An Advent Baby

Bethany and Liz,
If you were here in person, I would just talk to you instead of writing a blog. But you're not here, so I'm processing my thoughts in writing (which is why I had to rope you into writing a blog in the first place!)

I'm trying to write a sermon for the fourth Sunday of Advent, but it's weird because I just had a baby. I can't seem to separate my own experience from how I read the biblical account.

For example, for the last month or so of my pregnancy, basically all I did was sit on the couch. Mary rode a DONKEY. To Bethlehem. And had the baby in a STABLE. On HAY.

When I got pregnant with Amos, I was married, finishing up grad school--basically as stable and normal as possible. Mary got pregnant before she was married, and she lived in a WAY less tolerant society. Even with my highly predictable life, I was terrified to have a baby. I can't imagine how scared Mary must have been. When she said, "I am the Lord's servant. May it be to me as you have said," I wonder how she said it. Was her voice small and quivering? Mine would have been!

If Herod went on a toddler-killing spree now, my sweet, beautiful Amos would be among the victims. I can't help but cry when I read the words in Matthew 2:

"A voice is heard in Ramah,
  weeping and great mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children
  and refusing to be comforted,
  because they are no more."

All those precious little baby boys. Dead. Gone. No more. All that was left behind were the tears of their mothers, never ending.

What was God thinking, coming as a baby into this world?

One of the first few night's of Eva's life, she decided to try to pull an all-nighter. I was sitting up in bed around midnight, holding her, amazed at how healthy and perfect she was. It was all "Silent Night" in there until I heard a round of gunshots coming from somewhere in the neighborhood to the south of us. While I was holding my brand new baby, some other mother might very well have just lost hers in that same moment. An hour or so later, I heard sirens suddenly ring out from all around us, and I started thinking about women praying for their husbands and sons and daughters to come home from overnight police shifts in dangerous neighborhoods. Suddenly, I felt so small, and my healthy baby girl seemed so vulnerable. How could I possibly expect to keep her safe in such a big dangerous world?

How could the Son of God be born as a tiny baby into this violent and heartless world? A world where lives are suddenly cut short all the time? Where people shoot each other in the middle of the night?

I suddenly can't read about Mary without worrying! What was her health like? Was she able to carry a baby full-term? Would he arrive in good health? And how would she make out after the birth? Would she heal properly or would she have some sort of complication that cut her life short? And then to raise the Son of God in a world of paranoid kings and oppressive foreign governments, not to mention everyday risks like pneumonia and food poisoning.

As I held my baby in my arms, listening to gunshots and sirens, I wondered what Mary heard in the stable in Bethlehem. Nativity scenes never show the world beyond the walls of the stable. Did she hear Roman soldiers patrolling at night? Did she hear drunken fights and domestic violence? Did every sound make her jump as she carefully held the Son of God in her arms wondering what she was supposed to do next?

There is some comfort in all of this.

While I was in labor, I was kneeling on the floor of the hospital bathroom, moaning in agony, when suddenly the verse from Romans popped into my head (yes, I am definitely meant to be a pastor):

"We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time."

In my somewhat hazy brain, I thought, How many people really understand that verse? I mean, like, really understand it. Obviously men don't. (Sorry, guys.) And really, we women have these nice hormones that help us forget a lot of what happens during labor.

But in that moment, I KNEW. All of creation is in majorly intense pain. Groaning. Crying out. Praying for relief. The pains of childbirth are no joke!

And that's right where Jesus showed up.

Right in the middle of all of that. At the end of nine months of increasing discomfort and fear that culminated in the agony of labor and delivery. Into a world where innocent toddlers were murdered by a cruel king. A world where mothers wept and could not be comforted because their children were no more. A risky world. A heartless and violent world.

He walked right into the middle of it. So much so that it killed him. The manger scenes don't show that either. In the manger scenes, Mary and Joseph look so peaceful and angelic. Their hair isn't gray from worry. Their faces aren't lined with the wrinkles of age and hard lives. They don't have bags under their eyes from sleepless nights and long days. They don't have that haunted look from watching their son head towards certain death.

And Jesus is still fresh and squishy. He's wrapped in his swaddling cloths. He's all curled up in the manger. He doesn't yet have the weight of the world's pain and heartbreak weighing him down. Later, he will weep for the death of his friend Lazarus. Later, he will go head to head with the teachers he one time looked up to and learned from. Later, he will be betrayed by a kiss from one of his closest friends. Later, he will pray so fervently that his sweat will be drops of blood. But none of that shows up in the manger scene.

But the story didn't end at the manger.

The other words that have never been far from my mind now through two pregnancies are Jesus' own:

"This is my body, broken for you. This is my blood, shed for you."

Especially during my first pregnancy, I was terrified. There is no easy way to have a baby, even with all of our modern medicine. It's painful, messy, scary, risky. Having a baby means pretty literally allowing your body to be broken for the sake of another person.

In the weeks leading up to the inevitable end of my first pregnancy, I clung to those words. "The body of Christ, broken for you. The blood of Christ, shed for you." I knew that no matter what happened to me, Jesus was there beside me. He had allowed his body to be broken for me and his blood to be shed for me, and even if no one else could feel my fear or my pain, Jesus understood.

The theme of the fourth Sunday of Advent is love.

I'm pretty sure there's something about love in all of this. Something about a God who stepped right into the messiness and riskiness of humanity. Who allowed himself to experience the very worst of human cruelty. Who knew pain and heartbreak, who suffered.

And somehow that love changes everything. It means that when I allow my body to be broken for the sake of someone else, I'm not doing something new; I'm just following the path to the cross. When I see heartache and loss around me, I can remember Rachel's lament and know that sometimes there is no comfort. But, like Jesus, I can choose to be present anyway. I can know that in the midst of pain, I am not alone, but also, creation is still groaning, in agony, praying for relief, for the moment when all pain suddenly ceases because Jesus has been there, and he knows this isn't good enough. That all this pain and violence needs to end once and for all.

So yeah. Those are my thoughts. I'm not quite sure how to preach this. How much can you really talk about labor and childbirth from the pulpit? And yet, it just doesn't seem right to skip over all of that and move right to the sweet, squishy baby part. Because as both of you have so eloquently pointed out, that's not really where most of us live, most of the time.

Did Jesus ever look like this?

Merry Christmas Meat Sacks!

Seriously you guys, I finished all my Christmas prep over a week before the 25^th! All is ready and wrapped and twinkling and now I get to lazily browse for delicious Christmas dinner recipes and pick out which Christmas Eve service(s) we want to go to. Boom Bam Baby, I just Christmased like a boss.

I will now share with you the secret of getting through your Christmas to-do list quickly and efficiently: don’t put much on it.

That’s it.

Some of the simplification of our Christmas came about organically – it didn’t take too long to decorate the house because we don’t actually have that many decorations. Gift shopping also didn’t last more than a few hours because we decided we could do other things with our meager funds than just buy each other a bunch of crap. A few select people got one thing each (or a group thing) and I am militantly unrepentant. It’s Jesus’ birthday, not yours.

So wrong, it's right.

Other simplifications happened more intentionally. I just refused to do stuff. We got invited to a lot of parties and while they sounded like fun, we turned them down and just enjoyed being together. And it was brilliant!

Christmas gets out of hand so easily and so quickly. It becomes this enormous burden of cookie baking, office parties, ugly sweater parties, white elephant exchanges, cookie exchanges, Christmas programs, Christmas program practices, and fa la la la la until you pass out on the floor.

Brace yourselves people, I’m about to lay some super cheesy Christmas wisdom on you: it’s not about presents, it’s about presence. (*gag*) But really, it is.

God Incarnate is here.

Incarnation is such a great word. It comes from the Latin for “flesh” but in the happy little dialect of Latin that I happen to know (Spanish), the word “carne” is far more often translated “meat.”

God be-meat-ified has come to us. The Lord of Hosts put on skin and bones and muscle like an ugly Christmas sweater and hung out with us – one with the talking meat sacks. Yeah, I know, that’s not a very romanticized way to speak of the Nativity story but really, how romantic is your real life? If it’s anything like mine, it’s a lot less holy serene people with softly glowing halos and more sweat and chaos and tired bags under your eyes. That’s kind of the point; Jesus is for your real life, not whatever perfect version you wish it could be.

So be of good courage my fellow meat sacks! When someone tries to rope you into volunteering for something or guilt you into buying more than you can afford or whatever extra holiday activity appears to stress you out, say no! Do the things you love that are meaningful for you and your family and let the rest go.

Just be. Be with your loved ones and your God, because God is with us.

Emmanuel.

Pleased as Man with Men to Dwell

We have this cheesy clock in our kitchen at Christmas time.  It has snowmen on the face, and on the hour, it serenades us with a carol.  We love it.  Even my over-efficient, get-rid-of-everything-cheesy-and-sentimental husband loves it.  And the littles get super excited. Every. Single. Time.  It's great.

Usually, as it's just a music box melody, I don't even register what song is playing.  But, often, I will find myself singing or humming the song as I go about my business.  That's what happened today.  11 o'clock sped by as it so often does.  Music played.  Two little voices said, "I hear music!" And then, I started vacuuming, and singing.  Yeah, those two don't go together, especially since there were two toddlers screaming, as they like to do whenever I vacuum.  (The decibels in our house might have been a little out of control.)

And then, I started crying.  Not because of the noise and confusion (read: chaos).  Not even, I propose, because I'm 7 months pregnant.  Because of these old words:

Mild He lays His glory by

Born that man no more may die

Born to raise the sons of earth

Born to give them second birth

Veiled in flesh, the Godhead see

Hail the incarnate Deity

Pleased as man with men to dwell

Jesus, our Immanuel

That's it, isn't it?  In poetry more beautiful than I could ever pen, the whole reason for the season.  Not family, or giving, certainly not trees or new toys or food.   Born to raise the sons of earth.  Born to give them second birth.  

Not bad for clock.

Words from Hosea

“And Jacob fled into the county of Syria, and Israel served for a wife, and for a wife he kept sheep. And by a prophet the LORD brought Israel out of Egypt, and by a prophet he was preserved.” Hosea 12:12-13

Last week’s Sunday school lesson was on Hosea 12. The teacher compared the verse where Israel the guy tries to take care of his own problem (wifelessness), which doesn't work out so well (Laben cheated him with the ol’ daughter switcheroo), with Israel the nation having their problem (freedomlessness) solved by God (and Charlton Heston). Pastor B went on to say that the whole America ideal of self-reliance and pull yourself up by the boot straps is really the antithesis of faith.

But, argued a good American in the class, does that mean we should just sit on our butts and wait around for God to solve all of our problems? Of course not, Pastor B explained. Do what is in your capacity to do but leave the impossible to God.

That has stuck with me this week as I watched both of our cars break down, warranting expensive repairs, and Eli's hours being severely cut back. A host of other small crises made life feel as heavy as the sullen grey sky that has persisted stubbornly for weeks. Sometimes this magical journey of life is more of a slog.

About a month ago, I was standing in a ballroom praying for rain. I traveled to Southern California for my company's annual fall conference and all 600 or so attendees gathered together on Sunday morning for worship. The president of the district delivered a powerful sermon and at the end mentioned the terrible drought in the area and together we all prayed that some much needed relief would fall from the heavens.

I didn't think another thing about it until I opened my news feed yesterday and read an article about power outages in California due to the torrential rains they are experiencing. It gave me the shivers. I remembered that God really does hear us when we cry out to him.

Not ten minutes later my boss called me into his office and thanked me for some extra work I had taken on recently and gave me a bonus. More than enough to cover all those mechanic’s bills.

Again I stopped, amazed. And remembered that God really does hear the quiet whimpery sound I make from underneath a crushing pile of life.

I don't know what you carry that is too heavy, or the problems you face that sucked the life from your bones till you feel dryer than the California desert. But I do know who has your back. And when it comes to total clusterfart crap storms (you know what I mean), He is kind of a specialist.  

Do what you can do and leave the impossible to God. 

Story Keeper

“But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.” Luke 2:19 KJV

Marissa's excellent post got me thinking about telling stories and making memories...

My first memory is from when I was three years old and attended a wedding of two of my parents’ friends. I say that it was a wedding because I was told it was many years later; at the time, I had no idea what was going on. I remember people dancing on a stage and wearing a fancy dress and being super bored, really just wanting to go outside and play on the excellent jungle gym.

Before that memory, I’ve got nothing. And really, there’s not too much after that until I tucked a few more years under my belt. It’s as if there is a giant five year hole in my memory. If that had happened at any other point, I would seek immediate medical attention, but for children that’s pretty standard.

Which is why I got totally weirded out when I realized that I am currently witnessing the Lost Years of Troy. Seriously, that’s crazy. I am living in years he won't remember. But I will. Or at least, I will mostly remember these years - pregnancy dealt a great blow to my memory after all.

I will remember him giggling when I ew his dirty socks. And the way he bounces whenever the Two and a Half Men theme song comes on. And him galloping across the living room as fast as his chubby legs can toddle, with a boisterous yell for added propulsion.

He won't remember giving kisses on command or bringing joy to the hearts of grandmas in the supermarket with his uninhibited smiles and waves. He’ll never be able to tell me of his thoughts as he sat very still on the sofa staring down the terror-beast (vacuum cleaner).

Thank God he will not remember his molars sawing mercilessly through his aching gums. Or that terrible diaper rash that chewed a hole in his tiny round tush. Or trying to play on the plastic slide while naked (it was less of a slide and more of a scoot).

It will be up to Mom and Dad to keep these snips and fragments of his life, to ponder them in our hearts like Mary did with her baby, and somehow weave them into his unique story. Even though he may not remember any part of this phase of his life, he will still have an identity to hold on to and ground him.

We do this for each other too.

Some of my deepest and most lasting relationship are with people who have the incredible ability to speak directly to my soul and remind me who I am. We take on so many roles in life that can change so drastically year by year, or even hour by hour. Student, chef, housekeeper, secretary, accountant, mother, daughter, wife, sister, bad-ass mo-fo – those are all parts I play, things I do; they aren’t at the core of my identify (except the BAMF part, that’s pretty core). When things get out of balance, when I forget, when life starts unraveling around me and the day is lost, I need someone to tell me a story: MY story.

Remember that time…

A Season of Waiting

Come Thou Long-Expected ... Baby

Today is December 1st. My baby was due November 29th. Another due date come and gone (my first child was two weeks late). I find myself yet again in the season of Advent with my own sense of waiting and expectation.

My friend Aimee preached a great sermon on Sunday. She preached from Mark 13, which has some interesting correlations to childbirth. On the one hand, verse 29 says, "when you see these things taking place, you know that he is near." There are some definite signs that a baby is near--contractions, changes in baby position, nesting, etc.

On the other hand, verse 32 says, "But about that day or hour, no one knows." Ultimately, apart from medical interventions, there is no way to predict the exact day and time when labor will begin or when it will end in birth. All the signs may indicate that a baby is imminent, but that could mean that I won't finish this post because my water breaks suddenly or that I'm waiting for another week.

What really got me, though, was what Aimee said about how to live in the space of waiting, hoping, and looking ahead. According to verse 34, when a man leaves home, he puts his slaves in charge, "each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch." Some of us are called to be doorkeepers, to put our time and energy into watching for the master's return. But the rest of us are called to fulfill our duties, to take care of the master's estate while he is gone.

Something clicked in that moment. Last week, I was sick and miserable, and all I could think was, "Please get this baby out of me! I have to have this baby NOW!" But in my obsession with keeping watch, I was neglecting my work, not fulfilling my duties as well as I could have. Yes, I was sick, but my obsession with trying to discern the day and hour was only adding to my misery.

I feel much better today physically, but Aimee's sermon changed my emotional outlook. I don't think I'm meant to be a doorkeeper. I don't think I have the right temperament for watching and waiting. I'm a lot better off when I'm doing my duties--laundry, cleaning, cooking, praying, reading, taking care of my husband and son.

The day will come when I have a baby, just as the day will come when Christ comes again. But for today, I will heed the words of Susanna Wesley: "The best preparation I know of for suffering is a regular and exact performance of present duty." Today I will hope for a baby soon, but in the meantime, I will do my best to perform my duties faithfully.