Jesus Feminist by Sarah Bessey

Author:Sarah Bessey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Howard Books

IF MORE MOTHERS were pastors or preachers, we would likely have a lot more sermons and books about the metaphors of birth and pregnancy connecting us to the story of God. I am rather tired of sports and war metaphors. If more mothers were pastors or preachers, perhaps the beautiful crèche scenes of Christmas wouldn’t be quite so immaculate. We wouldn’t sing songs of babies who don’t cry. And maybe we wouldn’t mistake quiet for peace.

As it is, we take on a properly antiseptic and churchy view of birth, arranged as high art to convey the seriousness and sacredness of the incarnation. It is as though the truth of birth is too secular for Immanuel. Birth doesn’t look like our concept of “holy” in its real state.

So we think the first days of the God-with-us require the dignity afforded by our careful editing.

But the whole story of birth—this creating out of passion and love, the carrying of an ever-increasing beloved burden, the seemingly never-ending waiting, the knitting together of wonder in secret places, the under-the-surface fear, the pain, the labor, the blurring of that line between joy and “someone please make it stop,” the “I can’t do it” even while locked in the midst of the doing, the delivery of new life in blood and hope and humanity—this is the stuff of God.

There is something godly in the waiting, in the mystery, in the fact that we are a part of it—a partner with it but not the authors of it. You know that there is a new life coming, and the anticipation is sometimes exciting, other times exhausting and never ending. There is a price to pay for the privilege of life.

I was fortunate to give birth to two of our three tinies without complications. I find myself thinking of those experiences often; they were turning points in my life. My eldest daughter, Anne, was born in the hospital in a fairly usual way. My littlest girl, Evelynn Joan, was born at home, in water, with midwives attending us, and it was a beautiful and redemptive experience.

But it’s the birth of our son, Joseph Arthur, that stays with me in these winter months. His was an unintended, unattended birth in our building’s underground parking garage while we were on our way to the hospital.

No, I’m not kidding.

After beginning labor at home, we progressed far faster than we could have anticipated after our eldest daughter’s thirteen-hour labor. This was unprecedented for us, so Brian thought we had time to make it to the hospital just a few minutes away. I had four contractions on our way down the hall and in the elevator of our apartment building. My poor man half-carried, half-dragged me into the parking garage, now desperate for help. He leaned me up against a support pole and ran to the truck to pull it over to me.

We were on our own—no midwife, no doctor, not even in our own home with a clean floor. Instead, we were in a dirty garage filled with cars and the smell of gas and tires.

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