Joy to the world

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

Christmas lights are going up on the houses, stores are decorated with trees and bows and balls, it’s pretty. I like the decorations, especially the lights at night. What is hideous torment is the blaring music, every tacky version of every holiday song ever written, everywhere you go. You can’t buy cereal or cat litter without hearing “Jingle Bell Rock” or worse — if there is worse.

But I’m thinking about what happened just before the occurrence that ostensibly is the cause for this celebratory mood:  being pregnant, very pregnant, and needing to travel 80 miles through, or around, unfriendly territory because some government official said so. Being perhaps not poor, but not rich, so not traveling in style — though there isn’t much style that can help make a week’s journey tolerable for a woman whose labor is imminent.

I really loved being pregnant, but those last two weeks of the nine months certainly seem designed to inspire a sense of completeness, as in, “Out! It’s time! Out already!”

Right before birthing, your body is larger than you would have thought possible; you’ve entered the realm of epic proportions. All that energy and drive you had in the second trimester has vanished; you’re tired, you’re not comfortable sleeping, your internal space for both breathing and eating is seriously reduced. Imagine sitting on a donkey and traveling 20 miles a day. 

The civilizations all around the Israelites worshiped goddesses who were strong and powerful. And despite the fact that the Judeo-Christian chroniclers degraded goddesses, their priestesses, and eventually all women, this story of Mary about to birth her son inspires my admiration for this goddess who is so strong, so powerful, that she can be marginalized and still survive.

Christianity is a religion in which the god figure does not exalt himself, but sacrifices himself. What if we see that the goddess mother also does not exalt herself, but patiently endures hardships of human life? Can’t we see Mary and Jesus as mother goddess and son god, like Isis and Horus and Inanna and Damuzi (later Ishtar and Tammuz), who were worshipped in places close by?

Mother goddess birthing her god son. I’d like to hear a song celebrating that.