It is Christmas Eve. I just put my son to sleep and the family is watching a movie in the living room. I am here writing because there is a deep feeling in my heart that as we go on celebrating Christmas year after year, there is a big part of the story that gets missed in evangelical churches—Mary’s.

My husband and I like to attend Christmas services wherever we are. Today we attended the one at his hometown in Wisconsin. The sermon was preceded by an all-so-hipster video of Mary; a song about the difficulties of her journey into becoming the mother of Jesus. As I watched this video I thought, “Finally someone will talk about Mary and the challenges she faced.” Harry, the pastor, began his reflexion by saying that when we celebrate ‘baby Jesus’ we forget about the rest of the story. “Is this for real?” I thought. “Will this White guy from the Church where every woman has an admin position an every dude is a pastor really talk about Mary?”

“We forget about the rest of the story,” he proceeded. “That this ‘baby’ Jesus didn’t stay a baby. He grew up to become a MAN. He became a judge, a king…” an so on. Mark Driscoll would have been so proud!

As I listened, feeding my 11-month-old son, I felt like throwing the milk bottle at “Pastor Harry.” Hadn’t this man ever given birth? Clearly he hadn’t. As I sat there, moved to tears by the silencing of the story of this courageous teenager who gave birth under the most lonely, poorest, shameful and scariest of circumstances, I felt that someone needed to, indeed, tell “the rest of the story.”

Due to the ‘santa clausification’ of this ‘Silent Night’ I never stopped to think about what actually happened that night until a couple of years ago: A teenager gave birth to a baby by herself, without her community or friends surrounding her, and under sub-human conditions. She gave birth at a barn. People who give birth at hospitals with epidurals, please think about this: A 15-year-old gave birth, BY HERSELF, AT A BARN. And she did it successfully!

So Pastor Harry, or anyone who believes that the story of baby Jesus is not as powerful as the story of the man who died on a cross, please think about what you are saying.

At the beginning of this year I had the honor to give birth to my son. After much thought, I decided to do it at home and without any medication so as to be fully connected to the glory of my body and the birth process as designed by God. I made this decision also because up to that point I did not know that giving birth naturally and at home was an option for women at all. Not knowing bothered me, so giving birth naturally became a political issue for me. As it was, giving birth was a revolutionary act. Under the full moon of a night in January, my husband and I partnered to bring our son to this world. Our midwife didn’t make it, so the three of us, my husband, our baby, and I, did it together. My active labor was fast; only seven contractions and my son was here. Through the contractions I was reborn; I received a new name. I learned things about myself that I didn’t know—That I was strong, that I could handle a lot of physical pain, that my body was wise beyond my understanding, that I was deeply loved and that I actually trusted my husband with my life. The story of my son’s birth was redemptive not only to me but also to our marriage. For someone who grew up under familial, religious and political systems who told me that I wasn’t enough, that experience empowered me to see God, myself, and my body in a completely different light.

After going through that experience there were things I couldn’t believe anymore. One of them was that God was a male. There was no way that God had designed the glory of the birth process without fully understanding it. I’m not saying that God is a woman, but I am saying that calling God a man (or a woman) is idolatry; it is the same than calling God a bird, a bull or a dog (see McGrath, 2006). Since that day, I am referring to God as “They.” God exists as the Trinity after all.

Another thing I cannot believe anymore is that Mary’s role in the coming of Jesus was just utilitarian. There was power (more than many can understand) in bringing our redeemer through a woman’s body. There was power in Mary’s bravery, in her physical prowess, her sweat, and her screaming as she coped with labor pain. She did all of this while in a strange land, under conditions of abject poverty, and without any family or friends but Joseph to support her. There power in that vulnerability. There is power in the image of a baby born out of circumstances that were against all odd of succeeding. If “Pastor Harry” thought that a ‘baby Jesus’ was too cuddly for King Jesus, I’d invite him to think about that again.

Tonight I want to make a tribute to Mary, whose faithfulness and courage gave us the gift of seeing God’s glory unravel. And with her I also want to make a tribute of all the women who have given birth. To my friend K. who has had the courage to accept life’s invitation to be a mother despite the fact of being single. With bravery she has surrendered to God’s will and will give birth to her daughter in just a couple of weeks. To my friend C. who had the unbelievable courage to labor all night to give birth to a still-born baby, only to hope for resurrection to come sooner than she can ever wait to hug her baby. To my friend C.K., who has empowered not only me but many others to embrace the gift of giving birth to our sons and daughters the way God intended—using our bodies in their full glory.

My praise goes tonight to the God who reveals itself through the body of a teenager giving birth to our redeemer. To the God who doesn’t rest in the boredom of certainty but who instead invites us to be faithful in the complexity of our bodies, our blood, our pain, our joy, and our grief. To God be the glory.

This blog post was originally posted at undocumented.tv and reposted at globaltheology.org.

In my work with immigrants, there are certain stories that stick with me because they reveal some aspect of God.Usually, the stories of the poor are too similar to those in the Bible to ignore. They are almost literal, revealing the ways in which God actually identified with the poor and the oppressed. As we observe advent, I’d like to share with you the story of a hardworking family that came from Mexico 22 years ago.

Like many migrants to the U.S., they were seeking better opportunities for their children. I saw them because they had been assaulted at gunpoint at the convenience store they owned in Washington State. While sharing about their background the mom told me about their epic immigration pilgrimage through the desert, 22 years ago, carrying their 2-year-old son and their six-month-old baby. As the mother of an infant I could not help but think about the practical details; ‘What about diapers? Was your baby on formula? How did you wash the bottle? Where did you find water!?’ Calmly, and as if it was not a big deal, the mom explained how she walked miles carrying the infant in her arms while her husband took the two-year-old on one hand and the water jug on the other.

The liminality of the desert. The discomfort. The infant and toddler. The hope… The image quickly evoked Mother Mary, in the late stages of pregnancy, laboring through the desert to Bethlehem and later escaping to Egypt with a newborn as a refugee. The stakes were high. Mary and Joseph found themselves in the cross-roads of life and death and risked everything to save the gift that God had given to humanity—Jesus. In the same way this family, escaping hunger and abject poverty, engaged in a journey of faith leaving everything they deemed as familiar, walking through the desert pregnant with hope for a better future, a future that to them meant salvation from destitution.

Once in the US this family established a thriving business that created jobs for the locals. Their children went to school but unfortunately could not pursue higher education because of their undocumented status. They continue to work hard. They continue providing jobs. They continue walking a different kind of desert—the arid lands of an undocumented status.

May their journey inspire us this advent season to be pilgrims of faith, pregnant with hopes for a nation that welcomes the stranger and the poor in our midst and allows for their prophetic voice to be heard.

Yes, we have not written in a while. Well, while we were gone, Lisa and I both got pregnant (3 months apart… wow!) and it became a little tricky to manage work and family and write a blog post on top of it all. Now I have more energy to write a bit after having officially become an octopus. If you are a mom you know what I’m talking about.

I’m glad to be back.

Who is my Neighbor? A Christian Conversation on Immigrati

By Maria-Jose Soerens

The 33 Chilean Miners rescued yesterday captured the imagination of the world and inspired us all through their relentless hope, courage and solidarity towards one another.
Many have already begun to estimate the repercussions of this event for Chile’s stand in the world, President Piñera’s political career, and the working conditions of the miners. However, as I watched the rescue online, I could not stop pondering what would this mean for Chile’s national identity; an identity that has been broken, always in flux, always trying to root itself on fleeting quasi-victories.
As a Chilean born in 1980, during Pinochet’s dictatorship, I always wondered what was the spirit of my country before the unresolved trauma of 9/11/1973. Because, it all seemed to indicate that in the same way a human being who is the victim of trauma struggles to build their identity back together, Chile too had lost its identity in a disorganized narrative of blood, injustice, abuse of power and lack of reconciliation.
Chileans have struggled for decades trying to define “what it means to be Chilean,” and this subject has haunted many Chilean authors, sociologists, and ex-pats…the ultimate Chilean archetype.
But in the midst of this confusion, the Land has pushed through to rescue us; to call our attention towards truth. It seems as though our long and skinny country, its mountains, its ocean, its forest, have all colluded together to send us messages about who we are; to show us the way forward, to express the cry of our country and the ways to reconciliation. We have been rescued by the Land.

One of the most striking messages was brought to us by the earthquake of February 28 of 2010. This earthquake was so strong, that it managed to move the entire planet Earth a couple of degrees off its axis, affecting the duration of days and years to come. The metaphor was too beautiful to be ignored: In the same way our traumatic experiences are dissociated and frozen “outside of time;” outside of the coherent narrative of our lives, the earthquake was enacting our country’s trauma. The Land was speaking to us. By enacting our country’s suffering the Land was showing us that we are in pain. That we must heal, reconstruct our narrative, not be afraid of telling our story; of facing each other and recognizing each other as brothers and sisters, sons and daughters from the same Land.
Later this year, in August, the Land spoke again. Trapping 33 miners for 69 days to show us what is the real spirit of Chile despite our past divisions and injustices. The Land fostered an opportunity for 33 men to lead the way towards believing in our values and in our unbeatable resilience.
The miners and their family members, signified this experience as a re-birth. As each one of the 33 men came up from the dark entrails of the earth into light, with such expectation and celebration, a country was as well being re-born.
It was the first time that my generation witnessed our government and its partners working together with a successful outcome. It was the first time that the massive celebrations downtown Santiago did not end up with violence, and people being in prison. The gift of these miners and their families to Chile is invaluable. They have become the heroes in a narrative that is reborn; the narrative of brave Chileans, who will show solidarity and generosity  no matter how much adversity there is in front of them. A narrative alternative to political differences that does not ignore tragedy, but rather remind us all that we can come together in unity to redeem it.

As I carry a half Chilean boy in my womb, I am grateful for the gift of being able to tell this story to my son, and let him know that he too carries in his heart the strength to face adversity in solidarity. May this story continues to inform our being Chilean; may these miners and their families continue to call us to truth. May we recognize on each other the face of brothers and sisters who are children of the same land. Viva Chile.

This is a blog entry from “Tierra Nueva, ” an ecumenical ministry  serving migrant farm workers and inmates of the Skagit County jail in Burlington, WA. It wrestles with the issue of powerlessness. It has always impressed me that whenever we read scripture through the eyes of the poor, we discover that Jesus was not messing around when he said he had come to identify with the oppressed. Somehow the Bible comes alive when we learn the stories of those who have been in jail, those who have been tortured, raped, or those who have lost everything yet have found a sense of hope and redemption. Jesus’ life parallels perfectly with those on the downside of power.

“I do what I hate: more stories from the women’s jail”

“On Sunday in the women’s jail Bible study, we addressed the very difficult but foundational topic of powerlessness. It’s one of the steps in alcoholics anonymous . . . admitting that our lives are out of control. The women said they had been to hundreds of “meetings;” the idea was quite familiar. But they were surprised to find it in Scripture: I don’t really understand myself, for I want to do what is right, but I don’t do it. Instead, I do what I hate. (Romans 7:15)

This raised some interesting questions . . . who is to blame? They’ve spent a lot of time blaming others (boyfriends, fathers, mothers, friends who betrayed them). And they’ve spent a lot of time blaming themselves (I’m no good; I can’t change; I must be defective). Yet Paul scandalously says, “So I am not the one doing wrong; it is sin living in me that does it.” (v.17)” Read More…

by Maria-Jose Soerens

From all the kinds of anger a woman can feel, none seems to be as brutal, unforgiving, and deeper than that of a daughter who angers her mother for not having protected her against abuse. The feeling of having been left to our own destiny while our mothers quietly witnessed the brutality of our fathers, brothers, uncles, or cousins, constitutes a wound so deep that can only be compared to being forsaken or abandoned as a child. Our archetype is the orphan girl.

As we grow older, our mothers’ reaction causes so much dissonance that we grow apart from them and we become their worst judges. I came to this realization while sitting in front of a client—a 60-year-old woman from South America who’s ex-husband had been abusive towards her and her children, yet her daughters related to him with love and compassion and were verbally abusive towards my client. Their claim against their mother was, “how could you let this happen to us.” Even though my client divorced her abusive husband and has repeatedly asked her daughters for forgiveness, they don’t seem to care. It is as though nothing could make up for such sin.

Sitting from my chair I could see my client as a victim of domestic violence and assure her that it is her ex-husband who did wrong to the entire family and that her daughters should be mad at him, not her. And that the reason why she didn’t defend her daughters was that she was being under abuse herself. The whole system was oppressive. However, as a daughter, her daughters’ anger seemed too familiar and I realized that I had been my mother’s worst executioner myself. And then it hit me: My mother was too a victim of domestic violence. She did not stand up for me because she couldn’t and that by punishing my mother I was taking part in an abusive and oppressive system. How could I, a post-colonial feminist, be so brutally oppressive towards my own mother? That very night I called my mother, who is in Chile, and asked for her forgiveness. She was very gracious, but by her reaction I could recognize the deep roots of abuse that had contributed to her disappearance from the central stage of her own life.

Reflecting more on this, and informed by the stories of many middle-aged Latino women who have been my clients, I began thinking on the variables that contribute to the feeling of orphanage we daughters experience as the result of our mothers disappearing in the background.  Two things came to mind: (a) The constant obliteration of our mothers’ sense of self in an abusive intimate relationship, and (b) The role of motherhood in Latino culture. As a predominately Catholic culture, the model of motherhood follows that of the Virgin Mary: an all suffering, all compassionate, asexual mother. Just like Virgin Mary, mothers in Latinamerica are expected to carry in their shoulders the suffering and struggles of all of her children without receiving anything in return. Mothers in Latinamerica lack all power and bear all responsibility.

Pedro Almodovar illustrates these dynamics brilliantly in the film “Volver.” (“To Return”). (Spoiler alert!). In this film, Almodovar portraits the generational dynamics of abuse through the story of Raimunda, her daughter Paula, and her mother Irene, who in this case is a ghost. Without getting into detail so that you can enjoy the film, Raimunda had stopped talking to her diseased mother years before her death. In the film, Raimunda has the chance to protect her daughter, Paula, who killed her father because he tried to rape her. A couple of days later Irene’s ghost comes back to resolve issues she couldn’t resolve while alive. I recognize I didn’t give much away… I hate spoiling films for people, but please watch it; and while you are at it, think about this post, the redemptive function of Raimunda, her relationship with her mother and the last sentence of the movie: “Ghosts don’t cry.”

If you are one of us, that is, a wounded daughter, fight for liberation through giving your mother a chance to be empowered. Honor her and forgive her, for she too was the victim of horrible abuse. You two are more united than you think.

By Lisa Carlson

I have situated myself in front of my dinner table as I write. My heart and mind are both filled with grief and inspiration. I grieve how exclusive our homes and tables are in this society. I lament that the poor do not know that they are welcome to knock at the doors of our churches and our homes to be cared for and yet (sigh) I am utterly and unstoppably inspired by the imagination and revolutionary ways of Jesus’s eating practices. As I have wrestled with, ruminated on and researched the holy texts around eating, I am comforted, affirmed and galvanized by the explicit fact that this is our tradition and our unique identity as followers of Christ; to allow our ways of eating to witness to the inclusive, healing and flourishing way of Christ in our world and for our people. I am charged that even in something as ordinary as eating, Jesus served to heal, liberate and reconstruct society.
I have learned through the scriptures and liberation theologians that I think Christ is mostly concerned with us being aware of our interconnectedness with God and with one another and that his meal practices are what spoke to this. Because of this, I believe now that one of our greatest tasks as a Christian is that we simply must nurture our understanding of this interconnectedness. Because, you see, it appears to me that what was so miraculous about Jesus eating practices was not that everyone got fed, but that everyone ate together. Because in this eating together, people became more aware that Christianity is about relational wholeness, which makes us all Christ’s Body and members of one another: “The knitting together would be the beginning of the recapitulation of all systems in Christ… It is clear that Paul sees the concrete working out of real presence in a community of people who are open and who identify not with the few, the like-believers, but with all- with Christ himself in the whole body.”
Our tradition, in its very beingness, is revolutionary. It is a tradition deeply rooted in the ways that Jesus subverted and transformed the complex structural issues of society that served to separate the elite and the non-elite, rich from the poor, the clean from the unclean. He did this not by talking about how the rules should be changed, but by simply living (and in this- modeling) a different way in the face of the ruling cultural narrative. Simply put, this was just something he did: to eat with the poor, the lonely, the exiled, the Jew, the Gentile, the clean and unclean. And from this, I believe that we, as a part of the Mystical Body of Christ, should be living this way too.
I find it to be extremely honoring that Christ in Fritz Eichenberg’s, “Christ of the breadlines”, is located in the line with the people and not at the other end of the line serving the people. Gustavo Gutierrez speaks to this when he says: “Jesus’ table fellowship with tax collectors and sinners vividly expresses his solidarity with the victims of established powers. Eating is a symbol of fellowship. Jesus got into trouble for eating with social outcasts because for the Jews, meal is also a symbol of fellowship with God. This is why Jesus used the meal as a picture of the Kingdom.” This is precisely what makes Christ’s way of eating revolutionary- it is because he is with them, and all are invited. We, as a church, must find ways of manifesting this identity too and I believe that even our eating habits make way for this manifestation to nuzzle its way into the hearts and minds of society.
Continued… Corpus Mysticum: How the Eucharistic Image Informs my Eating

by Maria-Jose Soerens

I live in one of the most obliviously segregated cities in the US: Seattle. With one of the highest levels of education per capita and a strong progressive identity, people in Seattle are often excited about the latest Social Justice “issue” while unaware of their own “mainstream-ness” and physical distance from the poor among us.

We not only have very defined urban boundaries separating class and race (Bhutanese people in Greenlake? seriously?) but even if we share the same block, the limits of our lifestyle and habits of consumption are not conducive to running into people who are different from us. My dear friend Halimo, from Somalia, lives half a block away from me yet she doesn’t hang out in the same coffee shop than I do, much less has a laptop to chill and do some freelance work while sipping her Americano. Our distance impoverish us all.

the 48 bus in Seattle goes through all white and multi-ethnic neighborhoods in the city

In this context of gentrified neighborhoods and segregated community spaces, I often run into the dilemma of going and meeting people “where they are at,” or crafting healing spaces in the middle of downtown Seattle so as to increase our Social Capital.

There are good reasons to “go” and meet people in their midst. Most refugee and immigrant families live in the South side of Seattle (Columbia City, Rainier Vista, White Center), and on the East side (Bellevue, Kent, etc), because rent prices in Seattle are not affordable for a family that lives on $600 per month. Many adults work up to three shifts to make ends meet therefore have no time to travel downtown to seek much needed counseling services or support groups.

On the other hand, if these families have no reason to ever leave the “ghetto,” they miss opportunities to integrate and foster relationships with people who are better plugged into the mainstream network. Hence, these families become more impoverished because they lack social capital.

Facilitating the development of Social Capital for the poor among us should be one of the paramount priorities of our advocacy efforts. It is certainly a burden to make time in our schedule to go and help immigrant families, but it may not be too bad to help your friend Hodan who needs a ride to an appointment at the the immigration office, or connect her with your small business owner friend who is hiring a position for her coffeehouse in Fremont.

This type of relationships occur when we dwell in the same physical space. Therefore our efforts should be focused on creating environments that allow for connection between people who are different, for relationships to thrive and for stories to be shared. One of the biggest struggles of our time is equal access to the city; we are losing the right to live in it. As my friend Paul Sparks says “community is becoming illegal.”

Advocating for equal housing opportunities in our neighborhoods is one of the most revolutionary, radical, and sustainable things we could do. However, as Dr. Perkins says, it needs to first become our burden, and that burden will be our own when we take the time to open our eyes and extend our hand to the poor and the foreign in our midst.