The summer that I was 19, I bought my first car. It was a 1996 Honda Civic, silver, four-door, and stick shift. I miss driving stick shift, but that’s another story. About six months later, I bought my second car, same as the first, but red and a year newer. You may be wondering about the silver car. Well, I drove it all summer long, taking summer classes at UNC, and at the end of the summer, it was totaled. The accident was not my fault; it was the other driver’s. It was a bad accident, in that my two sisters in the car with me both merited rides in an ambulance to the Emergency Room, and the police repeatedly told me that they were shocked that we were not more seriously injured than we were. One officer told me that he had seen people die in accidents that bad. My Grandma told me that the accident was now part of my story, part of my witness of what God has done in my life. There were guardian angels surrounding us that day, because we should have been hurt a lot worse than we were, if not killed. We shouldn’t have walked away from that accident. But God was taking care of us and protecting us. Grandma told me that this was now part of my witness of what God has done in my life and that I needed to share it. So, I do, from time to time. The part of the story that I want to highlight, though, is what happened after. The accident happened two weeks before I was supposed to drive that car halfway across the country to where I went to college in St. Louis. As planned, my mom drove with me. As not planned, we took her car. And partway between North Carolina and Missouri, somewhere in Kentucky, my mom pulled over, and said, “Ok, now you’re driving.” Friends, I had not gotten back behind the wheel of a car in those two weeks since the accident and this trip. I did not want to get back behind the wheel of a car. However, if I hadn’t done it then, then it would have been the end of the semester, another four months, before I could expect another opportunity. My mom knew I needed to drive again before four months passed. So, I did. For about thirty minutes. Then I pulled over and told my mom I was done. And she drove the rest of the way.
Before too much time had passed, I needed that corrective opportunity to drive again without incident. Sometimes, it’s hard to get back up on the horse again. We'll avoid it until avoiding it becomes the norm and then it never happens again. My stepdad told me how his mom was in a car accident in the 1980s and never drove again in the decades of her life after that. Sometimes, when we’ve been hurt, whether physical or emotional, we respond by avoiding similar situations. We work to avoid being activated. We don’t want to risk it again. When we do that, we can’t have what are called “emotionally corrective experiences.” That’s me getting behind the wheel again. That’s getting back up on the horse again. That’s getting married again after an ugly divorce. Or being in a relationship again after feeling betrayed. These are all emotionally corrective experiences. And that’s what Elizabeth experiences in our Gospel reading this morning.
Think about what you may know about Elizabeth. She’s old. Senior citizen, member of the Wisdom club, silver-haired. She’s married to Zechariah, who’s a priest in the temple. And there are two things we know about Elizabeth and Zechariah. One is that they’re “righteous before God,” they’re good people, they’re godly. The other is that they have no children. Elizabeth cannot get pregnant. Their story is only told in Luke’s Gospel, Luke likes stories, especially stories with meaning and that teach something. So, this is the background story for John the Baptist; these are his parents. And this story is a corrective emotional experience for Elizabeth. Now, because I’m going to be talking about infertility and this will not be helpful if it’s going to emotionally flood you and activate you, if that is you, I’m going to ask that you take a moment now and ask your neighbor to let you know when I’m done with this next bit. Tune me out for a few minutes, ask your neighbor to let you know when I’m done. This will not be helpful if your own story gets in the way of hearing the point I’m trying to make. So, I’ll wait. [pause]
Elizabeth could not get pregnant. Years and years and years, right? Had given up on the idea. Had surely gone through grief and rage and lament over her infertility. Then one random day, her husband comes home from the temple and cannot speak. He’s become mute. And the next thing she knows, miracle of miracles, she becomes pregnant. In the part of Luke before what we read today, Elizabeth says, “The Lord has done this for me. In these days he has shown his favor and taken away my disgrace among the people.” Because not being able to have children was a disgrace at that time in that culture. Women were supposed to keep the home and have kids. Elizabeth kept the home, but had been unable to do the second part. Now, to catch up to the section we read today, Elizabeth is six months pregnant and her young cousin comes to see her, and her young cousin happens to also be pregnant. Now, we went through some infertility struggles of our own, and I remember the feeling when it felt like everyone else was getting pregnant except for me. It felt especially unfair when it was someone who hadn’t planned, or particularly wanted to have children. I’m guessing we’ve all been in similar situations at some point, where something we want and are working for isn’t happening for us, and we want to be good friends and coworkers and be happy for the other person for whom things are working out, but there’s still that not fair feeling. The “why not me?” So, we generally mean it when we say “Congratulations” to others, but there’s also part of us that’s sad inside, because it’s not us. I’m happy for you, and I’m sad for me, at the same time. This is especially true when it’s major life stages that our friends and peers seem to be achieving that we are not.
However, now, Elizabeth is also pregnant. And she’s being visited by her cousin who’s also pregnant. This time, she can be happy for Mary, and happy for herself, too. This time is different. It’s an emotionally corrective experience after all those pregnancies she had to hear about when she didn’t have any children of her own. It’s no wonder she says that “the baby in my womb leaped for joy.” It is such a breath of relief when we can truly be happy for another with nothing holding us back. Where we’re not a little bit jealous, or sad, or annoyed, or frustrated, or whatever else Elizabeth felt over the years, or you may have felt in your own personal experience. To be able to greet another pregnant person without any of those holdbacks is a corrective experience for Elizabeth. She gets to truly just feel joy. But she had to stop isolating herself to do so. We’re told that the first five months of this pregnancy she was in seclusion. I’m not going to speculate on the reasons why; it’s more important to know that she had to end her seclusion in order to receive her cousin, in order to have this corrective experience.
Ok, if any of you were tapped by your neighbor to let them know when to pay attention again, this is the time to tap them back in. [pause]
It can be hard to try again. There’s a reason for the saying, “once bitten, twice shy.” It is natural to be reluctant to expose ourselves to risk again, to be vulnerable again. It's human nature and part of survival of the species, right? If you burn your hand on the stove, you’re not going to touch the stove again. But what about if it’s a friendship, a relationship, a workplace, a family member? What about if it’s related to something you value? I LOVE driving. I am the main driver in our family and you get me in a car that moves and responds well and manual transmission on a beautiful sunny day and open road? Hea-ven. I still had to drive again the first time after that accident. And that’s an old story.
More recently in my life, guest-preaching and presiding here to fill in when the pastors need help are my emotionally corrective experiences. In fact, after pretty much every time after I’ve helped out with something here, I’ve texted Pastor D, “thank you for another emotionally corrective experience.” You see, I pastored for eleven years before moving into chaplaincy and pastoral counseling. And I got told some hurtful things by parishioners. Your voice is too high-pitched. Your voice is too soft. (That’s a sound system issue, by the way, or um, maybe move closer than the back row where the people sat who would tell me this.) You look small up there. This is the size I am. Or, one of my favorites that’s so bizarre. One day when I was greeting folks at the door after worship, this parishioner told me he had figured out his favorite thing about me. Guess what it was. He said, “My favorite thing about you, preacher, are your eyebrows.” Um, what? So, I was told some bizarre and hurtful stuff over the years. But here? When I help out here, y’all don’t tell me that. You tell me thank you. You express appreciation. Even when I don’t think I’ve done that great of a job, you are gracious and kind. In fact, one time, after an 8:30 service, someone at the door told me, “your voice is perfect.” And I don’t think she knew how healing that was for me. I’ve had so many complaints about my voice over the years. I went to speech therapy as a kid, I couldn’t pronounce the letter “R.” My voice has been so criticized for so long, that to be told it was perfect was an emotionally corrective experience for me.
Thank you for all that you have done, largely unknowingly, because most of y’all don’t know my story. As I’ve gotten behind the wheel again, from time to time, thank you for your encouragement and support and gratitude. I’ve filled in more in traditional than here in contemporary this past year, but it’s not any different. This is a church in which hospitality extends not just to visitors, but to the staff and the guest preachers as well. This is a church where love is shown, unconditionally, and we don’t have to hide any parts of us. I also know, because I’ve listened to some of y’all’s stories, that I’m not the only one here who’s had an emotionally corrective experience at this church, the only one to find sanctuary here when I felt like a church refugee, and we won’t be the last.
As we are at the end of Advent and move into the week of Christmas, this is my prayer for you: that whatever bad Christmas memories you may have, tense family gatherings, waylaid vacation plans, when things have gone sideways and upside down, that this year, those experiences are corrected, that this year, this Christmas, may be one in which healing is found, may be one in which your soul might rejoice, uninhibited, joining in Elizabeth’s and Mary’s joy. And, if there is lingering grief, because, life, I invite you to the Blue Christmas service tomorrow evening. It’s at 6:30 over in the Chapel. I’ll be there, too. It can be hard to manage grief and joy, sadness and happiness at the same time. If that’s where you are this season, I hope you’ll join us. And wherever you are, I pray for you strength and bravery and courage to risk having emotionally corrective experiences, as you risk vulnerability in order to have a new, healing experience. Amen.