12/24/2019
Every year, we stop to celebrate a birth. The birth of Jesus. And we do it in the most unusual ways - with ugly sweater parties, excessive consumption, frenzied shopping trips, and a long list of impossible expectations.
But when I think about the birth of Jesus, Iām reminded of all the hundreds of births Iāve documented.
I imagine Mary first noticing contractions. A dull cramping that came every 15 minutes or so. And then as the day or night progressed, they grew closer, stronger, until she could no longer pretend this wasnāt happening.
Was she alone? Did Joseph support her? Had she seen birth before? Did she know what to expect? Were they prepared with supplies? Was she worried about bleeding too much? Had she lost a mother, or a friend to childbirth? Did she feel alone?
So many questions, and yet we do know this. Mary did it. Mary birthed her baby into the world. And while I canāt confirm it, Iām confident that just like all birthsā¦there was fear, there was longing, there was doubt, there was despairā¦and then there was joy.
And so when I think of the nativity scene, there is so much about it that I want to change.
Instead of a clothed Mary and Joseph marveling at an angelic babe in makeshift mangerā¦I see an unclothed Mary, with a squirmy baby pressed up against her breasts. I see vernix on her cheek and blood dripping down her leg. I see the ecstasy of birth - the joy that bursts forth after pain and fear and deep, deep longing. And I see Joseph taking it all in - amazed and perhaps startled by what he had just witnessed.
But still at the center of it all, is a naked woman, covered in blood and bodily fluids.
You see, weāve sanitized the Christmas story to the point that itās lost itās power. Overtaken by capitalism and patriarchy, weāve lost sight of the heart of this story.
The female body (with all itās cycles and breasts and hormones and blood) grew, sustained, and birthed the divine. Oh holy night.