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

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

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

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

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

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

To give birth is to be consumed.

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

This is my pregnant body, broken for you.

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

This is my blood, poured out for you.

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

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

Human milk is made from blood. Take, drink.

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

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

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

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

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

Reverend, Mother, Doula

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

___

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The part of the story we'd rather forget

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one wants to look at this.

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

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

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

Because of racism. 

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

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

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

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

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

LOOK.

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

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

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

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

What can you do?

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

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

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

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

Bravely Boldly Birthing a New Story

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Last week I sat in church and cried. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Songwriters: John Lennon / Paul Mccartney

Let It Be lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

When birth meets death

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Isaiah 66:12a, 13-14a

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

The (Metaphorical) Birth of Israel

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

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

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


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

photo by Jade Beall, creator of A Beautiful Body Project

Pregnant in Worship: Thoughts on Liturgy and Birth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meeting the Theotokos in the Hospital

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I couldn’t agree more.

A Liturgical Calendar Pop Quiz

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What are the three main Christian feast days?

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

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

There’s Christmas.

And Easter.

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

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

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

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

Birth is central to the Christian faith. 

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

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

Introducing: Birtheology

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.