been born? Herod was scared, but he pulled it together enough to tell the Magi how to find Bethlehem and to ask would they please let him know when they had found this baby-king? Because he would love to go and honor him, too! No really! (Not really.)

But God sent an angel, who had already been very busy in the Christmas story, to fix things. This angel had already appeared separately to Mary and Joseph to explain how Mary was pregnant before the wedding, but that everything was going to work out. Now the angel tells the Magi not to go back to Herod and tells Joseph to hit the road to Egypt, because when Herod finds out he's gonna be sore. Then comes the part where Jesus became a refugee, and we stop reading because that's all there is to the Christmas story.

Only, that isn't all there is. There is more to the story. The worst, the absolute worst part, comes in the very next verse.

When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the wise men. --Matthew 2:16

All the babies. Murdered. No wonder we stop reading at verse 15.

Lucas Cranach the Elder. The Massacre of the Innocents. circa 1515, oil and tempera on lime, National Museum in Warsaw, Poland.

Lucas Cranach the Elder. The Massacre of the Innocents. circa 1515, oil and tempera on lime, National Museum in Warsaw, Poland.

There is so much to see in this painting. In the upper left, the Holy Family escapes to safety. Top center: King Herod watches the spectacle. In the foreground, soldiers overpower distraught mothers. And in the center, a pile of murdered babies.

No one wants to look at this.

But we do need to know about it. We do need to acknowledge this part of the story. The part that makes us want to hide our eyes.

Because, this still happens. And not just in far-off, war-torn, poverty-stricken lands. Here. In the United States of America. Right here, a measure of protection is offered to one group, while the babies and mothers of another group suffer cruel injustice.

Today I read an article stating that black babies in Wisconsin face the same risk of death as babies in Syria. Things are pretty messed up in Syria right now, so you'd expect it to be rough on a vulnerable population like newborns. But why should black babies in Wisconsin face the same high risk of death? And it's not just in Wisconsin that's it's bad for black babies. The CDC report that the article was based on stated: "For infants of non-Hispanic black women, the lowest mortality rate of 8.27 in Massachusetts was higher than the highest state rates for infants of non-Hispanic white (7.04) and Hispanic (7.28) women." Why?

Because of racism. 

And, it's not just black babies that are dying at an alarming rate. As NPR and ProPublica have been reporting, mothers and babies of all racial and ethnic backgrounds in the US are not faring so well. But the CDC reports that black mothers are dying at 3 to 4 times the rate of white mothers in the United States. Regardless of income level, black mothers die more often. Why?

Because of racism. Because of our racism, black mothers and babies are dying at an incredibly high rate. 

I want to look away from this, just like I want to stop reading the Christmas story at verse 15. I don't want to face that this happens, that mothers and babies are dying. But we have to look.

Léon Cogniet. Le Massacre des Innocents. 1824, Museum of Fine Arts, Rennes, France.

Léon Cogniet. Le Massacre des Innocents. 1824, Museum of Fine Arts, Rennes, France.

LOOK.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/renaud-camus/8076625085

https://www.flickr.com/photos/renaud-camus/8076625085

Women are afraid for their own lives, and for those of their babies. What are we going to do about it? 

As a birth advocate and as a person of faith, I feel an ethical obligation to speak up about the shameful lack of care that we as a society show to mothers and babies, particularly black mothers and babies. I plan to help organize a March for Moms this spring in my city. I vote for politicians who vow to address healthcare disparities and who support paid parental leave. I educate new parents on how to advocate for their rights in birth. I volunteer my time to support new mothers in my community who feel vulnerable and alone. This is a start, and what I can do.

What can you do?

You can support Improving Birth, a consumer advocacy organization in the US whose mission is to "inform, support, engage and empower consumers, community leaders and providers with powerful tools to improve birth." 

You could help organize and/or attend a March for Moms in your area.

And we could all work A LOT harder at examining ourselves and our communities and the inherent racism that continues to oppress people of color. This is exceptionally difficult to do. But it is what has to happen if we are going to make a difference in the lives of the babies and mothers most at risk.

It's time to figure out why black lives don't seem to matter as much. It's past time to do something about it.

Bravely Boldly Birthing a New Story

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Last week I sat in church and cried. 

This is not at all typical for me. I usually keep everything pretty buttoned up. There are lots of reasons why I am like this, not least of which is my "Spitzer upbringing", as my husband calls it. There was plenty of German stoicism to go around in my childhood, and so the free expression of emotion continues to be a growing edge for me as an adult.

But I've been contemplating a pretty big career change, which is always stressful. We've been going to a new-to-us church lately--Trinity Church of Austin. They are super welcoming of kids with differences, and since my boy definitely falls in that category of kid, finding a place where no one cares that he doesn't sit still and couldn't whisper if his life depended on it has been amazing and wonderful and life-giving. Another fun feature of Trinity is that the folks over there are Keepin' Austin Weird in a way only a holdout group of Hyde Park hippies could. 

Case in point: on the Sunday in question, we sang, as our responsive "hymn", Let It Be. Yes, the one by the Beatles.

Apparently, Paul McCartney wrote it in memory of his mother, who was named Mary, but loads of people think of Jesus' mother Mary when they hear the line, "speaking words of wisdom, 'Let it be.'" (And for the record, Paul did say that fans were welcome to interpret the song in whatever way they find meaningful.) What many Christians recall when they hear that song is the conclusion of this scene:

Robert Campin's c. 1420s Annunciation panel, (Mérode Altarpiece), The Cloisters, New York

Robert Campin's c. 1420s Annunciation panel, (Mérode Altarpiece), The Cloisters, New York

[As a total aside, I really love this version of the Annunciation. Gabriel is all, "Hail, thou that art--", and Mary cuts him off with a, "Just a sec, I'm in the middle of a paragraph here." And Gabriel is all, "Ok, well, I'll just wait over here then. Until you're ready. Take your time."]

According to Luke (1:26-38), once Gabriel gets Mary's attention, he gives her the astounding news that she is to become pregnant with a son, but not in the usual way. And even more amazing, this son "will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David." This is some pretty big news, but Mary, who is one fierce mama, and with a million times more grace and courage than anybody might have guessed she had in her, says, "Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word." This is Mary's call story, and she rises to that call.

As we were singing the Beatles song that echoes Mary's assent, I suddenly remembered the sermon that was preached at my ordination, and the tears started to fall.. The pastor (the inimitable Julie Pennington-Russell) had used Luke's text and asserted that this was "no Milquetoast Mary", but a strong and courageous woman who knew that what she was saying yes to was going to be no walk in the park. But yes is what she did say, and her faith in God was her guide.

In church that day, I knew the answer to the decision I was struggling with--whether it was time to leave the group doula practice I had helped found--was yes. I knew that leaving would be hard, and going back out on my own would be scary. But I also knew that God has something else for me to do, and I need to allow space for that something to happen. I have always thought of my work with birthing families as not just a job, but a calling. This is the work God means for me to do.

The preacher that morning at Trinity said, "We have to part of birthing a new story." I know that God calls Christians to do this on a large, society-wide scale. It certainly is the case for lots of folks in these waning days of 2016, hope is pretty thin on the ground. But I also know that in church that Sunday, God was calling me to birth a new story in my own life and work.

So, I gave notice at my group, and I am striking back out on my own as a childbirth educator, lactation counselor, and doula. I am doing my best to be courageous and strong, like Mary. I am updating my website and finding teaching space.

I am doing my best to remember to breathe and to pray, "Let it be."

When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be.
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

And when the broken hearted people
Living in the world agree,
There will be an answer, let it be.
And though they may be parted there is
Still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer, let it be.
Let it be, let it be,
Let it be, let it be.
Yeah there will be an answer, let it be.

Let it be, let it be,
Let it be, let it be.
Yeah there will be an answer, let it be.

And though the night is cloudy,
There is still a light that shines on me,
Shine until tomorrow, let it be.
O, will I make up to the sound of music
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be,
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be,
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

Songwriters: John Lennon / Paul Mccartney

Let It Be lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

The Day After The Election {heartbroken}

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I went to bed last night in tears, having stayed up far too late watching election returns. I woke up when my 7 year old daughter came in to snuggle before breakfast. I hugged her warm little body next to me and burst into tears again when I told her that Hilary Clinton did not win the race to be our president. I had to tell my daughter that no, even though she was not born in this country, she would not be deported, and that since her parents are American citizens, she is one, too. She had heard from a classmate at school that if Donald Trump won, he would make everyone who wasn't born here leave, and she was scared.

I don't want to make this a post about politics. I am sick to death of politics, like just about everyone else.

I want to make this post about what do I do now? How do I move forward, how do I find hope?

I find hope in raising my children. Raising my daughter to be a strong, smart, capable woman who can truly be anything she wants to be. Raising my 5 year old son to be a sensitive, kind, empathetic man who would never use his power to abuse or degrade anyone. God, give me strength to guide my children through this world.

I find hope in my faith. My Facebook feed (which I promised myself last night I would not look at today, but misery loves company) has a number of Christians, (mostly liberal, but not all of them) who are trying to make sense of this outcome in light of their faith. The ones who are making the most sense to me right now are the ones who are noting that this too shall pass, and that we are still the light, and that we are commanded to love and serve one another, no matter who our elected leader is. This world is not my home, but I do care an awful lot about it and the people in it, so onward I must go, serving the least among us, and in so doing, serving Christ himself.

I find hope in my work. My work is to comfort and to encourage and to advocate for and with new and expecting parents. Both my faith and my politics help motivate me to do this work. Every time I see a new baby and mother and father born, I am in awe of the power of God to bring life and to create the bond of family. And every time I see a woman empowered to speak up for herself and her body and her choices, I am inspired to help another woman to do the same. I have to believe that every mother I help to tap into her strength and find her voice, means another baby who can and will grow up to be peace-bearers and change-makers in this world.

I mean, just look at the power in the photo below:

That baby is learning from that mama what it is to be loved and what it is to be strong.

In my work as an Evidence Based Birth® Instructor, I teach families how to access evidence based care in their births. This is one of ways that I bring peace to the world. Birthing women are definitely among the least of these, and if you don't know that, then you aren't paying any attention at all to the shameful state of our maternity care system today. I'm doing my bit to change the world, one baby, one family at a time. That's where I find hope. That's what I am going to do now, heartbroken as I am, to move forward and be the light. 

God, help us all. Amen.

When birth meets death

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Usually there is not a lot of overlap in the two halves of my professional life. 

Well, in a sense there always is: the skills I use as a chaplain are nearly identical to those I use as a doula. I support not just the person, but the whole family as they adjust to a major life transition. I help people navigate the complicated and overwhelming experience of being in a hospital. I listen, sometimes I cry, often I laugh. I carve out space in a hectic time and place for people to identify and express their feelings. I once described to a chaplain colleague what it looks like for me to support a family in birth, and she said, with comprehension and amazement dawning on her face, "Oh! So, it's like a 13 hour patient visit!" Yes. It is exactly like that.

The skills I use are the same whether it is a birth, or a death. Usually there is a clear line dividing the two events. But not always.

Last year I went to the funeral of a mom whom I had supported in giving birth. This woman had been a delightful combination of fierce warrior mama and tender-hearted girl. She brought her beloved teddy bear to the hospital to cuddle in labor, and then pushed her baby out without an epidural in front of a gaggle of nursing students who had never seen anything so beautiful and raw. Several months later, she died suddenly and unexpectedly. I sat in the pew and looked at her baby sitting in her uncle's lap and cried my heart out.

Last week one of our doula clients let us know that there was nothing more that could be done to save her baby's life, and they sang their baby to sleep later that day. Her baby had lived for just a month. The mother told me that day by day, week by week, she had held out hope that her baby could somehow thrive. She also said that her own physical recovery from birth has been very easy, with her body quickly returning to its pre-pregnancy state, and now she finds herself wondering, "Did I really have a baby?" Sometimes she goes into her baby's nursery to remind herself that her baby existed, that it all really happened.

I offered, and she gladly accepted, to facilitate the celebration of life they will host in their home for close family and friends on Sunday. That is how I have come to be here, pondering, wondering how to strike the balance between the deep joy the parents feel over having been gifted with their baby's life, however brief, and the deep sadness they feel, knowing that their baby is now gone from their arms. Because there was so little time and the parents wanted to soak in every precious moment of their baby's life, their extended family never met the baby. For them, this will be both hello and goodbye.

I am so honored to be able to cross over from supporting this family in birth to supporting them in death. But this is some of the heaviest work I have ever done.

For thus says the Lord:
As a mother comforts her child,
   so I will comfort you;
   you shall be comforted in Jerusalem.

You shall see, and your heart shall rejoice;
   your bodies shall flourish like the grass;
and it shall be known that the hand of the Lord is with his servants.

-Isaiah 66:12a, 13-14a

Rest in peace, Lisa and Chloe. You are loved and remembered. <3

The (Metaphorical) Birth of Israel

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A while back I packed my kids up and went to visit my folks over a weekend, which meant I got to visit the church I grew up in. That week the pastor preached on Genesis 32, the story of Jacob wrestling in the night with a mysterious figure. I have to admit that I do not recall the point the preacher was trying to make. I am particularly bad at listening to sermons--something I do feel guilty about, considering I once was a preacher and know the frustration of working hard on a sermon, only to look out at a congregation full of fidgeting and glazed eyes. But I remain a terrible listener.

I do recall that the preacher spent a good bit of time telling the backstory of Jacob--how he came to be staying up late by a stream in the middle of nowhere. And I do like a good story, so I listened to that part. And also I listened when he retold the strange episode of a "man" appearing and wrestling with Jacob through the night. Even the most apathetic listener would be hard put not to be drawn to this story. Who is this "man"? God? An angel? A demon? Jacob's own inner demons personified? It's anybody's guess, really, as the text doesn't say. What is clear is that this being was well matched in strength with Jacob: they wrestled through the night up to dawn, it had the power to dislocate Jacob's hip with a single touch, and it conferred upon Jacob a new name as a result of their striving.

Maurice Denis, Jacob Wrestling with the Angel, c.1893

Halfway through this incredible story it hit me: this is a birth story.

It begins with the setting: the dead of night. Ask any woman who experienced a spontaneous labor (as opposed to being induced), and I'd guess 9 out of 10 would tell you her labor began at night. This is when the mother's hormones get reset, and some tipping point is reached in the dance between the mother's body and the baby she's been carrying all these months, and the contractions begin. The relentless contractions, which are a sort of wrestling that continues through the night, and does not cease until the baby is born.

In this story and in birth there are waters flowing (so, so, so much water and other fluids flow freely in birth).  Jacob has shunted all of his wives and children and possessions just across the river before nightfall, and so in the story and in birth, there are people nearby. But those people are only incidental to the drama unfolding between Jacob and his foe, and between a woman in labor and the force of her contractions. I am a doula, and it is my job to support women in labor. I am usually one of many support people: her partner, her midwife or doctor, nurses, other family and friends. We are all there to try to keep her safe and as comfortable as possible, but in labor, it is really all up to the mother to find a means of coping, of not giving up. I can bring her a cool cloth or a sip of water, I can assure her that what she is experiencing is normal, I can talk with her about her fears. But she must find her own way to conquer her fears, to cope with the intensity of her contractions, and ultimately to give in to the process, to let her body wrest the blessing from what can seem to be a stronger foe. But this is a crucial point that many people do not realize: the process of labor is not stronger than the laboring woman. It is her body that is doing this. She is as strong as her contractions. She is well matched to this labor with which she wrestles, just as Jacob in the end is well matched to his adversary.

At the end of his long night of wrestling, Jacob wrested a blessing from his mysterious opponent. In birth, it is obvious that there is a blessing. It might be that our first thought is that a baby is a blessing, and of course, that is true. But in the Genesis story, it is Jacob who is reborn, and, though we often overlook it in our excitement over the new baby, when a child is born, a mother also is born. At the end of his ordeal, Jacob receives his new name: Israel. Just as a woman who gives birth is still June or Stephanie or Katie, she is now also known as Mother. And just as Israel is not only one man's name, but also the name of a people, so are women who give birth now part of something larger than themselves. We are Mothers, we span time and space, not bound by nationality or era. We belong to a new tribe.

And when we recognize our strength, we are fierce.

As day breaks, Jacob limps onward. Though it goes without saying that he has been psychically altered by this experience, he has been permanently, physically altered as well. Once a woman has carried a baby in her belly--stretching her skin and squishing her internal organs beyond what she could have imagined was possible--and then she has birthed that baby, her body will also be permanently, physically altered. Nothing she can do will bring her body back to what it was. She has lasting scars, battle wounds. Ones I believe she should wear with pride.

photo by Jade Beall, creator of A Beautiful Body Project

photo by Jade Beall, creator of A Beautiful Body Project

For Valentine’s Day: A Love Story Between a Boy and a Tree

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{This is the sermon I gave on Sunday at my church, while filling in for my not-quite-here-yet pastor. It had been a while (about 5 years, in fact) since I had full-on led a worship service. I enjoyed it tremendously, but I am also not itching to do it every Sunday again. I’m happily sticking to my doula/chaplain/mom job for the now.}

In case you haven’t seen a commercial, or set foot in a store in the past month, Valentine’s Day is coming up.

I spent too many years single (I didn’t get married until I was 33, and most of my life up until then I had not been in a serious romantic relationship) to really care about Valentine’s Day, but I thought it might be a good excuse to tell you a different kind of love story.  A love story about a boy…and a tree.

{At this point I read The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein to the congregation.  In case you do not have a copy handy, you can read the text here. If you want to go seriously nostalgic, you can watch the recording of the filmstrip from the 70’s (!!) below.}

There’s a lot that could be said about this simple little book.  It is a love story, but what kind of love story?  How do you interpret this story?

I think for as many of us who are here today, there are as many opinions and interpretations on this book, which is what makes it so awesome.  Some of you may love it, and remember it fondly from your own childhood or from your children’s or grandchildren’s.  Some of you may hate it and think it is in no way appropriate for children.

The problem for many people is the way in which the tree “loves” the boy, giving and giving and giving of herself until she is all used up.  Some people see this as codependence, or as bordering on abusive behavior on the part of the boy.  Did you notice that the boy not only never once says “thank you”, but also doesn’t seem to have a problem with essentially destroying this being who loves him, just to serve his own whims?

I have to admit that I do not find the boy to be a likeable character.  And that the tree’s way of giving beyond what seems rational or healthy makes me uncomfortable.

But, what can we make of this story from a theological point of view?  Does this story have anything to teach us about God, and if so, what?

I think that the way the tree loves the boy is the way God loves us.  I also think, perhaps more often than any of us would like to admit, even to ourselves, we are the boy.  Ok, I’ll say it: I am the boy.  I take the gifts which God so freely and abundantly offers me, and I use them to serve my own ends, often not even saying thank you to God, or spending any more time with Her than is needed to get what I want.  It’s uncomfortable for me to say it, but it is true.

And God is the tree.  She gives and gives, and loves without considering the cost, and according to Christian belief: God gives even to the point of the ultimate self-sacrifice, that is, submitting to death, as Christ did on the cross.

This is how God loves us, but is this how God wants it to be?  Well, no.  Remember in the story, after the boy cut down the tree’s trunk to make a boat, it says, “And the tree was happy….but not really.”

I think this is what the Old Testament passage for today is getting at:

Isaiah chapter 58 tells us that the people have been calling it in, not really trying, not really taking the time and energy necessary to maintain a relationship with God.  They were taking one day to fast, and then going back to their exploitative ways the other six.  God says to them through the prophet that one day out of six is not enough, that putting on sackcloth on the Sabbath is not going to erase a week’s worth of greed.  God speaks these words to the people:

Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin?
Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up quickly; your vindicator shall go before you, the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard. Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer; you shall cry for help, and he will say, Here I am. If you remove the yoke from among you, the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil, if you offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted, then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday. The Lord will guide you continually, and satisfy your needs in parched places, and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail. Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt; you shall raise up the foundations of many generations; you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in.

I don’t care about your going through the motions of religious piety, says God.  I care about your giving, and giving, and giving some more.  And only when you give without limit, only then will I hear your voice calling to me, and only then will I bless you with abundance.

Ack. That’s hard to hear.

Does this mean that God only loves us when we are doing right?  No.  But God can still love us and not be too happy with us, at the same time.

It’s like how I remind my daughter often that I love her always, even when I am angry with her, even when she makes terrible decisions.  I will always love her.  And I want her to hear and remember that, even through my anger.

The boy makes some rotten decisions, but the tree always loves him, and is always overjoyed to see him when he returns.  That bit kind of reminds me of the story of the Prodigal Son, which is also a difficult parable to hear, particularly from the older brother’s point of view.

I think that what is really, really troubling about hearing The Giving Tree as parable for divine love, is not only that it gives us a window into how unconditionally God loves us, no matter how bratty and greedy and self-centered we are, but it also illustrates for us the way in which God asks US to love one another.

God expects US to loose the bonds of injustice, the oppression that we enact on one another.  God expect US to share our bread with the hungry, to bring the homeless poor into our own houses, to clothe the naked, and to take responsibility for others–even (and perhaps especially?) those with whom we are related.

In short, God expects US to be the tree.

I gotta tell you, I do not want to be the tree.

I do not want to give and give and give without limit.  I do not want to expend myself in service to others to the point of being completely used up.

So, what’s a person who wants to be faithful, but who would like to continue living through life, and still have some working parts left over by the end, to do?

Sometimes we’re the tree.
Sometimes we’re the boy.

One strategy comes to mind, that of a former pastor of mine, the lovely Julie Pennington-Russell, who once explained to me her system of calendar-keeping.  Next to every person’s name in her datebook, she would write either an F or a D.  F was for “fills me” and D was for “drains me”, and she said that she would try to have more or less a balance of each in any given week.  It was her way of avoiding burnout as a pastor of a large and thriving congregation.

She taught me that we have got to have a balance between people who fill us and people who drain us, or we ourselves become unbalanced, and can no longer give and serve others as God calls us to do.

I suppose that we could adapt my pastor’s system, and put a T for Tree, next to people who give to us, and a B for Boy next to those who take from us.

Sometimes we’re the tree.
Sometimes we’re the boy.

In my lines of work, as a doula, and as a chaplain, I see both: the selfless giving of parents to their newborns, often to the point of utter exhaustion.  I also see the giving of children to their dying parents, also to the point of utter exhaustion.  And of course, there is a whole life in between, in which there is give and there is take, and hopefully, it all evens out in the end.

God is perfect, and loves perfectly.  God is always the tree.

We, on the other hand…well.

Sometimes we’re the tree.
Sometimes we’re the boy.

As we walk through this imperfect life, may we find ways to balance our giving and taking, our treeness and our boyness, as we seek to live and love faithfully in relationship with others.

Amen.

Pregnant in Worship: Thoughts on Liturgy and Birth

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I was SO going to post this week on the Curse of Eve (doesn’t that sound like a B-list horror film? spoiler: It’s not.), but then another idea came crashing in. Maybe next week I’ll take us back to the Garden of Eden, but today I want to go inside Christian worship and look for birtheology there.

Note the preggo belly--I was determined to get this one sprinkled before the next one came along.

Note the preggo belly--I was determined to get this one sprinkled before the next one came along.

It seems to me that the church doesn’t offer much in the way of ritual or spiritual support for families in the childbearing year. It seems that most churches do a really good job of helping with the practical considerations of having a baby–chiefly, organizing a baby shower before birth and a care calendar afterward.  And when my church did these things for me, I felt loved and knew that this was a way for people to show that they care about me and my family. But, I wanted more. I wanted ritual–words and symbol used as a way for my church to acknowledge and support the spiritual journey my growing little family was on.

Of course, there is baptism (or baby dedication, depending on one’s tradition), but this happens well after the birth (and if you are like me, you don’t get around to doing this until your baby is a toddler (note the photos of my own family’s experiences) and MUCH less open to the idea of a semi-stranger coming at them with wet fingers). Plus, the baptism or baby dedication ritual is much more about starting the baby off on a solid theological grounding in life than about acknowledging what the parents and older siblings have just experienced.

Clearly I did not learn from my experience the first time around. My apologies to Ken White,&nbsp;the pastor who had to chase after my son’s head as he did his best to duck and dodge.

Clearly I did not learn from my experience the first time around. My apologies to Ken White, the pastor who had to chase after my son’s head as he did his best to duck and dodge.

Credit to Barb Nunn, a wonderful Dallas-based photographer and friend

Credit to Barb Nunn, a wonderful Dallas-based photographer and friend

This kind of ritual acknowledgement of the incredibly transformative spiritual experience of pregnancy and birth was something I actively searched for when I was pregnant. There are two moments when I felt my pregnancy acknowledged in church that stand out in my memory. One was at my friend and colleague Chantel’s ordination. During the celebration of Communion, I walked up the aisle to her beaming face, and as she offered the bread to me she gestured to my belly and said, “May this nourish both you and your baby.”  I returned to my pew with tears in my eyes.

My other moment came a bit later in my first pregnancy, at Holy Trinity, the Anglican church I attended in Utrecht, the Netherlands.  They hold a healing service every few months in which people are invited to come forward to the altar rail and receive a blessing. I went forward as I approached the end of my pregnancy in order to have the minister pray over me and my baby for a healthy birth. That moment of having hands laid on my shoulders, oil anointing my forehead, and words of blessing spoken over me as I kneeled in church did much to allay some of my anxiety and to remind me that God would be with me in the physical act of delivering my child.

While I treasure both these memories, I did sort of happen upon them by accident. Neither communion nor a healing service are particularly designed to support pregnancy. So where are the rituals for pregnancy and birth? Why does the church, and its vast store of language and symbol regarding advent, and hope, and fear, and creation, and journey, and, well–LOTS of themes which easily relate to pregnancy and birth, remain silent?

I can’t answer that one. I have lots of thoughts, but of course no real answers.

But if the church, or even a church, (hey, what about your church?) wanted to start acknowledging and supporting the spiritual journey expecting families are on, here are some ideas:

  • A blessing for a pregnant woman, as well as for her partner and other children. What I’m suggesting is something that would happen within the context of worship, with the whole congregation present and participating. (As opposed to what is known as a “blessing way“, or “mother blessing”: a home-based ritual meant to provide emotional and spiritual support for a woman in her pregnancy. This is fodder for a whole other post entirely. Stay tuned.) This blessing could be short and simple, but the pledge of spiritual support from her congregation would be quite meaningful to a woman and her family journeying through pregnancy.
I love this image, but I think it is sad that this woman is all alone.&nbsp;Where is her community?

I love this image, but I think it is sad that this woman is all alone. Where is her community?

  • A blessing for the mother and her family after the birth. There used to be such a ritual, and it still survives in some Christian traditions. It is known as the “Churching of Women“, and for many people it carries negative connotations about the impurity of women following childbirth. However, I am proposing that we move beyond any such connotation, reformulating and reclaiming this ritual as needed in order to focus on welcoming a new mother back into worship, acknowledging the enormity of what she has just done, and lending support to her and her family as they move into a new way of being.
  • Always in the back of my mind when I am working with this concept of birtheology is the knowledge that pregnancy and birth are not always simple or even accessible to all. Of course, considerable discretion would need to be used, but I believe that offering a means of acknowledging the loss of a child through miscarriage or stillbirth and praying for and with the parents who have experienced this within the context of their community of faith could be a powerful means of supporting their grief.
  • Along these same lines, there are those in the pews who silently struggle with infertility.  I have no idea what this might look like, but perhaps there is a way to break the silence and shame on this subject as well. What is the church for, anyway, but to support one another in faith through life’s journey, whatever that journey might hold?

These are just preliminary ideas, and I could write a whole post on any of the points above. What I would really love is to hear your thoughts and experience. Is there a way in which you found spiritual support in the childbearing year within the context of worship, or do you have suggestions for how that could happen? Or have you felt excluded within worship as one who has struggled with fertility issues? How would you suggest the church address people in this situation?

Meeting the Theotokos in the Hospital

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I was doin’ my chaplain thing this week, sitting with a patient’s family while they waited for news about their loved one, and I happened to mention to one of them (let’s call him Hank, which is not his real name) that I’m also a doula and a blogger on things birtheology-related. A couple of days later, I had a chance to swing by and check on this family, and Hank stopped me and said that he had googled my blog (“It’s an internet world,” he said), and he had a suggestion for me. Turns out Hank is Eastern Orthodox, and when he saw my blog, he immediately thought of this:

Or something a lot like this, as this is what I found when I googled what he described to me. It is an icon, which (put simply) is a religious work of art, often used in worship, but not as an object of worship. Eastern Orthodox Christians venerate (that is, regard with reverence or respect) icons, but this veneration, as Bishop Auxentios explains,

must be understood as a veneration rendered not to a thing (or person), in and of itself, but through the thing to that which sanctifies it—ultimately, of course, to God. We honor the Cross, therefore, because of the One crucified on it. We honor a Saint because of Him whose friend the Saint is.

This icon in particular is of Mary who is here depicted as the Theotokos, which is a Greek term most precisely translated as birth-giver of God.  In this rendering, Mary is pictured facing the viewer with her hands raised in a position that is both a posture of prayer and a reminder of the posture Christ took on the cross, here reflected by the tiny fully formed Jesus in her womb. This icon is meant to capture Mary at the moment of the Annunciation, when she gave her Great Yes to God, submitting to her role of God-bearer. Veneration of the Theotokos is a big part of Eastern Orthodox Christian practice. According to Dr. David J. Goa (who by the way, looks like THIS!!→)

When Orthodox Christians around the world enter the church, they bring a candle to this icon and, bowing in a prayer of gratitude to God who clothed them in flesh, ask that they, too, like the Theotokos, may be open to be a birth giver of divine love in a fractured and suffering world.

This is a prayer uttered by all Orthodox Christians regardless of gender or age, because this vocation to give birth to divine love is one that all Christians share. It’s like the good Dr. Goa says:

The mystery of the Incarnation of God in Christ is our mystery, a revelation of our created nature and a call to its fullness,...[thus] the Icon of the Virgin and Child is...the Icon of the Human Vocation. It reveals to us our capacity as persons, as women, men and children.

I believe that the Incarnation is not only something Jesus did once, but something that every Christian is called to do daily: to bring God into this world of flesh and blood. We are to say Yes to God, and allow Christ to be born in us, just like Mary did. This reminds me of the sermon Julie Pennington-Russell preached at my ordination, in which she stated that this woman who became the mother of Jesus was “no Milquetoast Mary,” but instead an incredibly brave and faithful person. Each of us who are serious about bearing Christ within us and bringing forth the light of God into the world ought to take her for a model of faith.

When Hank was telling me about the Theotokos and the significance this icon has for him and for his fellow Orthodox Christians, I lamented that Protestants lost so much when we decided to stop really paying any attention to Mary.  He replied that we “threw out the baby with the bath water–no pun intended!”

I couldn’t agree more.

A Liturgical Calendar Pop Quiz

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What are the three main Christian feast days?

(hint: a feast day is a high point of religious observance and celebration in the life of the church)

Did you even know there are three? You can name two, anyway, even if you haven’t been to church in a while, or didn’t pay too much attention even when you were there.

There’s Christmas.

And Easter.

Those are the two everyone knows. But the third major feast day, the only one not completely co-opted by popular culture, and therefore known only to die-hard liturgical calendar fans (yes, we do exist) is: Pentecost. Now you know.

Pentecost was celebrated this past Sunday. It is observed 50 days (7 weeks) after Easter and commemorates the coming of the Holy Spirit to Jesus’ apostles. As my three-year-old learned in her Sunday school class, “It’s the Church’s birthday!”

That got me to thinking. ALL THREE of the main Christian feast days are about birth. No really. Christmas is obviously about birth. The actual, physical birth of Jesus, to be precise. The other two are metaphorically about birth. Easter commemorates Jesus’ return to life, or re-birth, you might say.  Plenty of people have already made connections between the tomb and the womb.(Though I think that is the stuff of another post entirely.) And now Pentecost is another metaphorical birth, this time of the church, as it begins to move from being a loose group of Jesus-followers to an organized religion.

So–if the three high points of Christian life are about birth, then it follows that birtheology is not just for mommies and babies (in case anyone out there was thinking that). Christmas, the actual birth of Jesus; Easter, the metaphorical rebirth of Jesus; and Pentecost, the metaphorical birth of the church: these three events are central to the Christian faith.

Birth is central to the Christian faith. 

And if birth is central to the faith, then we’ve got some work to do in uncovering a theology of birth. This means examining what birth is, how it affects those who participate in it (both women and men, both those actually giving birth and those who support them), what it teaches us about the life of the body, soul and spirit. This is true even if we are “only” regarding birth as a metaphor, since to understand a metaphor one must first thoroughly examine what it refers to.

For whatever reason, we as Christians have largely neglected to give serious thought to this central element of our own faith. But that’s all about to change, y’all. Keep reading, and keep commenting–there will be more birtheology to come!

Introducing: Birtheology

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Here’s an idea I’ve been kicking around for a while: I’ve been frustrated, annoyed, even angry that though women often describe giving birth as a spiritual experience, there is not much out there in the way of connection between religious belief (specifically Christian, as that is my faith tradition) and childbirth.  I have searched and searched, throwing the weight of my considerable research skills (gleaned over the course of 11–yes ELEVEN–years of higher education) and have come up with…not so much.

A good part of what I have found has focused on submitting to one’s proper place as wife and now mother in “God’s plan” for the family and on praying hard enough (i.e., “Having fertility issues? You are just not praying hard enough. Experiencing pain in childbirth?  PRAY HARDER.”).  That’s pretty much all I’ve found in the way of popular literature/blogs, and honestly, I don’t find that these views accord with my own experience of how God works in the world, nor do I find them particularly empowering.  In scholarly literature, there have been a couple of voices over the past 30 years or so who have called for a theology of birth.  From what I can tell, that idea hasn’t made a lot of progress.  I’m not sure why that is, but perhaps it is because there are not many scholars who have both the ability and inclination  to reflect theologically on childbirth.

I approached my own experiences of giving birth by intentionally minimizing medical interventions in an effort to enhance my own physical, emotional and spiritual experience of the process.  So, I had these holistic birth experiences,  AND I am trained to think theologically.  There are not so many people who fit that description.  Thus, I find myself in a unique position: I am an ordained minister, a birth doula, a theological scholar, a mother.  I can write about this, I can make connections between theology and birth, and I can further the (so far) limited conversation on this topic.  So, I introduce to you, dear reader, my new venture in blogging, in theology, in life:

(credit for the catchy title goes to my incredibly creative, talented, and supportive husband, Thomas)

I hope to use this space to work out some thoughts as I prepare to lead a seminar on this topic at my church in the fall.  This seminar will be geared not just toward pregnant people, but also to the whole congregation.  Birtheology is not just for women having babies, and the church as a whole has essentially ignored this transformative event in the lives of the majority of its members for too long.  Ultimately, I would love to put together a childbirth education class for parents as well, with all the usual stuff about the stages of labor, medical interventions, pain management, etc., but also with a focus on the spiritual elements of giving birth.  Of course, publishing some of this good stuff in a journal, magazine, or book some day would be pretty awesome, too.

So, keep reading!  There will be lots more to come.  And of course, if you have thoughts/experiences to share, I would love to hear about them.  The more voices we can add to this void the better