I
haven’t written anything in a while, partly because I’ve been busy writing
other stuff: proposals, plans, poems, stories.
But partly—or maybe mostly—because I haven’t felt like I had much to
say. As a pastor, I’m called to say something every Sunday: something that is
relevant, important and has an effect on the hearer: either to move them to
action or move them to a different feeling, idea or level of trust. To be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely sure
what I hoped for from readers when I started this blog. I have appreciated the few comments I get,
but I would like more interaction. I
write because I need to write. And when
I don’t feel like I have anything to say, it’s hard to need.
Enter
the metaphor of birth, which rose in last Sunday’s sermon as a way to talk
about great changes, and the shock and joy they bring. The texts were Ezekiel’s vision of the valley
of dead bones (Ezekiel 37) and the story of Pentecost in Acts 2. I was trying to get at why change—especially
change that pushes us into unknown territory, or into relationship with people
we don’t know, who are different, whom we fear—why is that so hard?
So
I talked about birth—the pain of the mother, and the noisiness of the place of
birth. I have been privileged to be present at the death of many people, and it
is a holy time. To hold the dying one’s hand,
to pray, to anoint—or the last time I was present at a dying—to sing
Josephine’s favorite hymn while my wife held her hand and gently stroked her
head. Those are sacred moments.
I’ve never been present at a birth. I’ve held babies on their first day of life,
with proud parents and family around. I
baptized a baby on her first day of life, with her mother holding her, before the
child was taken by Children’s Services, because the mother was addicted. Those
were sacred moments, too.
I’ve never been present at a birth. But
I’ve been told that the birthing process can be very loud, as the mother
experiences the pain. There are also
moments of quiet, either of peace or of exhaustion. But there comes a moment when everyone there
really wants to hear something: the cry of newborn!
Many
times, I’ve preached or written about the pain the mother goes through and the
joy she hopes for after it is over. But
then I started thinking about the pain the baby goes through.
All
of us have this in common: we were born.
We don’t remember anything about that (at least not consciously). But we can suppose that it was quite a
trembling, fascinating event. To leave a
place of warmth, to arrive at a place twenty some degrees colder. To leave a place of darkness, to come to a
place of bright light. To leave a place
of protection, sheltered in the flesh of another, to one of being exposed, to
strangers, and naked at that. To leave a
place where sound comes only through the loving flesh of your mother, to this
noisy place we call life. And on top of
all the shock to our senses of sight (brightness), hearing (noise), physical
touch (cold), we also really experience smell for the first time. As we
breathe, we smell. And then soon we
taste.
No
wonder babies cry! It’s a cry of
pain! But also of exultation: I am here!
I am alive! I belong to the world!
I
think of all the changes I want to see in our world: an end to violence, a
loving repair of the planet, equality and quality for all in so many ways. All those are pretty big births, and are
going to be full of shock and pain. But
isn’t it worth it? Isn’t the joy
promised—even if not fully given—worth the struggle? I sure hope so.
Be
justice. Be beauty. Be birth.
Patrick
