Guest commentary by Aaron Neff
I sat at the bedside of a longtime member of my congregation, who was not very responsive, a couple days after she began to receive hospice care. I was with her family, and we talked to her, prayed with her and read Scriptures aloud to her. In many ways, it was a familiar routine in my ministry as a pastor: helping a family keep vigil for a loved one who was preparing to make the journey from life into death.
However, that time was different, because that whole week I was also keeping vigil elsewhere for a different reason.
My wife was in week 41 of her pregnancy, and she and I were becoming anxious and impatient for our new baby to arrive. In one moment, I was waiting and hoping for my child to take his first breath. In another moment, I was waiting for a parishioner to take her last breath. As I moved back and forth through these experiences of waiting, I was surprised and (at first) unsettled by how similar they felt. As I sat with my feelings, my unsettledness slowly dissipated and I was left pondering the mystery of life and death. All of this came together for me with even greater clarity, because that same week I happened to also be preparing a sermon focusing on some Scriptures in which God is revealed as the very source of life (Exodus 3:14; John 11:25). As I sat in those two liminal spaces, I was also sitting before the God revealed in these Scriptures, knowing that my life, my child’s life and my parishioner’s life are each an extension of the very life of God.
In my counseling and preaching, I have frequently referred to death as part of the rhythm of life. Dying is part of living. Having birth and death happening simultaneously, however, was an experience that brought that rhythm into focus for me. For the first time in my experience, waiting for death and birth felt like the same thing. What was so similar about each waiting period was that the event I was waiting for felt beyond my control. I was keeping vigil and never knowing: Will it happen this morning or this afternoon? Will it even happen today? As I have continued to reflect back on those waiting periods, I am surprised to realize that the question of causation never entered my mind. In other words, despite my lack of volition, I never wondered, “Who is controlling this, if I’m not?” I think experiences (both mine and those of others) have taught me that, while it is natural and sometimes productive, directing questions of causation at God can often lead to unfruitful and even harmful conclusions. I think it is precisely because I was not concerned with this question that I was able to experience birth and death in a new and spiritual way. Instead of wondering what God might be up to if I could only see behind the curtain, I was able to see what God was actually doing right before my eyes. This different kind of seeing allowed me to notice just how much God is intimately involved in both the process of birth and the process of dying. The Spirit is in the liminal spaces in which we welcome life’s arrival and release it to become a new life beyond this one. Somehow, in some unspeakable way, God is present in both. Looking into the face of a newborn baby, I feel the sacredness of birth. God is there. Looking into the face of a beloved parishioner’s remains, I feel the sacredness of death. God is also there.
The mystery of birth and death is nothing less than the mystery of God. Just as God was present before creation, God was also present before each of us emerged into the world to take on a unique expression of the life of God. Just as God will be present after all of creation will be made new, God will also be present as our own lives become transformed into a new life beyond the grave, another iteration of God’s life expressed in us. Pastoral ministry takes many forms. My week of waiting illuminated a new aspect of ministry for me. I became a doula to the Great Midwife, who calls forth life into the world and sends it away to be reborn.
We are in the season of Advent, the liminal space in which the church remembers and reenacts when God’s people awaited the fulfillment of God’s promises, culminating in the birth of Jesus. Many Christians will spend Advent joyfully anticipating Christmas and the arrival of the baby whose new life would mean the arrival of new life for all people everywhere. During Advent, many congregations will also be observing a Blue Christmas or Longest Night service to acknowledge and lament the loss and sadness felt by many people during this “most wonderful time of the year.” There is a temptation to view a Blue Christmas service as an alternative to Advent for those who find themselves unable to dwell in the “real” meaning of Advent, but it isn’t. Those who find themselves grieving this Advent are living in God’s presence just as much as those who are happily anticipating Christmas. God is in the liminal spaces of our lives and of the spiritual story we remember throughout the liturgical year. Whether we find that space to be one filled with joy or filled with sorrow, it is a sacred space, a space where God remains fully present. The God for whom we wait during Advent shows up in our lives and is fulfilling promises whether we are joyously awaiting the promise of new life or living under the weight of loss and sadness.
