Communitas: Reconceiving Hope—Infertility and Loss

Journal of Education Beyond the Walls

Volume 14

2018

Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss

COMMUNITAS

Journal of Education Beyond the Walls 2018

Volume 14 Editor: Melissa Wiginton Production: Erica Knisely, Randal Whittington Communitas: Journal of Education Beyond the Walls is published by Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary, 100 East 27th Street, Austin, TX 78705-5797. e-mail: ebw@austinseminary.edu

Web site: austinseminary.edu/communitas

Entered as non-profit class bulk mail at Austin, Texas, under Permit No. 2473.

POSTMASTER: Address service requested. Send to Communitas, 100 East 27th Street, Austin, TX 78705-5797.

Printing runs are limited. When available, additional copies may be obtained for $4 per copy. Permission to copy articles from Communitas: Journal of Education Beyond the Walls for educational purposes may be given by the editor upon receipt of a written request.

COVER ART: “Letting Go,” by Denise Callen, www.denisecallen.com; mixed media (ceramic, glass medication vials, gauze, and wood) © 2014. “Letting Go” is part of the permanent collection of The ART of Infertility (www.artofinfertility.org), an international arts organization which curates “innovative and emotionally provoking art exhibits to portray the realities, pains and joys of living with IF.” ARTIST STATEMENT: From childhood, we are brought up to believe in a traditional fairytale of how our lives will unfold: meet the handsome prince who steals the fair maiden’s heart, marry and have a beautiful family. It can be a rude awakening when life veers from that path.

Every plan I made revolved around this traditional view of how life was to play out. I married a wonderful man; we bought the perfect house with room for the traditional 2.5 children, and then the dream took us down a very dark path we never anticipated. Years of trying, expensive treatments over and over and over and over and over again, took their toll. Just when we would get good news, our hopes would be dashed with miscarriages and no heartbeats. I reached a point when it was time to stop crying, injecting, treating, and pouring money into a dream that wasn’t to be. I needed to let go of the fantasy and find a new dream.

I am now putting the pieces of my life together. Like this work, it is still beautiful and holds parts of the past, but it is very different from the original plan. No matter how hard I try to patch it together, it, and I, will never be the same. I am stronger. I am wiser. I am happy. I am sad. I am living child-free.

—DC

Contents Introduction: Theodore J. Wardlaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 From the Editor: Melissa Wiginton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

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“Be fruitful and multiply.”

The Dangers of Divine Blessing . . . . . . . . . . . . Joel Baden

“Can I bring him back again?”

Infertility and Masculinity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . David Schones

13 18 21 24

Transforming Ancient Texts Into Modern Ritual . . . . . . . . Amy Cohen & Gail Swedroe

Rupture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Serene Jones

A Sacred Container . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Erica Knisely

The Healing Power of Rituals . . . . . . . . . . Morgan Taylor How to Create a Personal or Group Ritual for Resolving Miscarriage Loss

27 30 32 33 37

Book Review: Birthed: Finding Grace Through Infertility . . . . . . . . . . Carol Howard Merritt

Longing Moves the Ocean . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Carrie Elkin

Not Pregnant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Erica Knisely

Born of My Heart: An Adoptive Mother’s Journey from Grief to Gratitude . . . . . . Michele Chandler

Neonatal Loss: A Nurse’s Perspective . . . Carolyn Mueller

Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss

Introduction

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hat follows in this issue of Communitas is a fascinating variety of reflective pieces that came out of a gathering in late spring at the Seminary called “Reconceiving Hope.” Some fifty or so people—clergy, counselors, social workers, medical professionals, and others—gathered to explore together what it means to care for persons experiencing infertility.

Various theologians and thought leaders brought multiple perspectives to this topic. Plenary speakers Serene Jones, from Union Theological Seminary in New York, and Joel Baden, from Yale University, contributed lead essays. Jones’s essay is deeply moving and represents an account of “the ministry of presence” that pierces, and then maybe heals, one’s heart. Baden’s essay explores and also complexifies the divine blessing at the root of the biblical command, “Be fruitful and multiply,” and concludes with a word of hope for those not “blessed” with fertility.

Workshop leaders and participants explored this topic in a number of intriguing directions and also offer contributions to this issue. David Schones, a PhD candidate in the Hebrew Bible at Southern Methodist University, examines biblical texts, traditions, and contemporary narratives regarding how men respond to childlessness and infertility. He shares not just his insights from these sources but also his own experience with infertility and masculinity. From a Judaic liturgical perspective, Rabbis Amy Cohen and Gail Swedroe reflect upon the restorative process of creating ritual based upon relevant texts from the Hebrew Bible, and Morgan Susan Taylor, a specialist in women’s sexuality and reproductive health, explores the healing power of ritual. Carol Howard Merritt, a pastor and Seminary alumna, reviews Elizabeth Hagan’s Birthed: Finding Grace through Infertility. Michele Chandler shares a moving account of her experience of infertility and how it informs her vocation as therapist. Finally, Carolyn Mueller, a neonatal intensive care nurse, offers her particular perspective on the care of parents in the wake of reproductive loss.

Not to be missed, finally, are Carrie Elkin’s lyric “Longing Moves the Ocean” and Erica Knisely’s poem “(A blessing for when you are) Not Pregnant.” And be sure to linger over the article “A Sacred Container” regarding ways in which space was used to create environments in which participants could linger, pray, reflect, and perhaps be renewed. Read on, and reflect on reconceiving hope.

Faithfully yours,

Theodore J. Wardlaw President and Professor of Homiletics

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Communitas

From the Editor

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ducation Beyond the Walls launched seven years ago aspiring to generate fresh, innovative theological educational opportunities for many different communities of learners and leaders. This volume, “Reconceiving Hope,” presents one fulfillment of our aspirations.

Innovation starts with empathy. Much of EBW’s work begins with listening to the lives of people we seek to serve. We listen to data produced on all things church, read e-publications, blogs, and the newest books (and follow our noses where they lead us), attend to our faculty, and take calls from whosoever dials us. Empathy requires a special kind of listening though: attention to the sounds the words hold, the rustling wrestling of hearts, souls, and minds.

In early days, we listened to structures. We noticed that the joint Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary Master of Divinity/University of Texas Master of Science in Social Work degrees had no continuing education component. Here was a gap waiting to be filled with an innovation. October 2012 brought a response, “Everyday Ethics: Integrating Spirituality & The Practice of Counseling,” with content at the intersection of the two practices of ministry and social work. Professionals in both disciplines earned continuing education credits, and a biennial tradition began. We built a new structure.

Two years ago Erica Knisely, director of programs for EBW, led us into the second kind of listening—to people, women and men facing infertility. Ms. Knisely heard pain, not only grief but also another hurt—the silence of their faith and their invisibility within their faith communities. Empathy rose. From empathy, we defined the need for resources to fill the silence and to materialize their experience.

We imagined (or “ideated” as the innovation experts say) what the best resources and practices might be like: respectful and roomy, substantive and complex but accessible, honest, in beautiful containers of music, poetry, and ritual, useful to healers of all kinds, including counselors, rabbis, imams, and pastors. We poured these ideas in the structure of the joint MDiv/MSSW conference for 2018’s “Reconceiving Hope.”

A print journal is no innovation, but perhaps a journal that includes the voices of academics, visual artists, nurses, midwives, and pastors leans in to innovation.

We offer this, like the conference itself, as fresh, innovative theological education for you and your own communities of learners and leaders. Let us know what you think.

The final word is one of respect for Ms. Knisely. Her vision, perseverance, theological depth, and pastoral artistry made “Reconceiving Hope” possible. We are grateful.

Melissa Wiginton Vice President for Education Beyond the Walls at Austin Seminary

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss

“Be fruitful and multiply.”

The Dangers of Divine Blessing

Joel S. Baden

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he Bible is read as an academic text, a work of literature, and a spiritual and theological handbook. When it comes to infertility, however, these disparate readings have coalesced around a single idea: that God blessed humanity with the instructions, “Be fruitful and multiply.” The association of divine blessing and fertility reverberates throughout the entire corpus. The biblical texts, taken together, contribute to a master narrative in which fertility is a sign of divine blessing, procreation an obligation, and infertility a sign of divine judgment and moral failure.

There are millions of people for whom the Bible is a source of inspiration, reflection, and guidance. Many of those people, statistically speaking, are infertile.

What are they to make of the fact that the very first words God speaks to humanity,

Joel S. Baden is professor of Hebrew Bible at Yale Divinity School and co-author of Reconceiving Infertility: Biblical Perspectives on Procreation & Childlessness. He gave this keynote address at Reconceiving Hope. Baden is a specialist in the Pentateuch, Biblical Hebrew, and disability theory in biblical studies. He has written widely for a popular audience, in venues such as The Atlantic Monthly, Slate, The Los Angeles Times, Politico, CNN.com, and The Daily Beast.

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Communitas according to Genesis, are “Be fruitful and multiply” (Gen. 1:28)? How are they to see themselves and their place in the created order? And how does their tradition help or hurt them?

Command or Blessing?

For thousands of years, these words have been understood as a divine imperative to each and every individual: it is every person’s responsibility to produce offspring according to God’s will. This command, unlike so many in the Hebrew Bible, was given to all of humanity, not just to Israel—a distinction that appears to be emphasized by the fact that it is given both to Adam and then again to Noah, in other words, to the two “first men.” According to the Mishna, the earliest codification of Jewish law, “A man must not abstain from ‘be fruitful and multiply’ unless he already has children.” Clement of Alexandria, despite his clear approval of celibacy, also stated that “He has said ‘increase,’ and one must obey.” In Islam, reproduction is seen as a requirement, as the duty to multiply the followers of the faith beyond those of other faiths.

“Be fruitful and multiply” is more than merely a command, however. It is a blessing: “God blessed them: ‘Be fruitful and multiply’” (Gen. 1:28; also Gen. 9:1; 17:20; 35:9). Isaac says to Jacob, “May El Shaddai bless you and make you fruitful and numerous” (Gen. 28:3), a blessing that Jacob recalls later in life: “El Shaddai … blessed me and said to me, ‘I will make you fruitful and multiply you’” (Gen. 48:3–4).

When the emphasis is put on the aspect of blessing, then it is all too easy to consider those who cannot procreate as cursed. “Barrenness was a curse,” claims the authoritative Encyclopedia Judaica. The IVP Women’s Bible Commentary agrees, interpreting the notion of infertility as curse as the corollary to fertility as blessing.

God’s first words to humanity are thus something of a double-edged sword for those without offspring. If one chooses not to bear children, then one could be seen as violating a direct divine command, perhaps even the primary divine directive. If one is unable to bear children, one is considered cursed. So: is it accurate to state that the Bible demands, or even expects, that all humans procreate? Does it really envision infertility as a divine curse? Should we? Is there another way to read these texts?

Those initial words to humanity seem fairly unequivocal. And when that first man and woman are seen as not only prototypical but also archetypical—not just the first humans, but the models for all of humanity that followed—then it is logical enough that everyone, each of us living today, should be beholden to the same divine command. After all, the curses that are laid on Adam, Eve, and the serpent at the end of the story of the Garden of Eden were, it is assumed, meant to establish and explain everlasting conditions. The snake still has no legs. We remain banished from paradise. If the story of Adam and Eve is the origin of our present existence, then surely the command to procreate is an eternal one. The command to be fruitful is akin to the (Christian) concept of original sin: an aspect of the first human ex-

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss perience that is passed down, almost genetically, to every living person thereafter.

The command to multiply, it would seem, is in our DNA.

If Genesis 1:28 were the only occurrence of this command/blessing in the Bible, there might be little else to say about it. That dominant interpretation would be difficult to challenge. But the command, and the concept, occur regularly, and provide us with the means of taking a quite different interpretive path.

The blessing of fruitfulness is issued not only to the first man and woman, but, as noted earlier, again to Noah and the patriarchs. And there is something different about the command when it is delivered to everyone after Genesis 1—a difference of timing. When God speaks in Genesis 1:28, it follows directly on the creation of human beings, effectively at “birth,” and certainly well before Cain and Abel and Seth are even remotely near entering the scene. Yet when God speaks the blessing the next time, to Noah, the timing could hardly be more different. Noah receives the divine word in his six hundred and first year of life. He is hardly a youth. He already has three sons. His sons are themselves already a hundred years old. They have all just experienced the destruction of the flood, and now, as they step out of the ark, “God blessed Noah and his sons, and said to them, ‘Be fruitful and multiply’” (Gen. 9:1). As a command, this is sensible enough for Noah’s sons. We know that they have wives, who were also on the ark, but they have no children in the time of the Flood. But why should Noah also receive the command to be fertile? He has already done so—what’s more, he will not have any further children after the Flood. How is Noah supposed to be fruitful and multiply?

When Abraham is told that God will make him very fruitful, Ishmael has already been born, though Isaac and Abraham’s other lesser-known children (Gen. 25:2) are yet to come. But when God tells Jacob to “be fruitful and multiply” (Gen. 35:11), Jacob may well have looked around at his twelve sons and one daughter and thought, “More?” Jacob’s procreative days were behind him; his youngest son, Benjamin, had just been born. There would be no more children in Jacob’s future— there are only twelve tribes, after all. Jacob’s favorite wife, Rachel, has just died, while Leah, Bilhah, and Zilpah will never be mentioned in the story again. What, then, could God have intended by instructing Jacob to be fruitful and multiply?

Here emerges the basic conflict between reading God’s words according to their grammatical form, that is, as imperatives, and reading them according to their context, that is, as a blessing. If God’s words are understood as a command, then we would have to conclude that both Noah and Jacob are guilty of disobeying the divine will. Yet this is hardly fathomable. We would also have to believe that, when God spoke the exact same words to the fish of the seas in Gen 1:22, a command was being issued to the animal world, that animals have the capacity to obey or disobey the divine will. There are abundant reasons, therefore, for rejecting the common, if not universal, view that the words “be fruitful and multiply” should be taken as a divine imperative to procreate, one that can be either obeyed or disobeyed.

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Communitas Nationhood not Fatherhood And yet if these words are read as a blessing, the same problem exists: if the blessing of fertility is envisioned to be a promise of offspring, then why would God give it to Noah and Jacob, neither of whom would have another child? Along the same lines, how can we explain the blessing that Jacob wishes on Joseph? By the time Jacob delivers his deathbed blessing, Joseph has had his only two children, Ephraim and Manasseh, as Jacob knows well, having just given them his blessing (for their own fertility) two chapters earlier. In short, whether as a command or as a blessing, there is something fundamentally problematic about reading “be fruitful and multiply” as if it mapped squarely onto “procreate and have children.” To put it differently: “be fruitful and multiply” cannot be associated with, or restricted to, an individual, or an individual couple. It is not a blessing, nor a command, that necessarily calls for any action on the part of the person to whom it is addressed. Nor, for that matter, can it be easily read as something passed down genetically ever since it was delivered to the first humans; if this were true, why would God need to repeat it? Why would a father bother to wish it upon his son?

We can best understand the import of this blessing in light of its functional parallel, expressed first and most famously in Gen. 12:2: “I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you; I will make your name great.” Having a “great name” is dependent on having descendants to carry that name forward. This is the blessing God promises Abraham: offspring. There is also, however, the first clause of God’s promise: to make Abraham into a great nation. Offspring are obviously necessary for this promise to come true. But it would be foolhardy to read the promise of Genesis 12 as related primarily to the question of whether Abraham and Sarah will have a son. That issue will be raised repeatedly, to be sure; but not here. Here the horizon is far more distant. No matter how many children Abraham may have in his lifetime, they will never be enough to be considered a great nation. No matter how many stories of their father they tell, they will never be able to make Abraham’s name great. God’s promise to Abraham of blessing, of offspring—like the promise of land that will come to pass only centuries later—is multi-generational. It anticipates nationhood, not fatherhood.

So, too, the blessing “be fruitful and multiply.” Noah will have no more children; yet all of humanity will descend from him. Jacob will have no more children; yet he will be the father of the entire Israelite people. Abraham, for all his blessedness, has eight children in all. Jacob has thirteen, Ishmael has twelve, Noah has three, and Isaac has two. Even Adam and Eve have only three sons. Despite the regularly voiced belief that God’s words encourage a large family, it is not the number of children produced that is at stake in the divine blessing of fertility. It is the people that, far in the future, will descend from those who are blessed. God takes the long view.

The blessing “be fruitful and multiply” is not a command from the past that pertains to the present; it is a blessing in the past that explains the present. There are people all over the world, and there have been for the entire span of human

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss memory; this is because, the biblical authors are saying, God decreed fertility and the spread of humanity upon the first people (twice). The blessing of fertility is a historical explanation for a long-completed fact. The same, though on a slightly smaller scale, is true for the divine blessing as given to the patriarchs. Here the issue is not one of filling the earth—those words are delivered exclusively to Adam and Eve and Noah—but rather of becoming a substantial nation among the others that already fill the earth. Abraham and his offspring were not to multiply indefinitely, every single one of their descendants destined for abundant fertility until the end of time. They were to become a great nation; to be fertile until they could authentically carry the label of “the people of Israel.” Israel comes into being as a nation in Egypt, at the juncture between the books of Genesis and Exodus. Pointedly, from that point forward, no individual in the Bible receives the blessing to “be fruiful and multiply” or even any variation on it—either by God or by another human.

An End in Sight The blessing to be fruitful and multiply was neither timeless nor universal. It has, in all of these instances, an end in sight; and in all of these instances, that end was long since achieved. The last person to receive a divine promise to become a nation—and the last person to receive the divine blessing “be fruitful and multiply”— is Jacob, Israel. Everyone who comes afterward stands as part of the fulfillment of that promise and blessing. Individuals after Jacob—down to the present—are not expected, far less required, to become a nation. They are not required to multiply dramatically. They are, in fact, not required to multiply at all. Jacob’s descendants collectively bear the burden of becoming a nation; but no individual among his descendants is obligated to contribute. All of Jacob’s sons have children (they need to become tribes eventually)—but his daughter, Dinah, does not. She is not said to be barren, nor is she said to be punished for failing to fulfill God’s word. She is neither fruitful nor does she multiply, yet she is firmly part of the promised line. One need not be fertile to be blessed.

The aspect of so many traditional readings of the Bible that causes the most problems is the notion of universality. There are enough elements in the text suggesting otherwise to urge caution in this regard. The Bible readily admits that there are women—righteous, blameless women—who are not fertile. The blessing in Genesis 1 is not spoken merely to individuals, to be sure, but neither is it spoken to every person who ever lived thereafter. Even after God blesses the first man and woman with fertility, not everyone in the narrative is fertile.

Nor is everyone in the narrative either blessed or cursed. This is a false dichotomy. Blessing and curse may be antonyms, but they are not exclusive options.

It is probably enough to say of those who are not “blessed,” in the traditional understanding, simply that they are not cursed. Given how the infertile have been treated throughout history, right up to the present, even this is a significant step in the right direction. v

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Communitas

“Can I bring him back again?”

Infertility and Masculinity

David A. Schones

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n the plenary session at the Reconceiving Hope conference at Austin Presbyterian Seminary, Joel S. Baden highlighted the well-known command in the Bible, “Be fruitful and multiply” (Genesis 1:28), to stress the importance some religious communities place on human reproduction. In his talk, Baden focused primarily on female infertility. Yet in this text, God commands both men and women to have children. Therefore, this essay examines the other side of the command to “be fruitful and multiply.” It explores how men respond to childlessness and infertility in biblical texts, traditions, and in contemporary society.

Male Infertility and Child-loss in the Hebrew Bible Unfortunately, the Bible has little to say regarding infertility and masculinity. This

David A. Schones is a PhD candidate in Hebrew Bible at Southern Methodist Univer-

sity. He presented at Reconceiving Hope on interpretive approaches for understanding involuntary childlessness in the Hebrew Bible and New Testament. His dissertation topic is on 1 Samuel 1:1-2:10, and he examines this text through a hermeneutic of reproduction, an interpretation method that focuses on the experience of infertility, pregnancy, and child-loss.

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss does not mean that biblical texts do not address infertility from a man’s perspective. After all, these narratives are often the product of male writers who offer their views of the reproductive process.1 Rather, this statement simply suggests that men who struggle with childlessness are not well represented in infertility texts.

As Baden noted, “though there may be whispers of male infertility in the Hebrew Bible, they are decidedly shouted down by the standard ancient Near Eastern paradigm in which the woman was to blame.”2 For example, the term ‘aqarah or “infertile” almost exclusively describes female figures.3 Further, in some narratives God is presented as the one who opens and closes women’s wombs.4 It is unfortunate that this ancient Near Eastern paradigm is so prevalent in biblical texts and traditions. This paradigm has been used to attribute blame to women in contemporary western society.5 Additionally, this model diminishes the reality that infertility directly impacts men’s lives. Biblical stories on childlessness do not readily convey the lived experiences of men and husbands in the reproductive process. These narratives do not, at least overtly, articulate the struggle many men have with infertility.

One notable exception to this problem can be found in 2 Samuel 12. In this chapter David, as opposed to his wife, Bathsheba, deals with the neonatal death of his son: The LORD struck the child that Uriah’s wife bore to David, and it became very ill. David therefore pleaded with God for the child; David fasted, and went in and lay all night on the ground. The elders of his house stood beside him, urging him to rise from the ground; but he would not, nor did he eat food with them. On the seventh day the child died. And the servants of David were afraid to tell him that the child was dead; for they said, “While the child was still alive, we spoke to him, and he did not listen to us; how then can we tell him the child is dead? He may do himself some harm ….” And David said to his servants, “Is the child dead?” They said, “He is dead.”

Then David rose from the ground, washed, anointed himself, and changed his clothes … He then went to his own house; and when he asked, they set food before him and he ate. Then his servants said to him, “What is this thing that you have done? You fasted and wept for the child while it was alive; but when the child died, you rose and ate food.” He said … “now he is dead; why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he will not return to me” (2 Samuel 12:15-23, NRSV).

In this passage, David demonstrates two potential responses to infant mortality. At first, he fasts, lies on the ground, and generally refuses to be comforted.

However, upon the death of his son, David gets up, eats, and goes to his own house.

Taken together, both of David’s actions establish that there is no one normative way for men to respond to childlessness. The narrative does not overtly critique either of David’s responses to the death of his child.6 He is tacitly permitted to both mourn and eventually move on from the death of his child. Notably, in his first response, David does not follow a traditional masculine model. The patriarch is clearly not distanced or uninterested in the reproductive process. This narrative

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Communitas contradicts the assertion that infertility is exclusively a women’s issue. Additionally, David’s grief at the death of his child is palpable. It is also clearly uncomfortable for the other characters in this text. For instance, David’s servants express concern, fearing that he may even “harm himself” (12:18). In this sense, David “breaks free of the role of the traditional male.”7 His reaction to the death of his child challenges the stereotype of the impassive male. Still, David’s second response follows a more traditional masculine role. As David J. A. Clines suggests, his reaction “to the child’s death is the ultimate macho act.”8 The patriarch’s refusal to mourn this neonatal loss may seem cold by contemporary standards. But this response also affirms the detached emotionless perspective often attributed to traditional masculinity. David does not, cannot, show an emotional response. To be a man, he must remain indifferent to the death of his child.

Both of David’s responses to the death of his child underscore the complexity of men’s reactions to child-loss and infertility. This analysis of 2 Samuel 12 does not seek to discern which response to infertility is preferable, in either the ancient Near Eastern or contemporary contexts. Rather, these competing forms of masculinity simply speak to the diversity of men’s responses to childlessness. This narrative emphasizes that there is no one way for a man to react to the death of his child; similarly, there no one way a man should respond to his inability to conceive. David’s story does, ultimately, uphold a traditional view of the emotionless male. His first response “does not mean that the text has relaxed its allegiance to [these] norms for an instant.”9 Even so, by including both reactions, the text inadvertently deconstructs the masculine ideal that men cannot overtly respond to their childlessness.

Put another way, David’s first response at least briefly recognizes the complexity of this topic. David pleads, he fasts, and he cannot bring himself to rise from his bed.

My Experience of Involuntary Childlessness I write this article on the fifth anniversary of the miscarriage of my first child. This event remains one of the most difficult moments of my adult life. At the time, I gave very little thought to the possibility of infertility. My wife, Courtney, and I were both young. We were planners, having prepared everything for the arrival of our child. We did everything our doctors said. We read every available resource on pregnancy. We were ready to welcome this baby into our home. However, we were one of the unfortunate five percent who have a miscarriage after having seen a heartbeat. Events that we awaited with great anticipation were suddenly filled with dread. In many ways, we felt alone.

Although I do not typically incorporate my own personal experience of childloss into my scholarly research, I do find David’s reactions to the death of his child useful in conveying the complexity of this topic. Clearly, I cannot speak for all men.

Yet, I find my own response to this loss to be complicated and, at times, contradictory. Like David, I can recall my own intense grief at this loss. I remember not eating, the anger, the what-ifs. Even to this day, the anniversary of my child’s death brings a certain feeling of dread. Events like this are not easily forgotten. Still, I can

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss relate to David’s second response. Looking back five years, I have gotten up, eaten at my house, and moved on with my life. In a way, my own conflicting experiences are similar to David’s inconsistent reactions. Particularly, I appreciate that this narrative does not exclusively highlight the stereotype of the impassive male. David’s overt suffering gives voice to my own reaction to childlessness. This narrative recognizes that there is no one appropriate male response to infertility.

Infertility and Masculinity: A Conclusion Infertility and child-loss are events that can take the form of a “consuming struggle, staggering expense, devastating loss.”10 For some men, these experiences are expressed through overt grief. For others, infertility leads to an emotionless resolve to move on with life. David’s reaction to his child-loss in 2 Samuel 12 speaks to both reactions to male childlessness. It challenges the stereotype of masculine impassivity. Further, this interpretation recognizes the multiplicity of male responses to reproductive failure. In a way, some men embody both forms of masculinity at different times and in different places. We exist in the uncomfortable space between David’s grief and his resolve. We mourn. But we also know that we cannot bring our children back again. v NOTES 1. As Esther Fuchs suggests, “The biblical narrative has much to tell us about motherhood as a patriarchal institution, whose aim is to ensure patrilineal continuity.” See Esther Fuchs, Sexual Politics in the Biblical Narrative: Reading the Hebrew Bible as a Woman (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 44.

2. Joel S. Baden, “The Matriarchs as Models” in Reconceiving Infertility: Biblical Perspectives on Procreation and Childlessness, ed. Candida R. Moss and Joel S. Baden (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2015), 38.

3. The one possible exception can be found in Deuteronomy 7:14. Baden, 38-39.

4. See e.g. Genesis 16:2, 1 Samuel 1:6.

5. See Baden, “The Matriarchs as Models,” 38-39.

6. Although as David J. A. Clines notes, later commentators often find “something both fascinating and repellant here.” See David J. A. Clines, Interested Parties: The Ideology of Writers and Readers of the Hebrew Bible (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 230.

7. Ibid., 228 8. Ibid., 230.

9. Ibid., 229.

10. Belle Boggs, The Art of Waiting: On Fertility, Medicine, and Motherhood (Minneapolis: Graywolf, 2016), 19.

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Communitas

Transforming Ancient Texts into Modern Rituals

Amy Cohen and Gail Swedroe

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n Judaism, liturgy plays a central role in the daily lives of observant individuals.

Prayer is prescribed three times a day, offering our praise, petitions, and gratitude to God. But for many secular Jews and secular Americans, we encounter prayer perhaps once a week, or a couple of times a month. On holidays and at life cycle events, prayer and varied liturgical pieces frame rituals that sanctify the time, event, or holiday for which we are gathering together. Our tradition provides us with prescribed prayers for life cycle events that our rabbis understood, but for those that were less familiar to them, those that perhaps their wives or daughters experienced, we find very little.

In thinking about ways we could offer prayers or rituals that would serve to create a container around the many complex emotions surrounding fertility chal-

Rabbi Amy Cohen combines her passion for social work, education, and Jewish life as Rabbi-Educator at Temple Beth Shalom in Austin, Texas. Rabbi Gail Swedroe serves

as associate rabbi at Congregation Agudas Achim in Austin, Texas, where she seeks to highlight the richness of Jewish tradition so that it speaks to the diversity of our human experiences. Rabbis Cohen and Swedroe presented a workshop exploring biblical liturgy that heals and comforts at the Reconceiving Hope conference.

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss lenges, what struck us was that more than reciting particular words or engaging in a particular ritual, often most healing came through the act of creating the ritual itself. Perhaps this is because there is no common infertility ritual which we, as a society, have yet internalized as helping move a person from point A to point B in the way funeral and mourning rituals or a wedding serves to ease personal transitions. Perhaps this is because in a time when one so desperately wants to create a new life, the very act of creation can serve as the catalyst for moving from one state of being to another.

When an individual or a couple is experiencing the journey of infertility, feeling stuck, yet doing everything in one’s power to move forward, proves to be a tough moment to mark with a prayer or ritual. To that end, we have started by asking questions upon which to reflect. We would recommend journaling, sharing, and perhaps using one’s answers to create a prayer. We have also included several selections of texts from the Hebrew Bible which might be used to create rituals with those who are experiencing infertility. We have added some of our own thoughts on when they might be used, but also want to emphasize the power of helping the person co-create whatever it is they need to help them express the longings of their heart and soul.

Reflection Questions When Experiencing Infertility

1. When deciding how to move forward after a diagnosis, or lack of diagnosis of infertility, what are you (and perhaps your partner) experiencing?

What brings you hope?

2. Before a procedure: What are you longing for? What/who are you thankful for?

3. After a procedure: What are you grateful for? How are you connecting to your body in this moment? If you could write a letter to your body, what would you say?

4. After disappointing news: To whom would you like to offer forgiveness?

How can you nurture yourself during this difficult time? To whom would you like to share your disappointment?

5. After exciting news: In just this moment, what are you thankful for? What do you need to put aside in order to fully experience joy in this moment?

Texts from the Jewish Tradition to Prompt Reflection and Ritual There are moments when individuals and friends walk into our offices and homes and all they want is to be done with the medical procedures, the research they are doing to find the right doctor, and all of the mental energy they are using to try to find an answer. The midrash below has been offered to us by rabbis from the fourth century, and we believe can be used to speak to the utter despair and deep emotional need for women to have their bodies work in the ways we are taught they are supposed to. a) Midrash Sefer Ha-Aggadah 1 Samuel 1:13 “Now Hannah, she spoke about her heart,” about matters, so said R. Eleazar

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Communitas in the name of R. Yose ben Zimra, that were in her heart. She spoke right up to the Holy One: Master of the universe, of all that You create in woman, there is not one part without its purpose eyes to see, ears to hear, a nose to smell, a mouth to speak, hands to work with, legs to walk with, breast to give suck. The breasts You placed over my heart—what are they for? Are they not to give suck? Give me a son, that I may give him suck with them.”

The questions below can be used in conversation or to give someone the words to write their own prayer: 1. How did you expect to become a mother or father?

2. How are you allowing yourself to grieve this loss of your expectations for your body? b) Hasidic Teaching Rabbi Yitzchak said: Four things annul the harsh decree: tzedakah (charity), fervent prayer, changing one’s name, and changing one’s ways. Someone once visited the Chafetz Chayyim, a pious sage of the early 20th century known especially for his caring and his simplicity. The visitor was seeking advice on sympathetic rituals that would ensure his fertility. The Chafetz Chayyim said, “I do not have any such knowledge, but I will tell you this: choose one act of kindness to tend to here in the city, and perhaps God will reward you for caring for the needs of others.”

The questions below can be used in conversation or to give someone the words to write their own prayer or turn their prayers into actions: 1. Write a letter (to be mailed or just for your own records) to someone to whom you are particularly grateful to have in your life during this journey.

What is something you can do to express this gratitude to this person directly?

2. Is there a cause about which you are feeling passionately to which you can dedicate your time? c) Psalm 126:6 “Though they walk with tears, bearing their sacks of seed, they will return in joy, carrying their sheaves of grain.”

The questions below can be used in conversation or to give someone to reflect upon how they might craft a ritual inspired by this verse: 1. How could a garden be used as an act of healing?

2. Are there particular plants, stones, markers which would be meaningful to acknowledge either tears or joy?

3. Are there people with whom creating a garden would be particularly healing and nourishing? d) Mourner’s Kaddish (Jewish mourning prayer; translation from https://www.

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss myjewishlearning.com/article/text-of-the-mourners-kaddish/) Glorified and sanctified be God’s great name throughout the world which God has created according to God’s will.

May God establish God’s kingdom in your lifetime and during your days, and within the life of the entire House of Israel, speedily and soon; and say, Amen.

May God’s great name be blessed forever and to all eternity.

Blessed and praised, glorified and exalted, extolled and honored, adored and lauded be the name of the Holy One, blessed be God, beyond all the blessings and hymns, praises and consolations that are ever spoken in the world; and say, Amen.

May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life, for us and for all Israel; and say, Amen.

God who creates peace in God’s celestial heights, may God create peace for us and for all Israel; and say, Amen.

The questions below can be used in conversation or to give someone to reflect upon how they might craft a ritual or write their own personal prayer inspired by this ancient, communal prayer: 1. In this act of mourning, the focus is on coming together in community (a quorum of ten Jews is required to say this prayer) and blessing God. How can one’s support network be physically brought together for a ritual to support the person who is grieving—a miscarriage, a failed transfer, an adoption that did not come to be, the vision of how they saw themselves becoming a parent, becoming a parent in any capacity?

2. This prayer expresses hopes even in the darkest of times. For what are you hopeful?

Acknowledging that Sorrow and Joy can Co-exist For many individuals and couples struggling with infertility, baby namings, baptisms, and birthday parties are especially painful. The words below can be adapted and added to a ritual moment, to recognize the mix of emotions present at these events: With every new child that comes into this world, much hope comes to everyone in his/her presence. As we name/celebrate the birthday of ______ and officially welcome him/her into our community, we offer this prayer of hope for those who desire to raise children in their homes. We recall our biblical mothers who prayed from the depths of their souls for children of their own, and we pray that your prayers and your yearnings are answered and eased. May you find moments of peace and may you feel comforted by

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Communitas those you love, as you walk along this lonely path. We pray that you feel God’s warmth and presence amidst the physical and emotional struggle of infertility, and that you, too, are granted the blessing of peace.

The texts, questions, and rituals offered in this article are just a few examples of how texts can be transformed into contemporary prayers and how prayers can expand ancient rituals into relevant and meaningful moments for individuals experiencing the emotional ride of infertility. Our biblical ancestors did not have access to the reproductive technologies that we do today, but they did have access to the deep emotional experiences of loss and grief, as well as joy and gratitude—our communal emotional experiences surrounding infertility. We hope that giving voice and name and action to these emotions will help those experiencing infertility feel less alone and more supported by their faith tradition and community. v

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss

Rupture

Serene Jones In this excerpt of Jones’s chapter, “Rupture,” from Hope Deferred: Heart-Healing Reflections on Reproductive Loss, she has been called to the side of her friend Wendy who has just experienced a miscarriage. She has spent the evening with her, listening, making soup, burying the remains, drinking wine, and anointing Wendy with oil. Now, she is in her car with the radio on, reflecting on their time together, her own miscarriage, and where God is in the midst of it all.

H

ad I been able to be a minister to Wendy that day? Not in any conventional sense, I was certain. But then, how could I have been conventional when no convention existed to hold us? Throughout my time with her, I had kept running through the pages of Christian history and the rituals of the church in my mind, looking for something that might speak to us. Being a professor of theol-

Serene Jones is the sixteenth president of Union Theological Seminary in the City of

New York. She was one of the keynote speakers for Reconceiving Hope. In her talk she drew partially from her work in the book Hope Deferred, a book that was an outgrowth of a meeting between five female theologians who discovered that they had common grief around infertility, miscarriage, and stillbirth. It is a collaboration that aims to move what is often held in private spaces out into public conversation.

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Communitas ogy and an ordained minister, I couldn’t help it. It was my craft. And it was what Wendy had yearned for: a connection to old traditions like the Puritan piety of her grandmother or the Congregational steadiness of her mother, a connection she had sought in her candles and oils and old wives’ tale wisdom. And just as that candle in her room seemed to have burned all the way down and then flickered out, so, too, my frantic search of Christianity seemed to have yielded nothing.

Oh, I knew lots of things I could have said, but didn’t. I could have turned to Mary, the Mother of God herself, the truly annunciated one, the Blessed One. All day long, I had hoped she would visit us, either outside in the backyard or in Wendy’s kitchen. I had awaited her inspiration. But each time she seemed to draw near, the particularity of my grief had pushed her back. Mary had a child and, yes, she had lost him. It seemed we should have been able to find solace in her on this score.

But it didn’t work. For thirty years, she watched him grow, saw him play, looked at his nose, ran her fingers through his hair. What a privilege, what blessings, when we had none. As far as I knew, she never lost agency, never came unhooked in time, and never bled her hope into a sewer. And her womb was never a grave.

And there were other theological things I could have said. I could have told her that tragedy and death were simply part of God’s fragile universe and we should bear up and accept our loss as just one more dimension of being human. But to say that would have seemed cold and uncaring, and as such, not true. Or, I could have promised her that this hoped-for child was waiting for her in heaven and that, one day, they would dwell together in God’s presence. But if I had said this, I would have been lying. I simply didn’t believe that all our miscarried hopes were wandering around in heaven waiting for mommy to show up.

I also could have said something about God not giving us anything we can’t handle, invoking a controlling God who promises that everything will work for good, if we are just patient. But I didn’t believe that God sent us suffering to test our faith or make us stronger. That wasn’t the God of my faith.

But if these things weren’t true, what was? Who was the God I believed in, the God I had hoped would touch us with grace, the God to whom I had spontaneously prayed in the backyard, the one who I hoped had heard all the mournful laments of these last tortured hours, the one I had wanted so badly to hold me, here and now, in this cold, dark car?

I sat there and the tears kept coming as the singing continued. I reached up to wipe my nose and caught the scent of Wendy’s anointing oil, still on my hands. How does one find hope when death is inside you, deep in your viscera, a part of your being, and yet you are not dead?

It was then that I saw it. Its truth was so expansive that it covered everything in my vision as it descended around me, taking the whole world into itself. A dark vision, it moved down towards the earth, pulling me with it. For centuries, the great theological minds of Christianity have struggled with a seemingly unanswerable question, an ancient quandary of faith. What happens in the Trinity when, on the cross, the Son of God dies? When he dies a complete death, not a partial one, not a

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss fake one, but a full death as is the confession? All of him is gone, dead, and buried.

What happens to that glorious communion of persons we call “God” when one of the three is lost to history? Do the other two cry for a while, get dressed up in black, and go to the funeral? Do they offer a toast to their lost friend, one struck down in the prime of his life by that awful killer “sin” or the devil? Or maybe they bide their time playing cards, knowing the resurrection is on its way? Do they grin secretly at each other, knowing it’s all just a matter of time?

No, none of these happen.

We are told that grief of this event is unlike any other known to us. Our ancient theologians tell us we can’t extrapolate from our experience to it, for it is part of the divine mystery; it stretches beyond human imagination. Yet what is it we cannot imagine? The whole of Trinity, we are told, takes death into itself. Jesus doesn’t die outside of God but in God, deep in the viscera of that holy tripartite union. Because the union is full, no part of God remains untouched by this death. It seeps into every corner of the whole body of persons. If this is true, then, yes, God becomes quite literally the site of dying. The trinity is a grave, a dank tomb of death.

In that cave where he is buried, that womb outside Jerusalem’s walls, we find not only the body of Jesus, his flesh torn in tortured death, but also the tissue of a future that would never be. Buried with him is a dead hope. What dies is the hope carried by the disciples, the belief that the kingdom was coming, that the realm of justice was about to enter time, that a new age was dawning in which all our yearnings would be transformed into joy. On the cross, we encounter the death of an advent, an expectation.

So, too, in that dying, borders are unraveled, identities ripped open. Those lines that mark the edge distinguishing God from world, divine from human, immortal from enfleshed, they disintegrate before our eyes, not in the incarnation but in crucifixion. There, on the cross, the Trinity is ruptured, hemorrhaged, a blood-flow that will not stop. And in its wake, pieces of humanity’s enfleshed hope lie scattered across space and time, sewerbound, muddied.

The most haunting, troubled specter of all, however, is not just this bloodied dying but also the terrifying reality that the God who bears this death inside does not die, but lives to grieve another day. God is bereft of life and yet alive. This is the God who came to me in that dark descending vision, the God I supposedly could not fathom. There she was, in the garden, curled around Wendy, holding her. There she was.

The miscarrying woman, the mother whose child lies dead inside her, the sister betrayed by her own flesh as hope grows still in her womb, the friend who anoints her body for its journey to the grave, all these women, from ages past and on into our vast future, were with me in the car, and from the broken wisdom of their bodies and mine, I came to feel God anew, wrapped in her embrace.

And I heard her say, “I know, I know,” as my tears continued. v Serene Jones, “Rupture,” in Hope Deferred: Heart-Healing Reflections on Reproductive Loss, ed.

Nadine Pence Frantz and Mary T. Stimming (Eugene, OR: Pilgrim Press, 2005), 60-63.

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A Sacred Container

Erica Knisely

W

e all carry loss around with us. Some losses we’ve befriended, others surprise us at inconvenient times, and some lay silent, unexcavated, waiting.

Infertility and reproductive loss are not unlike other losses, but they have a unique tenor. They are intimate, bodily experiences which are rarely visible to others. There are no outward signs that indicate an inability to get pregnant, except the ambiguous absence of a child. If miscarriage happens early, the death may be contained within a closely inscribed circle. As a result, parents often mourn this “secret loss in silence, sometimes in shame and frequently alone. And to the extent that the grief is secret, it is also prolonged.”1 Without ritual forms to address these losses, they can remain hidden within. Infertility, miscarriage, and stillbirth touch the hopes, dreams, and imaginations of parents for children. They break trust in

Erica Knisely (MDiv’14), director of programs for Education Beyond the Walls at Austin Seminary, curated the Reconceiving Hope conference in April 2018. She has served as a hospice and mental health chaplain. She wishes to acknowledge the labors of Martha Lynn Coon, Mónica Tornoe, Mikala McFerren, Devon Reynolds, and Carolina Treviño who helped create the sacred space for Reconceiving Hope participants.

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss bodies, threaten identities, and strain beliefs. They need to be carefully tended.

In any conversation about infertility and reproductive loss—whether in an academic setting or in a faith community—it is important to be mindful of the hidden losses in the room. They need a place to be felt, held, and explored; loss needs a sacred container. During Reconceiving Hope, we offered a sacred space for attendees to visit as needed. It was the collective vision of several staff members at Austin Seminary and itself an important act of creation, as many of us had experienced reproductive loss and/or infertility.

Knowing that the losses carried to the conference would be various, we made the space broad and expansive, allowing for different entry points and perspectives.

In the center of the room, we constructed a river out of blue fabric that ended in a small pool of water. Along the river and at the bottom of the water were stones; there were flowers floating on top. At the head of the river was a tree constructed of naked branches. Symbols of life, death, and barrenness were juxtaposed. So it goes with these forms of reproductive loss: death within life, hope within disappointment.

Mónica Tornoe made a series of three paintings for the room, the first one of a woman with an empty heart carved in the place of her womb. About that image, Mónica says, “The woman has a hole she wants to fill. Everything is flourishing around her. Flowers are blooming, everything is blooming, but not inside her.

Nothing is growing. She’s empty. You can see through her. Nothing is growing there yet.” Next to the woman is a painting of flowers—hope is inscribed on the stems.

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Communitas And finally, “God’s word is there in the end, comforting her, letting her know that her tears are not wasted tears.” From Psalm 56:9, “You keep count of my wanderings; put my tears into your bottle, into your record” (JPS). The paintings speak of emptiness, hope, and the comfort of God’s word. They offered a reflection point for those who entered the space.

We made the sacred space room inviting with blankets, pillows, and chairs scattered throughout. We also left things for people to do, because sometimes grief needs a tangible representation in the physical world. Ritualized doing offers a way to bring out what exists on the interior landscape and place it within exterior space.

It is a pathway for releasing secretly held pain. We left rocks to be placed in the water, along the river, or under the tree. Rocks are weighty and dense like pain. We left strips of colorful fabric and pens to adorn them. Names of children lost and hoped for were tied on the tree like flowers or leaves. We left watercolors, paintbrushes, and blank paper. Color has its own way of speaking to us about loss.

The room was a place for quiet, private reflection, but it was also communal. It was created in community and consecrated in prayer. It was born out of pain and offered in hope for healing and comfort. While those who went in and out of the room did so anonymously, they were not alone. We were connected by a river of tears and joy and pain and hope flowing through the middle of all our lives.

NOTE

1. Anderson, Herbert and Foley, Edward, Mighty Stories, Dangerous Rituals: Weaving Together the Human and the Divine, (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 1998), 131.

© Monica Tornoe

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss

The Healing Power of Rituals

How to Create a Personal or Group Ritual for Resolving Miscarriage Loss

Morgan Taylor

R

ituals are a tool to make what is normally unseen and intangible both seen and tangible. They are a way to physically represent the unseen realms of memory, feelings, emotions, imaginings, and desires.

Miscarriage loss is one such type of experience. Miscarriage loss is often invalidated. Women are often expected to hastily “get over it” or given the message that they can always “try again” or worse, that “that pregnancy didn’t count.” Due to the misinformed and invalidating messages women receive from those closest to them, they often feel confusion and guilt about their feelings. Some women believe they should not be having these feelings at all or that something is wrong with them if they do.

The use of ritual is one way to validate and make visible this complex experi-

Morgan Susan Taylor, MA, is a specialist in women’s sexuality and reproductive health. She is the founder of The Feminine Wisdom Academy and the facilitator of the Womb Loss therapy groups for miscarriage and infertility loss (www.WombLoss. com). Taylor holds a bachelor’s degree in religious studies from the University of California, Santa Barbara, and a master’s degree in professional counseling from Texas State University.

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Communitas ence. Through ritual, not only are women able to feel validated in their grief and loss, but they also find a creative way to release and heal deep emotional pain.

In the Womb Loss therapy groups that I run for women experiencing loss from infertility and miscarriage, I have been experimenting with closing the last meeting of our group with a ritual generated by the group participants. The outcome and feedback about this experience has been very positive.

The following ritual was designed by one of my groups. It incorporates the Six Elements of Ritual which I offer them as a guide. Each element is briefly explained below followed by an example of how the group chose to incorporate that element into their unique group ritual.

Element One: Setting Apart the Space The setting apart the space is the first step of any ritual. This demarcates the sacred space in which the ritual will occur.

Example: The group selects a place outside for the ritual to occur. Two members of the group burn Palo Santo and sage smudge sticks to cleanse the area for sacred use.

Everyone gathers rocks, leaves, or sticks from the landscape to create a circle on the ground in which the ritual will occur. When complete, the women enter the circle in a clockwise direction and sit down.

Element Two: Generating the Intention The second element of ritual is about generating our intention for what we desire to occur inside of the sacred container.

Example: One person states the intention of the ritual, such as “We are gathered here to honor our bodies and the children we lost through miscarriage.�

Element Three: Sourcing the Energies The third element is where we call on the higher powers we wish to invite to assist us with the intention of our ritual.

Example: Everyone takes turns calling out for spiritual assistance in the ritual (sourcing the energies.) The women who participate in Womb Loss groups come from a variety of perspectives. They may call on a Higher Power, Mother God, God, High Priestess, or others. They may also choose to call out to particular people in their lives who have been important and on whose memory and strength they wish to draw. These names are generally spoken out loud, but this can also be done silently.

Element Four: Allowing the Transformation to Occur This is where the unseen, the invisible, is made visible. This may be represented by using objects that symbolize or have specific meaning to the persons and intent of the ritual.

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss Example: Participants sit down and take fifteen minutes to write a letter to their miscarried child in a special journal selected just for this purpose.Â

Element Five: Consecrating the Transformation Because transformation is largely internal and unseen, it is helpful to incorporate symbolic gestures or actions to consecrate the transformation.

Example: Each participant takes turns reading her letter out loud to the group. The person reading the letter stands while the others remain seated and witness the reader. The reader sits once the letter reading is completed and the next person stands to read.

The Sixth Element: Closing and Ending the Ritual When we open sacred space and time we open a portal into another reality through which creation energies can freely flow. It is therefore critical to properly close a ritual and close the sacred space.

Example: The leader closes the ritual in prayer and gives thanks for the spiritual assistance given during the ritual. Everyone helps to remove the rocks, leaves, and sticks from the circle and place them back within the landscape. At the end of the time, each individual is given ten to fifteen minutes to process their experience of the ritual and to share any thoughtful words to the other members of the group.

In Conclusion The above ritual is only an example, as the possibilities are endless. As I have used this ritual creation process with different cohorts of women in my Womb Loss group over the past year, I have been amazed to see how every ritual is different based on the particular group. Using the structure of the Six Elements of Ritual as a guideline, it is easy for anyone to create a unique personal or group ritual for just about any purpose. v

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Birthed: Finding Grace Through Infertility

Book Review by Carol Howard Merritt

“W

hen my wife and I were going through infertility treatments, we had no place to turn. We couldn’t even ask for prayers in church,” a friend confided as he pointed out that shroud of secrecy surrounding their ordeal. Many pressures forced their longings into hiding. When the couple did talk about it, people seemed uncomfortable with their suffering and rushed to trite platitudes to ease the tension. Or people tried to problem-solve, by presenting adoption as the quick solution.

The couple felt the pressures of perceived TMI—not wanting to share “Too Much Information”—as they navigated those random and mysterious societal boundaries that mark things deemed too personal about a woman’s body to articulate in polite company.

The Reverend Carol Howard Merritt (MDiv’98) is a Presbyterian minister and

the award-winning author of three books. Her latest book is Healing Spiritual Wounds: Reconnecting with a Loving God after Experiencing a Hurtful Church (HarperOne, 2017). Merritt participated in a writing group with Elizabeth Hagen during the gestation of her book, Birthed.

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss So my friends kept their stories hidden, even as a hollow ache grew when glimpsing Mother’s Day posts on Facebook and family Christmas pictures in the mailbox. The secrecy and isolation made the pain more acute.

The Bible didn’t help matters much, as the ancient texts presented fertility as a two-sided coin—”barrenness” was a curse while “fruitfulness” was a blessing.

The couple found that the scriptures compounded their frustrations with some ancient logic that made them feel shame, as if they deserved their fate. Then, at one dreaded family reunion, an uncle made a big scene by bellowing like an Old Testament prophet and praying that “God would open the womb” of my friend and “make her fruitful”—completely disregarding scientific realities of the couple and delving into a “biblical” display of blaming the woman. They escaped the potluck as soon as they possibly could, before their angry reaction could cause a permanent rift in the family.

As I think about my friends and their years of frustration, I wish that I could have given them Rev. Elizabeth Hagan’s book, Birthed: Finding Grace through Infertility (Chalice Press, 2016, 176 pp; $19.99) because within these covers, Hagan dispels isolation, reframes hope, and reclaims the scriptures for the many people who suffer through infertility.

Throughout Birthed, Hagan chronicles the medical procedures in detail and reports her emotional temperature at every step. We hear about her first ectopic pregnancy and the numerous fertility treatments that follow. She tells the stories in the midst of the liturgical calendar, preaching schedules, and vocational decisions in the background. For instance, Hagan writes about preaching through Advent after the news that she was no longer pregnant: “Hope week” came four days after our devastating news. One of our corporate prayers in the book we followed asked us to reconsider what we were hoping for in the coming year and whether or not we were allowing God to be a part of our hopes. I did not dare say my hope aloud: “I want to have a baby.” However, I said it to God over and over during each moment of the silence we observed at the end of the service.

It is a strange thing—for when Hagan sheds light on these deeply personal moments, it strikes an external resonance for the reader. Through these descriptions, she pulls back that shroud of secrecy and shrugs off the taboos. And in those beautiful gestures, Hagan not only tells her story, but she allows it to become our story.

Her words become a history from which we can learn, and a hope that we can share.

As pastors, if we have not gone through similar experiences, we can gain incredible insight to understand those who have. And we can pass the book along, breaking the silences and letting people know that they are not alone.

In addition to relieving the isolation, with every disappointment, Hagan has a way of looking at hope differently. As she begins the journey, hope is an empty box on the checklist for a woman who likes to plan things. As the months wear on, hope becomes a desperate longing. Other times, hope becomes a belligerent optimism in the face of impossible odds.

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Communitas

Then as the pages continue, Hagan begins to see hope through the stunning wisdom of her friend, Shiphrah, who asks soul-piercing questions like, “Why do you take suffering so personally?” and “Why do you say, ‘I must have a child’?” And Shiphrah answered all of her own probing questions: “All of life is a gift. There is nothing about life that you or I deserve. Nothing.” And through her words, the detailed to-do list of life gives way to mystery, as hope becomes so much simpler, and so much more profound.

Finally, Hagen redeems the Bible when it comes to infertility. She does not shy away from difficult biblical and theological themes. She expresses the doubts that she feels about God’s existence and wonders about God’s role in her suffering. She questions verses like Psalm 37:4, “Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” Yet, with all of her wrestling with God and the Bible, ultimately, she clings to it, especially as she remembers how God’s mercies are new every morning.

This is where Hagan’s very particular suffering in infertility intersects with so many other types of human pain. For Hagan’s theological wrestling as she longs for a child invites us to deeper questions about what it means to be a child of God. In the midst of this primal yearning, Hagan teaches us about sharing our stories, renewing our hope, and ultimately finding refuge in our faith, even when things don’t work out as we planned. v

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss Carrie Elkin is a singer/songwriter who straddles the Americana, folk, and indie rock worlds. She has the gift of projecting very personal, intimate moments into transcendent universal experiences that move us all. That was certainly true at Reconceiving Hope where Carrie Elkin opened the day with a beautiful array of poignant songs and funny anecdotes about her infertility journey. There, she quipped that she is probably the only folksinger with an entire set list on this topic. Below are the lyrics to one of the songs that she sang. Find out more and listen to her music at carrieelkin.com.

Longing Moves The Ocean By Carrie Elkin If longing moves the ocean If longing moves the ocean Then I’ve moved the ocean And longing I am If barren is the desert If barren is the desert Then I am Mojave And the desert I am But I’ve got a ways to go I’ve got a ways to see It’ll take a while to know What empty hands will bring So for now I’ll let the words in Become a poet again When the body fails Let god tell that tale 30

Communitas If storms are from anger If storms are from anger Then blind is the lightening And thunder I am If prayers are like letters If prayers are like letters I’ve ink on my fingers And waiting I am But I’ve got a ways to go I’ve got a ways to see It’ll take a while to know What empty hands will bring If hearts beat forgiveness If hearts beat forgiveness Then my hearts a beating And forgiveness I am!

If time is made for healing If time is made for healing I’ve counted all the hours And healing I am But I’ve got a ways to go I’ve got a ways to see It’ll take a while to know What empty hands will bring

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss This blessing can be used as a private devotional or incorporated into a communal ritual. It is specifically for use when a woman is not pregnant, but it could be adapted for a man or other partner. Additional blessings might be written for times of fertility treatments, selecting egg and sperm donors, for surrogate pregnancies, and during the adoption process. Written by Erica Knisely, the blessing arose from her experience grappling with infertility. It is given with gratitude for John O’Donohue’s book, To Bless the Space Between Us, which inspired the form of this blessing.

A Blessing for When You are

Not Pregnant By Erica Knisely

As hope swells within you anew each month, may you have the courage to honor the desire planted deep in your soul.

As you become scientist, taking copious notes on the inner workings of your body, may you seek laughter with equal veracity.

As lovemaking takes on weighted urgency and your bodies lose buoyancy, may you make room again to encounter your beloved.

As thoughts of a child dominate discussions and the space between you grows thick, may you tend to the tapestry of your shared life.

As you submit to an unfolding array of tests, may you remember that you are far more than hormone levels and egg counts; you are whole and beautiful and loved.

As you try desperately to hold back the flood gates, but the blood comes anyway, may you find that there are people and places willing to hold your tears.

As you stare down at only one blue line, feeling abandoned and betrayed by the One who made you, may you have the strength to cry out heaven-ward.

As months of unrequited hope tick by, may you have the wisdom to know when to pause, when to persist, and when to let go.

As uncertainty looms and your dreams hang in the balance, may you discover that you are loved and that life has never left you alone.

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Communitas

Born of My Heart:

An Adoptive Mother’s Journey from Grief to Gratitude

Michele Chandler

A

s I sit in the seminary, tall windows surrounded by beautiful green trees and cloudy, overcast skies, I am listening to the petite woman with long hair sharing her gift; sweetly singing words of pain, of loss, and of grief beyond description. When suddenly my body contracts, and I experience an internal tidal wave of emotion so great that I am overwhelmed, fighting back tears, my heart feeling as if it is breaking all over again. I am back there again, catapulted back in time, over twenty-five years ago when I experienced those feelings of pain, of loss, of grief beyond description. That is how it is with infertility and reproductive loss.

It is a piece of our being, forever woven into the emotional tapestry of our lives.

My own journey began on my wedding night. I was twenty-nine and had been using a diaphragm for birth control for almost a decade. It had served its purpose.

Michele Chandler LCSW, has over twenty-five years of clinical experience working with a wide variety of populations ranging in age from toddlers to seniors. She specializes in working with individuals who have experienced trauma and loss in their lives, those living with depression, anxiety, chronic pain and illness, and those experiencing life transitions. She wrote this reflection on her experience with infertility and subsequent adoption after attending Reconceiving Hope.

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss Now I was ready to start a family. Beyond ready. Throw that thing away!! I had wanted to be a mother from the time I was a child playing with dolls. There was never a doubt, never a question that I was born to be a mother. Two children (no more than I had arms I would say), hopefully at least one daughter. A chance to do it right, to give my children a stable, loving family free from the chaos in which I grew up, the essence of motherhood a part of my very being.

I had a wonderful husband. We bought a cute house with a big back yard in a nice neighborhood. Everything was in place, going as planned. After a few months of trying to get pregnant with no success I went to see my gynecologist. Of course he said not to worry (easy for him to say), to give it a year before considering the possibility of “a problem.” He suggested ways to increase our chances. And so it began … tracking my temperature on a daily basis, throwing my legs up over my head after intercourse … Making love turned into making a baby. And with each barren month that passed, with every drop of the dreaded red sign, my despair began to take root.

After the first year we started testing to determine the cause of our infertility.

We did all the tests available, or rather I did. My husband’s swimmers were plentiful and strong. I came to understand that when a doctor tells you, “This will only hurt a little, or for a short time,” they have no idea what they are talking about.

Lesson learned. After all the tests, I had a diagnosis: “unexplained infertility.” My doctor said it was possible that I had “hostile cervical mucus,” scaring off the sperm before they could do their job. The feminist in me found this somewhat ironic; the mom yearning to be in me did not. So, we started intrauterine insemination with the help of medication to stimulate my eggs. For twelve months my gynecologist became my new best friend. Still: no pregnancy.

The year was 1990 and IVF was new on the scene. Adoption was still available and accessible. The decision as to how to proceed was an easy one. We knew we could love a child that was not ours biologically as we were already foster parents to an eight-year-old girl. We felt that love comes from the heart, not from genetics. Also, we weren’t gamblers and the science was too new. That is not to say that giving up on the dream of being pregnant, giving birth, nursing a baby, and having children who resembled us was easy. It was not.

I went through a “crisis of faith.” I had lived a “good” life, done the things I was “supposed” to do. I was a good, honest, hardworking person. I adhered to the values of my faith; as a clinical social worker I lived a life of service to and advocacy for others. This was not how life was supposed to work. Good things were supposed to come to those deserved them. And so I grieved. I suffered periods of depression, felt alienated from many of my friends who were getting pregnant without a second thought, and I became angry and resentful at the injustice that had been done to me, at the cruel unfairness of life.

But, my determination never faltered and my anger was channeled into the work that needed to be done. I did my research and learned all that I could. There was domestic adoption, private adoption, agency adoption, open-adoption, semi-

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Communitas open adoption, closed adoption, and international adoption. I finally found a domestic agency that would be the best fit for our circumstances—our options were limited since at that time many agencies in Texas required parents to be of the Christian faith, and we are Jewish. Decision made, agency contacted, home study completed. All we had to do was wait to be selected by a birth mother based on our profile. And so we waited. The days turned to weeks turned to months until a year had passed. Then: more days, more weeks, more months.

After eighteen months, I received a telephone call from the adoption agency social worker. She told me a healthy baby girl had been born in El Paso. The birth parents had already signed the termination papers. The newborn would be brought to San Antonio, would be ours if we wanted her. That was the phone call that changed my life. Forever. Irrecoverably. It is now almost twenty-five years later, and tears burn my eyes as I write this remembering that sunny, hot September day in 1993. The social worker brought our daughter into the room, all bundled up in her blanket, her full head of dark hair sticking out in all directions and her face red from crying. She placed her in my arms as I sat stunned, crying tears of joy as I drew my daughter close to my heart. I fell in love instantly. This was my baby girl.

I loved being a mom even more than I could have imagined. I knew in my heart, at the very core of my being that I had to do it again. So when my daughter was two years old I approached my husband about adopting a second child. He was forty-nine at the time and I was thirty-seven. We updated our home study, jumped through all the necessary hoops, and moved into a new, larger house in preparation for our new baby. Once again, we waited. That summer was a difficult one. Two adoptions fell through and left me devastated both times. However; in October our second daughter finally came into our lives, handed to me this time in the hospital by her birth mother.

There is no protocol or etiquette for how one should approach a situation such as this. What words are adequate to say to a birth mom? “Thank you for giving me this gift that you have carried and nurtured in your womb for nine months and brought into this world?” When we left the hospital, bundling our baby safely in the car seat as beaming, ecstatic new parents, we wondered, How does one say “goodbye” to the woman who gave our daughter life? We knew that we may never see her again and watched as she walked away and got into her car.

Now that my family was complete, I decided that it was time for me to use my infertility and adoption experience to help other individuals and couples going through the process. And so began the next chapter of my journey. For the last twenty-five years I have sat with countless men and women as they have told me their stories of infertility and reproductive loss. I have held their pain and sorrow and helped them to realize that there is life after infertility: there is joy, there is hope. For those who have chosen to become parents through adoption, I have completed home studies and post-placement visits. I have done therapy with adopted children and parents who were struggling with the complications that adoption brings.

35

Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss

I have had my own share of complications to deal with. There were the doctor visits when they would ask about the girls’ medical family history, the “family tree” assignment in school, and questions from others about why everyone in our family looked so different. While our intention had been to have both the girls be of Mexican-American heritage (as was my oldest), my younger daughter’s birth mother was Caucasian. Her skin is fair, her hair is blonde. She is tall, my older daughter is short. When the girls were in preschool one of the mothers actually asked me, in front of the girls, whether they had different fathers. I replied by saying that yes, in fact they did have different birth fathers and different birth mothers. Enough said.

I am and always have been proud to be a parent by adoption.

Those of us who have adopted children are often told how “remarkable” it is, this thing we have done, to love another person’s children as our own. My response is always the same. “These ARE my children.” I cannot imagine a stronger bond exists than the one I feel for each of my daughters. I cannot imagine a mother’s heart more full when she celebrates her child’s success or a heart that can break any more than mine has when I see my child in pain. I can’t imagine a parent’s fear any greater when the phone rings in the middle of the night because there has been an accident or when she sees her child being taken away into an operating room.

My two daughters are now grown up—strong, independent, unique, intelligent, beautiful women. I am fortunate to have made it through the tumultuous teen years without any of the life-shattering events that many adopted children experience. I know that my family has been blessed. I feel in my heart that while I didn’t understand it during the midst of my painful infertility journey: This life, this family was my destiny. We are bound together by a love that knows no bounds and has no limits. This is the beautiful tapestry of my life. v

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Communitas

Neonatal Loss: A Nurse’s Perspective

Carolyn Mueller

I

ndividuals experience loss of a fetus or newborn differently. For me, nursing comes from a family centered approach, so it is important to understand how both parents/“to-be-parents” may react to fetal or newborn loss. More is understood about the experiences of child-bearing women who experience loss than of their partners, who most often are men. For the child-bearing woman, pregnancy is a constant, persistent, and embodied experience. This includes the changes in her body shape, size, and function as well as the movements of the fetus inside her.

Fathers or other partners more distantly experience the fetus by feeling its movements through the mother’s body and viewing ultrasound pictures of the fetus.

They observe the changes in the mother, including physical changes, and witness her emotional and psychological accommodation to the pregnancy. These partners

Carolyn Mueller, RN, ADN, BSN, MSN, PhD was claimed by nursing over four de-

cades ago. She practiced newborn intensive care nursing in multiple states in the US as an Air Force wife. After graduating from The University of Texas at Austin, she joined the faculty to teach child and family nursing to both undergraduate and graduate students.

Although retired from academic teaching, she believes every nurse is a teacher and she will always be a nurse. She now enjoys time for learning about a wide range of topics.

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss report concerns that center on the health and welfare of the mother, around the ability to provide financially and emotionally for the family, around how to functionally support them, and around anticipated adjustments to changes in his/her life-style.

Clergy and other caregivers need to know that both parents may be in very different emotional and psychological places at the time of the loss. For instance, the strength of each of their bonds and depth of commitment to the fetus/baby (development of the parental role) may be very different. Moreover, the mother may be ill or recovering from a C-section, making grief more complicated. Because of the trauma and disruption to both the mother’s “maternal identity” AND the father’s “paternal identity,” it is not uncommon for families to break apart after the loss of a fetus/baby. Engaging the father/partner early and as deeply as possible around his relationship with the pregnancy/infant is one way to decrease the likelihood of the parents splitting as a result of grief.

At the time of loss, asking each parent about or listening to their comments on physical preparations made (nursery, clothing, babysitters) or fantasies about the “to be” child can provide clues to where each parent is in their parental role development. Clergy may then tailor interventional care for both parents with this understanding. It is also important to note that 41% of pregnancies in Texas are to single mothers. For all parents in times of loss, it is crucial to activate support networks, especially for single mothers as there may be additional feelings of abandonment as a large component added to their grief.

As a nurse I make the following suggestions for providing pastoral care to parents after reproductive loss: • Physical contact, (a hug, a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold) often speaks more than words.

• Let them talk; listen reflectively.

• Don’t try to explain (God’s will; could not be prevented). Ask questions only to clarify. Silence is grace too. There is nothing that will take away their immediate pain, nor any platitude that will ease their sorrow. Many parents say that being told, “you can always have another child” is the most painful thing they can hear. There will never be another child like the one lost.

People are irreplaceable.

• Share in their sorrow, but not so deeply that you need their sympathy.

• If you have seen the baby or a photo, try to find characteristics that resemble family members. Mention it to them. Parents want their child to be acknowledged, a part of their family, a part of themselves.

• Do not feel like you should not mention the pregnancy, birth, or child later on. Many parents want to talk about these things and their child but cannot find someone who will talk with them. If possible, remember the family on the anniversary of the death.

• Acknowledge all the commitment, efforts, changes, and work that the parents went through to bring a child into the world.

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Communitas • Pray for and with the family and the child. If you know of a ritual in memory of a child, suggest it. Few people really know how to deal with death and grief. (Please note this article does not provide space to elaborate on this suggestion.)

Each loss is different, and ministering to grief takes skill, training, and patience. But most of all, it takes willingness and grace. In spite of the large number of infant deaths, our culture is unfamiliar with infant death, less even than miscarriage. Do not be afraid to bear witness to grief and share in grief. Two things are certain; death and loss are lessened by sharing and can be overcome with love. v The author gratefully acknowledges the early work of nursing educator Reva Rubin whose writing guides the concepts in this message. To learn more about the impact on mothers, she recommends Rubin’s book, Maternal Identity and the Maternal Experience (New York: Springer Publishing Co., 1984). Thanks also to Gary Mueller, MD, for his editorial assistance.

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Reconceiving Hope: Infertility & Loss

Education Beyond the Walls Established in 2011, Education Beyond the Walls sits at the juncture of church and academy to provide continuous theological education for learners and leaders not enrolled in formal degree programs. Clergy, church leaders, congregations, and others in the community engage in fresh, innovative educational opportunities throughout the year. Seminary faculty and other experts teach practitioners from many disciplines, including scripture, theology, arts of ministry, counseling, leadership, public affairs and church tradition. In the Seminary’s mission to be an exemplary community of God’s people, EBW attends in particular ways to the common life we share with the world around us. With a vision toward the future, EBW seeks to reach out to new communities and to create new partnerships for mutual learning. EBW offers a range of opportunities for formation and learning.

Learning Communities for Practicing Clergy Based on the core value that transformation happens over time and in community: • The College of Pastoral Leaders makes grants to self-selected groups of pastors to pursue their own self-designed program for renewal, vitality, and pastoral excellence.

• Fellowships in Pastoral Leadership for Public Life equip pastors with increased understanding of public issues and prepare them to reflect theologically and respond pastorally for the common good.

Short Courses for Practitioners Three- to four-day courses provide refreshment, inspiration, new ideas, and skill building in community: • Once a year, Christian educators meet at Austin Seminary for fellowship and learning which deepens their ministry practice.

• Part retreat, part writing intensive, clergy gather for four-day workshops on topics relevant to religious leadership such as spiritual memoirs and writing for public life.

• Religious fundraisers from across the U.S. come to Austin to earn an Executive Certificate in Religious Fundraising from the Lake Institute for Faith & Giving.

One-Day Intensives One-day intensives provide an introduction to new ideas and generative practices: • Cruzando la Frontera/Crossing the Border offers a day of scripture, theology, and reflection led by prominent Hispanic professors to focus on the experience of Hispanic and Latina/o people in the Southwest.

• 787 Studio events, designed to engage not only the mind, but the creative spirit, enter into the sacred space of making art, writing music, improvising, crafting plays, dancing, and more.

• Interdisciplinary workshops for pastors, counselors, social workers, and other professionals address the spiritual dimensions of the human condition, such as disability, loss, and mental health or illness.

This biennial conference is held in partnership with the Steve Hicks School of Social Work.

• Workshops on relevant and practical topics from preparing for Advent to leading revitalization of a church to caring for caregivers draw a variety of students.

Webinar Wednesdays These short webinars—on topical issues such as hermeneutics, leadership, self-care, theology, and spiritual disciplines—connect the faculty with the broader community.

For information about current EBW opportunities visit AustinSeminary.edu/EBW or call 512-404-4857.

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AUSTIN PRESBYTERIAN

THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY

AU

PRESB THEO

SEM

President

Theodore J. Wardlaw

Board of Trustees

G. Archer Frierson II, Chair James C. Allison Margaret Aymer Janice L. Bryant (MDiv’01, DMin’11) Claudia D. Carroll Katherine B. Cummings (MDiv’05) Thomas Christian Currie Jill Duffield (DMin’13) Jackson Farrow Jr. Beth Blanton Flowers, MD Stephen Giles Jesús Juan González (MDiv’92) Walter Harris Jr. John S. Hartman Rhashell D. Hunter Bobbi Kaye Jones (MDiv’80) Keatan A. King Steve LeBlanc

J. Sloan Leonard, MD Sue B. McCoy Matthew Miller (MDiv’03) B. W. Payne David Peeples Denise Nance Pierce (MATS’11) Mark B. Ramsey Conrad M. Rocha Matthew E. Ruffner Lana E. Russell Lita Simpson Martha Crawley Tracey John L. Van Osdall Carlton D. Wilde Jr. Elizabeth C. Williams Michael G. Wright

Trustees Emeriti Max Sherman Louis Zbinden

COMMUNITAS is a term anthropologist Victor Turner uses to describe the temporary but intense

community that develops among pilgrims for the duration of the journey (remember the pilgrims of the Canterbury Tales). For us in the church, it might describe the community we develop with the successive churches we serve, the community of cohorts of the College of Pastoral Leaders, or the small groups of learners through Education Beyond the Walls who gather to study together for a brief period of time.

Turner also employs the concept of liminality to describe that pilgrim experience of leaving the domain of the familiar to travel and to experience new potentialities and powers that lie afield. We leave home, travel light, expose ourselves both to the unknowns in the world of the horizon and the unknowns within our own souls, now freed to be heard in the silence of the road. The learners and leaders we serve leave their ministry settings momentarily to hear the experiences of colleagues and the wisdom of teachers and to contemplate the ministries seeking to emerge from their own souls. So we are pilgrims beyond familiar boundaries, our experience shaped by communitas and liminalities.

2018

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