A Messy Birth: Christmas Eve 2006
How many of us sing “Away in a Manager” each Christmas?
Or “O Little Town of Bethlehem”?
Truly these cherished favorites inform our modern idea of the nativity – a quaint little shelter with plenty of hay, a crude feeding trough that just happened to be there, and a reminder that this was this Son of God because he entered the world without making a sound.
Indeed the birth narrative found in the Gospel attributed to Luke[1] would seem to support our impressions: we’re given a context – supposedly telling us why Jesus was born in Bethlehem instead of Nazareth;
we’re told about the shepherds and the angels – the ones who proclaim the birth of the Messiah;
and in between those pronouncements – oh, by the way, we’ll briefly mention that Mary gave birth and wrapped the baby in bands of cloth. It almost seemed that for Luke it was important for the child to be seen and not heard and that the actual birth be as sterile as possible.
The English language has a number of synonyms for the word sterile: hygienic, spotless, sanitary, and barren. Sterility reminds me of those famous words we sing at this time of year, too. “Silently, how silently” and “no crying he makes.”
Reflecting on those phrases, I was reminded of a poem by Joshua Rollins in which he reflects on the cycle of life and death on the family farm in the middle of winter.
"heard the tractor growl around 4:30 in the morning
the tin garage vibrated with its engine
I slid my shoes on, stretched into a sweatshirt, and walked outside
the first shades of pink were slicing through the sky
as I went into the garage. We didn’t say a word
we both heard the bawling in the distance, and insistent wail that
made the morning wind bite that much harder –
I slid on the back of the orange Kabota and we slowly made our way up the hill
the smell of diesel and his old spice filled me with a knowing comfort
I peered over his shoulder – the sky cast an eerie purple on the wheat
we reached the top and the creek bed, found the mother –
dark and instinctive, standing above, wailing –
as we approached she bucked her back legs, warning us
“It’s alright,” he murmured softly – and she looked right at him, through him
and gently backed away.
the body was there, cold and slick, covered partly by the warm red of
the afterbirth – the water oozing up and over its small form
he slid down the embankment, clay rocks breaking against his side
and rough hoisted it from the freezing cold –
I took off my shirt, wrapping its slick body, my palm
against its cold muzzle—it was silent and still
the mother reached forward, licking its side and nudging it
almost a plea for it to move, to cry
no sound, the stillness was suffocating
I slid against the tractor hood and breathed slow and deep
its warmth felt good against my bare chest—
no sound
silence."[2]
No crying he makes. No sound. Silently, how silently. As a man in his late twenties, I certainly don’t know a whole lot about childbirth, but one thing I do know is that when a child is born and doesn’t make a noise – there’s a problem there.
You see, birth isn’t supposed to be marked by silence and sterility. It’s sweaty, accompanied by moaning, screaming, and bellowing. It’s messy and wonderful. It’s the most human activity I can think of. And I don’t know many mothers out there who would believe that childbirth (even in today’s world of hospitals and epidurals) could be silent and pristine!
The Infancy Gospel of James[3] recognizes the birth of Jesus is marked by both human and divine activity. Mary and Joseph were not happy travelers. They were poor, marginalized, and a long way from home. Most of the time Joseph was confused and Mary just wanted to get the whole thing over-with so they could move on with their lives.
The need for a midwife brings about the image of a birth that was not going to be sterile, pristine, or silent. It was going to be a messy birth – a very human birth. And yet, James’ narrative remembers the prophecy of Isaiah[4] claiming that the light of God was coming into the world. Indeed, the light of God was brought into the world through the most human way possible – a painful, messy birth.
Throughout the season of Advent – the four weeks proceeding Christmas in which we await the birth of Jesus – Dumbarton United Methodist Church has been intentional about praying for peace in those distant places we hear about in the stories surrounding Jesus – Nazareth, Bethlehem, Galilee, Jerusalem – and for peace in our own nation, city, and homes. Just as the prophecy of Isaiah and the Infancy Gospel of James brought light and hope into the world of early Christian communities, so too does it bring hope into our current situations. In the villages throughout the world this very hour, babies are crying, families are expectant, lands are occupied by foreign armies, and hope is needing to be born again and again. I invite you to join us in this task of praying for and working for peace with justice.
Christmas is more than just celebrating the birth of a baby. It’s about celebrating the birth of God-with-us. And if we truly believe that this child is the Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father and Mother, Prince of Peace, then it’s important for us to think about how this child comes into our world each and every day.
Does Christ come to us in silent sterility?
Or does Christ enter our lives when we are in the midst of pain and suffering?
Do we as a Church keep silent when pain and suffering abound, acting as if it’s the duty of a Christian to look pretty and be quiet?
Or do we roll up our sleeves and call for some boiling water?
Are we practicing our breathing exercises of prayer, worship, compassion and justice so that we can be midwives of God’s kingdom here and now?
Are we allowing the light of life to be born and flourish? Or are we keeping it silent and hidden?
Birth is messy. Birth is painful. Birth brings life. It is our hope and our salvation. Though the journey is a difficult one, we share the Good News: Christ is born in Bethlehem! And throughout the world!
May we continue to be midwives of peace and justice, light and hope, in our weary world. Let’s roll up our sleeves, practice our breathing, and shout it out loud – Joy to the World, The Lord is Come! Amen.
[1] Luke 2: 1-20
[2] Rollins, Joshua. “silence” in The Rickshaw, Buckhannon, WV: West Virginia Wesleyan College, 1999.
[3] Infancy Gospel of James 17:10 – 19:2 and 19:12-17. During Advent 2006, Dumbarton UMC utilized non-canonical Scripture during worship, coupled with a study of these texts during Adult Education.
[4] Isaiah 9:2-7
Or “O Little Town of Bethlehem”?
Truly these cherished favorites inform our modern idea of the nativity – a quaint little shelter with plenty of hay, a crude feeding trough that just happened to be there, and a reminder that this was this Son of God because he entered the world without making a sound.
Indeed the birth narrative found in the Gospel attributed to Luke[1] would seem to support our impressions: we’re given a context – supposedly telling us why Jesus was born in Bethlehem instead of Nazareth;
we’re told about the shepherds and the angels – the ones who proclaim the birth of the Messiah;
and in between those pronouncements – oh, by the way, we’ll briefly mention that Mary gave birth and wrapped the baby in bands of cloth. It almost seemed that for Luke it was important for the child to be seen and not heard and that the actual birth be as sterile as possible.
The English language has a number of synonyms for the word sterile: hygienic, spotless, sanitary, and barren. Sterility reminds me of those famous words we sing at this time of year, too. “Silently, how silently” and “no crying he makes.”
Reflecting on those phrases, I was reminded of a poem by Joshua Rollins in which he reflects on the cycle of life and death on the family farm in the middle of winter.
"heard the tractor growl around 4:30 in the morning
the tin garage vibrated with its engine
I slid my shoes on, stretched into a sweatshirt, and walked outside
the first shades of pink were slicing through the sky
as I went into the garage. We didn’t say a word
we both heard the bawling in the distance, and insistent wail that
made the morning wind bite that much harder –
I slid on the back of the orange Kabota and we slowly made our way up the hill
the smell of diesel and his old spice filled me with a knowing comfort
I peered over his shoulder – the sky cast an eerie purple on the wheat
we reached the top and the creek bed, found the mother –
dark and instinctive, standing above, wailing –
as we approached she bucked her back legs, warning us
“It’s alright,” he murmured softly – and she looked right at him, through him
and gently backed away.
the body was there, cold and slick, covered partly by the warm red of
the afterbirth – the water oozing up and over its small form
he slid down the embankment, clay rocks breaking against his side
and rough hoisted it from the freezing cold –
I took off my shirt, wrapping its slick body, my palm
against its cold muzzle—it was silent and still
the mother reached forward, licking its side and nudging it
almost a plea for it to move, to cry
no sound, the stillness was suffocating
I slid against the tractor hood and breathed slow and deep
its warmth felt good against my bare chest—
no sound
silence."[2]
No crying he makes. No sound. Silently, how silently. As a man in his late twenties, I certainly don’t know a whole lot about childbirth, but one thing I do know is that when a child is born and doesn’t make a noise – there’s a problem there.
You see, birth isn’t supposed to be marked by silence and sterility. It’s sweaty, accompanied by moaning, screaming, and bellowing. It’s messy and wonderful. It’s the most human activity I can think of. And I don’t know many mothers out there who would believe that childbirth (even in today’s world of hospitals and epidurals) could be silent and pristine!
The Infancy Gospel of James[3] recognizes the birth of Jesus is marked by both human and divine activity. Mary and Joseph were not happy travelers. They were poor, marginalized, and a long way from home. Most of the time Joseph was confused and Mary just wanted to get the whole thing over-with so they could move on with their lives.
The need for a midwife brings about the image of a birth that was not going to be sterile, pristine, or silent. It was going to be a messy birth – a very human birth. And yet, James’ narrative remembers the prophecy of Isaiah[4] claiming that the light of God was coming into the world. Indeed, the light of God was brought into the world through the most human way possible – a painful, messy birth.
Throughout the season of Advent – the four weeks proceeding Christmas in which we await the birth of Jesus – Dumbarton United Methodist Church has been intentional about praying for peace in those distant places we hear about in the stories surrounding Jesus – Nazareth, Bethlehem, Galilee, Jerusalem – and for peace in our own nation, city, and homes. Just as the prophecy of Isaiah and the Infancy Gospel of James brought light and hope into the world of early Christian communities, so too does it bring hope into our current situations. In the villages throughout the world this very hour, babies are crying, families are expectant, lands are occupied by foreign armies, and hope is needing to be born again and again. I invite you to join us in this task of praying for and working for peace with justice.
Christmas is more than just celebrating the birth of a baby. It’s about celebrating the birth of God-with-us. And if we truly believe that this child is the Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father and Mother, Prince of Peace, then it’s important for us to think about how this child comes into our world each and every day.
Does Christ come to us in silent sterility?
Or does Christ enter our lives when we are in the midst of pain and suffering?
Do we as a Church keep silent when pain and suffering abound, acting as if it’s the duty of a Christian to look pretty and be quiet?
Or do we roll up our sleeves and call for some boiling water?
Are we practicing our breathing exercises of prayer, worship, compassion and justice so that we can be midwives of God’s kingdom here and now?
Are we allowing the light of life to be born and flourish? Or are we keeping it silent and hidden?
Birth is messy. Birth is painful. Birth brings life. It is our hope and our salvation. Though the journey is a difficult one, we share the Good News: Christ is born in Bethlehem! And throughout the world!
May we continue to be midwives of peace and justice, light and hope, in our weary world. Let’s roll up our sleeves, practice our breathing, and shout it out loud – Joy to the World, The Lord is Come! Amen.
[1] Luke 2: 1-20
[2] Rollins, Joshua. “silence” in The Rickshaw, Buckhannon, WV: West Virginia Wesleyan College, 1999.
[3] Infancy Gospel of James 17:10 – 19:2 and 19:12-17. During Advent 2006, Dumbarton UMC utilized non-canonical Scripture during worship, coupled with a study of these texts during Adult Education.
[4] Isaiah 9:2-7
posted by Chett Pritchett at
11:15 AM
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