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.

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.

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.

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.