Martha's Moment

Here is a sermon I preached at St. John United Church of Christ in Robinson, Texas. It was the Fifth Sunday in Lent, March 26, 2023. You can read the gospel text for the day here: John 11:1-45

A few months ago I saw a t-shirt that said, “Be a Mary in a Martha World.” And frankly, I was offended on Martha’s behalf. In preparing for this sermon, I looked up the t-shirt online, to be sure I was remembering it correctly (I was), and I found that there is a popular Christian self-help book with the title, “Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World.” And I was offended all over again!

Both the t-shirt and the book clearly are in reference to the passage from Luke, where Jesus and probably some of his entourage stop in to Martha’s house, where she welcomes them and sets about doing the necessary household tasks. Y’all remember this one, right? Martha gets annoyed with her sister Mary, who isn’t helping at all, but is instead sitting and listening to Jesus talk. Martha tries to get Jesus to order Mary to help her, but Jesus wisely does not try to tell either of them what to do. Instead, he says that Mary has chosen what’s best, and he’s not going to ask her to do anything else.

Ok, so Martha doesn’t come off looking too good in that story. BUT. As we have just heard in the gospel reading for today, that’s not the last we hear of these sisters. And it was a looong reading, wasn’t it? There’s so much here I want to talk about! But I’m going to try to keep focused.

When Lazarus falls deathly ill, his sisters (both of them) send for Jesus. Jesus drags his feet a bit, which frankly I find annoying. But then, we find out later in the story that even if he had left right away, he still wouldn’t have made it in time. Why Jesus waits is unclear— it seems he wants to make a point, somehow. But I confess to not seeing the point he was trying to make. 

What we do know is that journeying back to Judea is dangerous for Jesus. There are religious/political leaders (and I say religious-slash-political, because you know, at that time and place, religious leaders were political, and political leaders were religious. The combination is a dangerous one.) but anyway, there were leaders there who have already noticed his brand of teaching and have made it clear that he is not welcome in the region of Jerusalem. But Jesus loves this family, and he is not afraid of anything those leaders can do to him. So he sets off. And I just love how Thomas sounds just like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh here: “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” That cracks me up every time.

Get ready now: Martha is about to have her Moment.

The thing I love about Martha is that she speaks her mind and isn’t afraid of a little confrontation! We saw it in the Luke story, and we see it here: while Mary refuses to come out to meet Jesus until Jesus specifically calls for her, Martha storms right on out to meet Jesus on the road into town.

You can just picture her: hot-headed, angry in her grief, lashing out, trying to blame someone else for the pain she is feeling at the loss of her beloved brother. Isn’t it often the case that when we lose someone we have loved deeply— we are very sad but also very angry? 

“Jesus, where have you been?!? We sent for you days ago!! Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

But immediately after her angry outburst, Martha seems to cool a bit. 

“But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.”

Does she dare to hope that, even now, Jesus could bring her brother back to him?

Maaaybe. But her later statements don’t really seem to indicate that she is imagining that Jesus will bring Lazarus back. Instead, I think she is reiterating her trust in Jesus. Even in her anger at him not being physically present in her hour of need, she acknowledges that he is still a source of strength and comfort to her.

And isn’t that often the case for those of us who grieve. In one breath we can be angry at God for taking our loved one, and in the next breath we can find strength and comfort in that same God.

Jesus reminds her that her brother will rise again. And Martha sets Jesus up to make one of John’s famous “I am” statements. We’ve already heard Jesus make several so far in this gospel: 

I am the bread of life.

I am the light of the world.

I am the door of the sheep.

I am the good shepherd.

And here:

“I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?”

And here it is—Martha’s Moment to Shine.

In the other 3 gospels (Matthew, Mark, & Luke—the ones we call the “synoptic gospels,” and that tend to have the same structure and several of the same stories shared between them)—the authors of those gospels place the ultimate confession that Jesus is the Messiah in the mouth of Peter (also a biblical character I have a lot of fondness for. But this is not a sermon about Peter. Not today.)

While the other gospel authors feature Peter making this pinnacle statement about who Jesus is, John always does things his own way. And in his gospel, it’s not Peter but Martha who makes this proclamation. It’s not a male disciple, but a female close friend of Jesus.

And let’s note that it’s not Mary either, who if you believe the t-shirt slogan, is the sister who knows more about how to honor Jesus, who has the “right” heart. Nope, Martha is the one. Busy, hot-headed, confrontational Martha. SHE is the one who states: “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”

This statement is the one on which the whole of John’s gospel hangs. And it comes from a woman’s mouth.

After this climatic statement from Martha, Jesus moves on to speak with Mary, and then on to resuscitate Lazarus. This story is the pivot in John, from the life of Jesus before, to what comes next. And anybody who has ever heard the story of Jesus, from any of the gospels, knows what’s coming next. 

Today is the 5th Sunday of Lent. Next week is Palm Sunday, which leads to Maundy Thursday, which leads to Good Friday. In the gospel of John and in our church calendar, from here we are heading inexorably toward Jesus’ death. 

But, Lazarus’s rising from death gives us a kind of preview of Jesus’s rising. Like Martha, we will find hope in the midst of grief. Easter morning will come. 

What can we take away from all of this—our gospel reading and my rambling thoughts on it? Well, for starters I hope we’ve learned to resist the urge to reduce a person’s life and story to a slogan that will fit on a t-shirt. But beyond that, I think one of the takeaways here is that we should be proud to be who God made us to be, and to live into our own personalities, using our own gifts and strengths to bring glory to God in our own lives. 

Y’all may know that Shelby and I teach a sexuality education class to teens called Our Whole Lives. It was written collaboratively by the UCC and the Unitarians, so it has a religious frame to it. Well, Shelby and I are forever telling our teens that God made each of them good—and that means every part of them. We know that early adolescence is HARD, and with bodies and minds changing rapidly it’s important to hear that they are good, and that their bodies are blessed, and that their jumble of emotions is not so tangled that they can’t bring their whole selves to God anyways.

But it’s not just early teenagers who need to hear that message. For every one of us, no matter what age or stage of development, life is a struggle every day, in some way or another. Let us resist the urge to think that others are doing life better or are somehow more godly than we are. That’s a dumb t-shirt slogan, not sound theology. 

Jesus loved every last member of the family we encountered today: attentive Mary, bold Martha, and Lazarus—who we actually don’t know much about personality-wise. He’s just sort of there. But clearly Jesus loved him, too—enough to put himself in danger to travel to save him. Enough to weep at his grave.

And Jesus loves every last member of this family here at St. John, too. No matter who you are, or where you are on life’s journey—God has made you good, and Jesus has called you friend. In our gladness and in our grieving, each one of us has our part to play in this journey through life. We each have our Moment to bring glory to God.

May it be so.

Thanks be to God.

Unnamed, Untamed

I got started writing another sermon and realized I had never posted this one! I preached this one at St. John UCC in Robinson, Texas on June 27, 2021. I’ll copy the gospel reading, which the congregation would have already heard read aloud, then my sermon below.

When Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a great crowd gathered round him; and he was by the lake. Then one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came and, when he saw him, fell at his feet and begged him repeatedly, ‘My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.’ So he went with him.

And a large crowd followed him and pressed in on him. Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better, but rather grew worse. She had heard about Jesus, and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, for she said, ‘If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well.’ Immediately her hemorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease. Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, ‘Who touched my clothes?’ And his disciples said to him, ‘You see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, “Who touched me?” ’ He looked all round to see who had done it. But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth. He said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.’

While he was still speaking, some people came from the leader’s house to say, ‘Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?’ But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue, ‘Do not fear, only believe.’ He allowed no one to follow him except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. When they came to the house of the leader of the synagogue, he saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. When he had entered, he said to them, ‘Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping.’ And they laughed at him. Then he put them all outside, and took the child’s father and mother and those who were with him, and went in where the child was. He took her by the hand and said to her, ‘Talitha cum’, which means, ‘Little girl, get up!’ And immediately the girl got up and began to walk about (she was twelve years of age). At this they were overcome with amazement. He strictly ordered them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.

—Mark 5:21-43

I was so excited when I saw this story from Mark was today’s gospel lectionary reading. I LOVE THIS STORY.

Maybe you know, maybe you don’t: for the past 10 years,  I have been working with families giving birth— as a doula and childbirth educator. I end up talking about uteruses and menstruation and female bodies A LOT. So today’s story is right up my alley.

But first, before we can even begin talking about the main character in this story, we have to talk about what to call her. Like many female characters in the Bible, she doesn’t get a name. Some refer to her as a woman with a hemorrhage, or woman with an issue of blood.

But I refuse to identify her as her illness. As we will see, she is not defined by her illness. Her identity is so much more than what is making her sick. Just as every person with a chronic or terminal illness is so much more than their illness.

It is bad enough she doesn’t get named. But we can not add insult to injury by calling her something that reduces her to her illness. I will be referring to her today as the woman in the crowd or just the woman.

And as we just heard, she is not the only unnamed but central character in the story. She has has in common with the girl whose story she interrupts. She actually has a lot in common with this girl, known to us as Jairus’ daughter.

They are both 

• unnamed,

• they are both referred to as daughter (Jesus calls the woman in the crowd Daughter, while we know the girl only as Jairus’ daughter),

• they both are associated with the number 12 (the woman has been bleeding for 12 years, while the girl is 12 years old)

• And they are both considered unclean (the woman because she is bleeding, the girl because she is dead).

Mark loves to tell stories this way, where he starts telling one story, then gets distracted with another story, then goes back to finish the first one. There’s even a name for it: Markan sandwich.

The meat of the sandwich comes in between the two pieces of bread. The middle story helps us understand the one it interrupts.

So let’s look first at the meat—the woman’s story, then we’ll see what it teaches us about the bread: Jairus and his daughter’s story.

The Woman’s Story

She has been bleeding for 12 years. And when we say “bleeding” we mean she has been menstruating for 12 years. She spent all her money on doctors, but never got any better, only worse.

Now before we go thinking how awful it must have been then (which it was) and how much better we have it now, let me tell you—we don’t. 

Has anyone heard of the condition endometriosis? It is a condition where tissue just like the lining of the uterus grows in other areas of the abdomen. It causes (among other symptoms) extreme pain with periods and copious bleeding, including bleeding between periods. Who knows? Maybe this is what the woman in the crowd had. 

Endometriosis today affects 1 in 10 women, and it takes *on average* 7 years to diagnose. SEVEN YEARS for people suffering right now in the 21st century, before they can get a diagnosis and start getting some relief.

So, it was not just way back then. We still do a terrible job of caring for women’s bodies.

But back to the woman in the crowd. Her illness is not just debilitating—can you imagine managing a period that lasts 12 years in the time and place she lived? The sheer amount of washing up involved?

It was isolating, because of the purity laws in place. She was considered “unclean”—unable to participate in community life. And not just her, but *anyone who touched her* became unclean. Talk about social distancing. We all could barely stand a year more or less of social distancing under covid. She lived that life for 12 years. Isolated, in pain, without hope.

But then.

She heard the rumors of a man who could heal people. She was intrigued. She was desperate. 

She thought to herself, “If I can just touch the edge of his cloak, I will be healed.”

For a gal with a chronic illness, whom many define by her illness, she sure got around. The text says that she 

Suffered

Endured

Spent all her money

Grew worse

But then she

Heard

Came up from behind

Touched

Said

And then immediately, she felt in her body that she was healed. 

That’s a lot of active verbs for somebody who didn’t even get named.

She was stealthy, she was sneaky, she was persistent.

She also exhibited a blatant disregard for others.

Just by walking through that crowd, brushing up against all those other people, she made them unclean. She knew that by reaching out and touching Jesus’ clothing, she risked making him unclean.

She must have been terrified that she was going to get told off when Jesus turned around and said, “Who did that?”

She had tried to be sneaky, but she got caught.

Meanwhile the disciples remain clueless, as they often are. “Uh, Jesus, there’s a giant crowd pressing in all around you. What are you even on about, “who touched me?” You can almost see them rolling their eyes. “Geez, Jesus, sometimes you really don’t make any sense.”

But Jesus just ignores them and keeps searching the crowd for the one he knows has just been healed by him.

And that’s when she sheepishly puts her hand up.

And that’s when she pleads for mercy, on her face in the dust, because she is sure that someone like her, an outcast, the lowest of lows, is really going to get it for daring to touch his holy man.

But surprise! (And Mark loves to set up a good surprise.) Jesus speaks to her directly (first time he actually speaks to a woman in Mark), calls her daughter (only time he ever calls a woman “daughter”), and tells her “Your faith has made you well.”

YOUR faith. Not I have healed you, not I have made you well. YOUR FAITH has made you well.

Now this is all really shocking.

Jesus insists on seeking her out, insists on speaking to her, calls her “daughter”, and praises her faith. This woman, who has been living on the lowest rung of the social ladder for more than a decade.

Whoa.

What does this tell us?

Jesus insists on breaking down the walls that we put up. He brings in those whom we have pushed out. 

Whom do we push out? Who lives at the margins of our society? For centuries we pushed out and aside Black people, and there are absolutely ways in which those actions by our forebears reverberate and continue today. 

I think today we as a society tend also to push down people based on gender and sexual identity issues. For evidence of all this we have only to look at the scapegoating in our legislature of Critical Race Theory and of transgender folks who just want to use the bathroom and play sports.

We still do this. We still push people out and aside and down. And what’s most abhorrent, is that we do it sometimes in Jesus’ name.

This Jesus, the one who just spoke gently to a woman he called daughter, whom everyone else crossed the street to avoid at all costs.

Jesus is the one who breaks down the walls that we put up, who brings in those whom we have pushed out.

Jesus also praises this woman’s faith—a faith that was gutsy, and stealthy, and self-serving.

Wait, what?

Gutsy we might be able to get behind—being brave and daring are seen as virtues by most people.

But stealthy? Self-serving? Those attributes are kind of, I don’t know, underhanded? And Jesus is praising that kind of faith? Preacher, are you sure you’ve got that right?!?

All I know is what Mark tell us! This woman snuck up on Jesus, stealing a healing from him, and disregarding the fact that she was making the whole crowd unclean in the process.

Maybe if we’ve always been told that it is virtuous to keep to our place, keep quiet, don’t be demanding, don’t try to rise up and take hold of what is rightfully ours, of justice for ourselves—maybe all of that is actually not virtuous. 

Maybe Jesus wants us to be bold in our requests of him, maybe he wants us to seek healing and justice not just when we can be sweet and demure while doing it. Maybe it is ok to reach out and grab what’s right, even if the others in the crowd wouldn’t approve.

Jairus’s Daughter’s Story

So that’s the woman’s story, the meat. What about the bread? Why did Mark decide to interrupt the story of Jairus & his daughter with this one? What does the woman’s story tell us about how to understand Jairus’s words and actions?

If the woman in the crowd had some things in common with Jairus’ daughter, she had almost nothing in common with Jairus himself.

The woman is unnamed, but we get to know Jairus’ name and his place at the top of the social ladder—he is a respected religious leader, while the woman is a social nobody. While the woman felt that her only option was to sneak up behind Jesus and seek a blessing without asking for one, Jairus felt confident enough to walk right up to Jesus and ask him directly to drop what he was doing to come to his daughter’s bedside. 

Jesus did respond to Jairus’ request, agreeing to go with him. I wonder though, was Jairus tapping his foot and glancing at his watch during the whole scene with the woman? I wonder how he felt about his errand being held up by her?

And then, how did he feel when his deepest fear came true—when someone brought the news that while Jesus had been stopped here chatting with this woman, his little daughter had died?

Clearly the bearers of this sad message thought that all hope was lost. Why continue to bother Jesus about it? It’s over. She’s dead.

I wonder then, when Jesus looked into Jairus’ eyes at that moment, what did he see? He must have seen that Jairus had also lost hope, he must have seen his despair, his fear, his lack of faith.

Because he said to Jairus, “Do not fear, only believe.”

And we have to compare (as Mark intends us to do) Jairus’ faith with the woman’s. She believed so hard that she was sure that just touching Jesus’ hem would be enough to heal her.

And here Jairus thinks a little thing like death is enough to put his daughter beyond Jesus’ ability to heal?

I can’t really blame him, can you? I think I also would have thought that my only chance to save my child had been lost.

But Jairus must have rallied, must have been willing to bring himself to hope, because they all continue on to the house.

Where Jesus immediately meets more resistance in the form of the noisy mourners who laugh in his face when he insists that the girl is only sleeping.

Both the crowd of disciples and the crowd of mourners do not come off looking good in these stories. It is almost like following Jesus will put you outside popular opinion. It’s almost like, if the crowd says it knows what is right and good, maybe you should question those assumptions in light of the words and actions of Jesus.

Jesus gets fed up with them all, locks the door on them, and goes to the girl’s bedside with her parents hovering, anxious behind.

And in case you missed the memo in the woman’s story, the one about how Jesus breaks the socially accepted rules of who is good and clean and worthy of being touched who is not—he reaches out and touches a dead body.

When he does that, he is 100% doing something that should make him “unclean”. But it doesn’t. What it does is bring life.

He takes her hand, tells her to get up, and then she does! And—I love this part—while her parents are still standing there with their mouths open, he points out that, you know, she’s probably hungry?

Jesus reminds us that we have to remember to meet people’s basic physical needs, not just spiritual ones. So practical, Jesus.

So the meat of the story taught us that there is no one whom we think is too far out there, too low or too dirty, that he won’t reach out to with healing and kindness. It teaches us that faith that is worthy of praise is faith that is gutsy and fearless, and even sometimes self-serving and subversive.

And then Jairus’ story affirms that faith in Jesus can turn despair into hope, fear into wholeness, even when circumstances are at their most bleak.

There is no one outside the reach of Jesus’ love and healing. And when we put up barriers, Jesus will insist on tearing them down, siding with the outcast over the popular crowd, and show us again and again that we are wrong to try to put limits on who Jesus reaches, and whom we ought to reach out to in his name.

I encourage you to be bold, to speak up on behalf of the lowly and lost. Especially if that means speaking up for yourself, when you find yourself running low on hope. Jesus encourages each of us: “Do not fear, only believe.” And to remember that he will be right on our side, even against the crowd, when we seek justice and healing and wholeness in his name.

This is the prayer that we will sing here in just a minute: We ask Jesus to abide with us, through our own suffering, through any trial, even up to and through death. 

Let’s sing it now: Abide with Me #419.

Reverend, Mother, Doula

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

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

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.

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.

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.

LOOK.

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

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

[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}

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.

Remembering Chloe Bear

A few weeks ago I helped facilitate a Celebration of Life for a baby named Chloe who had multiple health problems for which, unfortunately, there were no adequate solutions.  She lived for one month before her parents sang her to sleep, tucked in with her Princess Leia doll and lamby lovey.

Chloe's mother and I had spoken on the phone about what she and her husband wanted the Celebration to include, and I had planned what I was going to say and written everything out. Everything began smoothly and according to plan, but then partway through the ceremony, Chloe's maternal grandfather suggested that Chloe's parents needed hugs, and so an impromptu hug line was formed. It was really very sweet, but also rather confusing to all the guests, who then thought that the service had concluded. The ceremony was supposed to end with everyone filing out to the front yard for a release of doves. After several minutes of hugging, Chloe's mother broke away from the line and whispered urgently, "Can you get everyone's attention and let them know that this is not the end? We need everyone to go outside. The doves have a tight schedule to keep!"

So, that is what I did. I got everyone's attention and directed them out front, skipping the entirety of the words I had prepared. Reverends and doulas are nothing if not flexible!

Since I didn't get a chance to share what I had prepared to say there that day, I will share with you, dear reader, here and now. I hope reading these words give you comfort in remembering the loss of someone you love. <3

---

Gathering

• I invite everyone to find a seat, soon we will begin the more formal aspect of today's gathering.
• When everyone is seated, I introduce myself.

Prepare to watch the DVD of Chloe's life:

• For many of you, this is hello and goodbye. For her parents, time with Chloe was precious. How could we blame them for not wanting to share it?
• We’ll watch the video, followed by an opportunity to share what is on our hearts.

Time of Sharing

{There were quite a few people who shared. Of course, there were lots of tears, as well. And then Chloe's maternal grandfather took us off course, bless his heart. The following is what I skipped.}

Message

When Chloe's mother and I talked about what she wanted today to feel like, she emphasized to me that she wanted the message to be one of hope, comfort, and letting go. Chloe's parents did not want this day to be scary, dark or depressing. They wanted this time to be a gift to family and friends, a chance to express grief, but also to celebrate baby Chloe, whose life was very short, but who is so very loved.

On reflection, I kept thinking of a passage normally read at weddings, but which came to my mind and heart for Chloe and her family.

1 Corinthians 13

If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

We don’t know why Chloe died. I mean, yes, we know the physical reasons why her body could not support life, but as the scripture said, we now know only in part. We don’t know why she was born into that body, why her time on earth with her parents was so short. We trust in God, who is Love, that she knows she is loved, and that she is at peace. Now we see in a mirror, dimly. But we trust in God, we trust in Love, that one day we will see fully and know fully.

Until then, all we have is love. The love we have for Chloe, the love we have for her parents and extended family.  The love they have for each other. Death - particularly an infant's death - defies easy explanation. Death is a mystery. Chloe's parents wanted me to focus on the here and now.

And now faith, hope, and love abide: and the greatest of these is love.

This love, which bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Yes, even this, the most tragic of all things: the death of an infant - can be endured because of the power of love.

Chloe's parents wanted to give this ceremony as a gift to you, their friends and family. But I want to give a gift to you, as well:

In situations like this, we often wonder: What can I say? What can I do? Well, I'll tell you:

• Say her name. Chloe.
• Listen.
• Bring food, send cards, ask how her parents are doing
  • in 2 days
  • in 2 weeks
  • in 2 months
  • in 2 years
  • and beyond.

Sometimes we mistakenly think that bringing up the subject of a person’s loss will bring fresh hurt, but actually the opposite is true. Bereaved people are always thinking of the person they lost. And they are often so glad to know that someone else remembers them, too.

So, this is my advice to you: don’t give advice. Don’t offer your thoughts on how Chloe's parents should feel, don’t offer explanations as to why any of this has happened.

• Just, say her name. Chloe.
• And, listen, in love.

Amen.

{And this is the point to which I skipped, after disrupting the hug line. I was sorry to do it, but the doves had a schedule to keep! I had to no choice but to interrupt.}

Prepare to move to backyard: 

• Her parents have chosen to have doves released as symbol of letting Chloe go. We recognize that she is free of her earthly body. She is at peace. And in letting her go, may we find peace.
• The song they have chosen to play during the release has a special meaning for them. It is sung by Israël Kamakawiwo'ole, and is a Hawaiian ukulele version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Chloe's parents went to Hawaii for their babymoon, and it is where they plan to scatter her ashes.
• After the doves are released and the song has concluded, we will observe a moment of silence.

Somewhere Over The Rainbow, sung by Israel "Iz" Ka'ano'i Kamakawiwo'Ole. (Sorry about the ad at the beginning of the video.)

Before releasing the doves, the dove-lady walked around the circle of guests and invited each of us to touch one of them and say goodbye to Chloe.

Then she released 3 additional doves who represented the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, and who reminded us that Chloe is not alone.

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)

Thank you for being here today and being here for this family in the days, months, and years to come.

If you have not already done so, you are invited to take a rose from the vase by the front door, carry it upstairs to Chloe's nursery, and leave it in her crib.

May the Lord bless you and keep you; 
the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you;

and give you peace.

Amen.

When birth meets death

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

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.

Jose Alain Austria, Jacob Wrestling with God, mixed media on canvas, 2008

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

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

{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.

The Curse of Eve

I think I have to start here with any kind of semi-organized analysis of birth and the biblical narrative, ’cause doesn’t it seem as though everybody likes to pile on Eve and blame her for EVERYTHING BAD THAT IS? It’s like Bob Marley sings, “Woman is the root of all evil.”

In this post I’m going to leave aside the question of  whether or not Eve deserves all the blame for everything that has ever gone wrong, and focus rather on the so-called “curse of Eve,” which is the notion that women experience pain in childbirth because Eve took a bite of forbidden fruit. We’ve all heard this explanation for the existence of labor pain, but what exactly does the Bible say?

Below I will excerpt the passage in question (because I hate it when I read commentaries that make ME look up what passage they are referring to), but first a note on the translation used: it is from Robert Alter’s translation of the book of Genesis. Alter is a scholar of Hebrew and comparative literature, who strives to produce a close literal rendering, while also capturing the poetry and wordplay of the Hebrew text.  

And now, the text, Genesis 3:14-19.

And the Lord God said to the serpent, “Because you have done this,

Cursed be you
of all cattle and all beasts of the field.
On your belly shall you go
and dust shall you eat all the days of your life.
Enmity will I set between you and the woman,
between your seed and hers.
He will boot your head
and you will bite his heel.”

To the woman He said,

“I will terribly sharpen your birth pangs,
in pain shall you bear children.
And for your man shall be your longing,
And he shall rule over you.”

And to the human He said, “Because you listened to the voice of your wife and ate from the tree that I commanded you, ‘You shall not eat from it,’

Cursed be the soil for your sake,
with pangs shall you eat from it all the days of your life.
Thorn and thistle shall it sprout for you
and you shall eat the plants of the field.
By the sweat of your brow shall you eat bread
till you return to the soil,
for from there were you taken,
for dust you are
and to dust shall you return.”

First of all, did you notice that Eve is not cursed at all. Only the snake and the ground are actually cursed. (What did the ground do?  That is another question for another day.) So the whole “curse of Eve” thing is a total misnomer.

But more to the point of the story, this episode, like much of the Bible and particularly the first 11 chapters of Genesis, is meant to help us understand why things are the way they are. So, the question we are asking today is, “Why do women experience pain in childbirth?”

Genesis’s answer is this: Humans go their own way/rebel against God/sin/whatever you want to call it. Anyone who looks around and pays attention to human nature can see that. The consequence (not curse) of that distance between humanity and God is that we have to work. We are no longer able to live a childlike existence in the Garden where our every need is provided for us. Our lives are not easy because we are so unruly–in other words, we brought this trouble on ourselves because of our own poor choices. Any parents out there to whom this sounds familiar? In this worldview, God is our parent, and like any conscientious parent, God allows us to live out the consequences of our actions.

What is really interesting, and also totally missed in most translations of this passage, is that the text shows a parallel description of that consequence for both men and women—even using the same word to describe how both sexes will suffer equally.  Read again verse 16:

To the woman He said,

“I will terribly sharpen your birth pangs,
in pain shall you bear children.
And for your man shall be your longing,
And he shall rule over you.”

and then in the very next verse (17) we see the parallel consequence for the man:

And to the human He said, “Because you listened to the voice of your wife and ate from the tree that I commanded you, ‘You shall not eat from it,’

Cursed be the soil for your sake,
with pangs shall you eat from it all the days of your life.

In the time and place Genesis was written (and in plenty of places even now), woman’s work=childbearing, while man’s work=providing food. Both types of work are described with the word ‘pangs’. In this reckoning, both man and woman are equally pained. They have equal punishment because they share equal blame. So stop blaming it all on Eve, people. God didn’t.

OK, so that’s the rotten news. But, God is a good parent, one who lets her children face their own consequences, but who does not give us up for lost. Even though both Eve and Adam disobeyed God, he does not abandon them. If you read further, you will see that God helps them find clothes and then goes with them out from the garden. Remember, this is just the beginning of God’s story of being in relationship with humans. The whole rest of the Bible is about how God continues to be present with us, continues to provide for us, continues to love us and to give us another chance. And another. And another.

And the human called his woman’s name Eve, for she was the mother of all that lives. (Genesis 3:20)

But wait, there is even more good news! Despite this decidedly downbeat beginning, throughout the Hebrew Bible, over and over again childbirth is seen as a blessing, not a curse. And Eve, for all the poop everyone gives her, still gets crowned with a title: she is forever remembered as The Mother of All Living. Which is pretty dang cool, in my opinion.

And just a bit further in Genesis, we get to hear out of Eve’s own mouth just how cool she thought becoming a mother was:

And the human knew Eve his woman, and she conceived and bore Cain, and she said,

“I have made a man with the help of the Lord!” (Genesis 4:1)

Ok, so I added the exclamation point. But honestly, who can read this exclamation of Eve’s without hearing an exclamation point?

What a counterpoint to the downside of childbearing shown in Gen 3:16!  This is not the voice of a woman ashamed. She is proud of being a co-creator of life! And clearly, the pangs she experienced in the process of bringing forth her son did nothing to diminish her sense of wonder and fulfillment and joy at meeting him.

Yes, labor is painful. Maybe we can blame Eve for that, maybe not. But we can absolutely follow her lead and do the work of childbearing with pride, reveling in the wonder that, with the help of the Lord, we are creating and bringing forth life.

Pregnant in Worship: Thoughts on Liturgy and Birth

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.

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, 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

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. 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

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

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

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

Super Grover 2.0: Incarnational Theology for Doulas, Chaplains, and You

This morning over breakfast, while my kids were getting their dose of Sesame Street, I remembered an essay I wrote while I was doing my chaplain residency. For those of you who watch, oh, I don’t know–THE NEWS, or some such grownup programming while eating your cereal in the morning, I offer this by way of introduction to Super Grover 2.0:

Admit it. You were entertained.

Anyway, a big part of the chaplain residency I went through back in 2010/11 involved undergoing some pretty intense reflection on how to become a better pastoral caregiver. I have said all along that the skills I developed in the process of becoming a chaplain are the skills I find most useful as a doula: that of being fully present for the person I am serving, and trusting that I have within me what I need to be an emotional and spiritual support for my client/patient. I think that as a doula it can be awfully easy to fall into the trap of thinking, “I won’t be fully prepared to serve  my clients unless I learn this physical comfort technique or read up on that medical intervention or acquire certification in [insert birth related field here].” And that’s not to say that I should not or am not continuing to sharpen those kinds of doula skills. I am. But I think the reason caregivers focus on that other stuff is because showing up–being fully, completely, totally present for the person whom you are serving–is actually really, really difficult to do. Gena Kirby, a doula who travels the world leading workshops on the use of the rebozo in labor, brought this idea up not too long ago in a Facebook group I follow:

I have noticed over the years that doulas who take my classes sign up to learn how to DO stuff to clients. They want to know how to augment, how to move baby, how to…you name it. These questions really put the DO in doula. I wish we were BE las instead.

Being a BE-la, being fully present for another person, particularly when that other person is doing something really intense, like giving birth, or preparing to die, is super hard to do. Which is why I wrote this essay, slightly modified below, in which I offer, by way of inspiration, a superhero unlike any other.

I bring you Super Grover 2.0.

Sesame Street has been on the air for 44 years, so I am assuming you all are familiar with the show. Super Grover has been around since the 70’s, but unless you have been watching in recent years, you may not be aware that, like most everything, Super Grover has had an upgrade. He is now Super Grover 2.0! Each of his sketches now begins with this intro:

He observes.          He questions.          He investigates.

Super Grover 2.0.

He shows up.

And each sketch follows a similar format: somewhere in the world, a muppet is in trouble. Super Grover 2.0 swoops in with the inevitable crash landing (flying is no problem, but apparently landing is not so simple). Then there follows a series of interactions in which Super Grover is of little to no help. He makes several attempts to solve the muppet’s problem, but these serve only to pass the time (in a comical way) while the muppet who originally had the problem discovers its own solution.

For example, there is the chicken stuck on one side of “The Pretty Good Wall of China” who cries out, “I just gotta get over this wall, I just gotta!”

Super Grover crash lands, and asks, “Why do you want to get over the wall?”

“To get to the other side! It’s a chicken thing.”

They try a couple of ideas out that are clearly doomed to fail, but Super Grover does not let the chicken fall into despair. He is sure that if they keep trying, they will find a solution. Finally the chicken takes the pole with which Super Grover has been ineffectually trying to poke a hole through the wall and uses it as a lever, successfully propelling herself over the wall.

In another sketch, a cactus has a prickly problem—he desperately wants to play with a ball, only his spines keep deflating the ball as soon as he picks it up. He calls out, “Help, help!” Super Grover crash lands, and the cactus cries, “Super Grover 2.0, you showed up!” To which Super Grover replies, “It is what I do!” Super Grover then suggests a series of alternative balls for the cactus to play with, such as a bowling ball (too heavy) and a snowball (too melty), before he decides to take a lunch break. He removes the foil that his sandwich is wrapped in, balls it up and tosses it aside. The cactus is overjoyed—this ball of foil is just the right kind of ball for a cactus to play with!

(Here is the video of that sketch, in case you want to watch.)

OK.  So maybe you are thinking right now, “Clearly this woman is sleep-deprived and her brain has been addled from watching too much children’s television. Where is she going with this?  Does she think she is making sense?”

Well, I will admit to being sleep deprived, but I maintain that this will all make sense. Because, dear reader, Super Grover 2.0 is, in fact, a wonderful model of pastoral care.

No, really.

Remember Super Grover’s voice-over intro?

He observes. He questions. He investigates.  Super Grover 2.0. He shows up.

As a doula and as a chaplain, I do all those things.

I observe—I listen carefully to what those whom I am serving are saying with both their bodies and their words.

I question—I ask really hard questions, ones that nobody else may be asking, like: how do you feel about that? and what is it that you really want?

I investigate—I ask (or even better, prompt my client to ask) questions of the nurse and the doctor to try to understand the situation, I ask the patient (or family member, whomever I am supporting in the moment) questions in an effort to get them to search deep within themselves for reserves of strength and hope that they didn’t know were there.

But most of all—by far the most important thing I do, beyond anything I say—I show up.

As a chaplain, I show up in the middle of the night, roused by the insistent beeping of the pager, throw on some clothes that I hope are within the realm of professional (I will admit to having shown up at the hospital with my shirt on inside out before), I make my way to the room where someone has just had a really intense experience, and I come alongside them in their pain and grief.

As a doula, I answer my cell phone at every hour of the day and night, no matter where I am or what I am doing, because my client has gone into labor, or thinks she may have, and anyway she needs to know that I am there for her and will be at her side as soon as I am able, and that I will not leave her until her baby is born, no matter how long that may take.

Just like Super Grover (but without the crash landing, hopefully) I show up. All it takes is for someone to call out in need. As a chaplain (and even sometimes as a doula when I am volunteering to support women giving birth alone), I often have never met this person before, nor will I ever see them again. But I show up, because, in that moment, they need somebody.

And, like Super Grover, I do my best to be helpful. I certainly hope that I don’t make such a muddle of it as he does, though there have been times when it seems that I say all the wrong things. But ultimately, just as in all the Super Grover sketches, the reality is that it is not anything I say or do that will solve this person’s problem. Really, it is my job to get out of the way and allow this person find their own way.

But showing up, that’s key. Sometimes all it takes for someone to believe they can move forward is for someone to show up and believe in them. There’s even a ten-dollar theological word for showing up: incarnation. Capital-I-Incarnation is how we describe God taking on flesh: what we see in the person of Jesus Christ. But there is also a lower case-i-incarnation: this term is used to describe a way of providing pastoral care for others: incarnational pastoral care is when God is embodied–-albeit in an imperfect way, as we are imperfect beings–-but God is embodied in our care for others. As a care provider listens and empathizes with one in need, God is present. In this relationship, God is incarnated (is borne in the flesh of) these two people in their interaction with one another. In that moment of truly showing up, the caregiver has made space for them both to experience the inbreaking of the reign of God.

And this incarnational ministry thing is not limited to chaplains, or pastors, or any sort of licensed or ordained minister. Certainly it is not limited to doulas. We can all relate to one another in a way that is incarnational. What it takes is a willingness to show up for someone, anyone, who calls out in need.

Jesus said (in Matthew 25) that those who reach out to others in need, are in fact reaching out to Christ himself. Christ is present, God is incarnate, when we welcome a stranger, when we visit the sick, when we feed the hungry, when we clothe the naked. That is not a message just for those in some kind of professional ministry. That is a message for us all.

And so we are all called to be like Super Grover. Christ commands us to hear the call of one in need, and to show up. And we can trust God to show up, as well, and to work through our efforts—even if sometimes they be bumbling, and include crash landings and totally unhelpful suggestions—yes, even then, God can work through each of us. We just have to be faithful and show up.

Remember what the cactus said, when Super Grover crashed into the desert beside him?

“Super Grover, you showed up!”

And Super Grover replied, “It is what I do!”

It is what I try to do, in my doula practice, in my chaplain ministry, in my everyday life.  By the grace of God, may we all be inspired to engage in this superheroic incarnational ministry, the ministry of showing up.

V is for Vagina

My 3 year old has begun doing representational art. I am so excited about this, as it means that she no longer simply fills a page with scribbles, but now her lines are drawn with more precision and are meant to represent something in particular. So far, her favorite things to draw are people. The other day V (the 3 year old) and her father (Thomas) and I were all sitting at the table while she was working, and she produced this:

And then she volunteered this description of her work:

• (indicating the two large circles at the top) “These are the eyes.”
• (pointing at the lines) “These are the arms and legs.”
• (finally, indicating the small circle at the bottom of the page) “This is the vagina.  That’s what it looks like.”

Somehow, Thomas and I didn’t laugh (credit our years and years of experience working in child development centers) and instead made some sort of appropriate response to her work. But inwardly we both were cheering!–not so much at her artistic ability, but at her nonchalant use of the correct anatomical term for female genitalia. This is what we have been working toward.

This might seem strange to some people, but Thomas and I are giving our all toward our goal of helping our V have the best body image possible. And we figure that starts with her not only knowing what she’s got, but also knowing proper anatomical names for it and knowing that not one bit of her body is dirty or shameful or embarrassing to talk about in front of her parents.

Thomas and I just this past Sunday finished up leading a sex ed course for middle schoolers and their parents at our church (the wonderful, inclusive, progressive United Christian Church), and one of the things the author of the curriculum did which I particularly appreciated was to address what she called “the issue of female pride.” She wants every girl to know that God made every bit of her, including her reproductive system, and that every bit is “fabulous”. It reminded me of a passage in Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth, in which Ina May Gaskin (author, midwife, and natural childbirth advocate) writes, “There is no other organ quite like the uterus. If men had such an organ, they would brag about it. So should we.” I am sure Ina May would agree that the same could be said for our vaginas.

But some women experience anxiety about whether their vaginas will ever return to normal after childbirth. Fear about this can be a real distraction from doing the work of labor and birth. My advice is this: give it time, do your kegels, and remember that your body was designed for this. Which reminds me of another classic quote from Ina May (also from Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth):

Remember this, for it is as true as true gets: Your body is not a lemon. You are not a machine. The Creator is not a careless mechanic. Human female bodies have the same potential to give birth as well as aardvarks, lions, rhinoceri, elephants, moose, and water buffalo. Even if it has not been your habit throughout your life so far, I recommend that you learn to think positively about your body.

Can I get an amen?