John 16:16-22

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

I am a woman with no experience with childbirth. I have had the humbling experience of being in the room shortly after babies were born and I have grieved with those whose infants died. I have seen ranch animals born. But my most honest way into any metaphor about new life comes from the forests and river valleys I have known. 

The fire currently burning near Stanley, Idaho brought connections with two of my high school classmates. Amy is a fire fighter who lives in the Black Hills but was flown out to be on the crew. She posted drone photos on Facebook when she got home. Anya works for Landsat and posted satellite photos on social media of the forest on fire. These connections reminded me of how deeply shaped we and our classmates were by the Galena Fire of 1988, one of the same years Yellowstone Park burned. 

It was only around 17,000 acres and the fire didn’t burn for long, but it happened in an area of beloved Custer State Park that could easily be seen from the highway. More importantly, we were just kids. We witnessed death to a forest. More importantly, throughout our high school years, we watched the forest come back to life. It was amazing to my teenage and later 20-something self. 

During my junior year at Concordia College in Moorhead, Minnesota, the Red River flooded, supposedly a 100-year flood, repeated just a few years later. I learned all about the history of the Red River Valley farmland, that periodic floods like this that cause havoc and death, were part of why that valley is so fertile. Whenever our ancient scriptures speak of birth pangs or childbirth, I am grateful for the natural world being my teacher about sorrow followed by joy.

In preparation for our time together, Dr. Schwehn and I had a Zoom call. We talked about our sessions but also about Holden Village, its long history including the tumultuous recent chapters. People who talk about this place and this ministry sometimes remark that after the trilogy of remediation, fire, and global pandemic, it’s amazing that we are gathered here tonight. 

As a community I assume every metaphor for new life from sacred texts, sacred songs, and the natural world has been spoken aloud and leaned on in this space. It is, turning to John 16, the birthing labor that seems to never end. You were ready for new life after remediation. You were ready after the fire. You were ready after the pandemic. How long can one labor last? When will sorrow turn into joy, Jesus?

A favorite Johannine scholar says that particularly relevant when reading this passage are two texts from Isaiah. Isaiah 26 uses the childbirth metaphor to describe the experience of God’s people as they await God’s deliverance. In Isaiah 66, the childbirth metaphor is used to envision the restoration of Jerusalem. Key to both is that they are communal, a community moving from suffering to renewed joy. 

I find such biblical metaphors helpful today when talking with many congregations and ministries about what God is doing, about how the Holy Spirit is at work. The metaphors provide reassurance that the church as the Body of Christ has experienced suffering before and God has brought new life and rebirth out of death, just as new life comes to a forest devasted by fire or a prairie that suffered flood waters.

The metaphors are helpful even, or perhaps especially, during what the church now calls holy closures. In the spring I was with a congregation having its final worship in its building, before it was sold. I will join another congregation for a similar final worship service in November. Those ministries, to varying degrees, have experienced suffering in their lifespans and at the end. Time will tell when joy will come to those communities, but we trust God’s faithfulness.  

Bearing the suffering, crying out as a woman in labor, watching beloved landscapes transformed, can be excruciating. This is why I appreciate reading the metaphor of childbirth with a nod to the ancient Israelite communities. Suffering can be a solitary act but we know something as the church about bearing suffering together. When my dad died in December 2020, it was the Caring Bridge Community that buoyed me and reminded me I was surrounded by the communion of saints. The community of writers and readers reminded me the Holy Spirit was with us.

Outdoor ministry sites like Holden make space for community. They also leave space for suffering and waiting: long walks in the natural world, participating in embodied music and art making, long bible studies with time to listen. All of these are needed more than ever; not just for mental health but for equipping us with patience and the ability to wait—wait for the Holy Spirit to speak and move, and then for us to be attentive enough to notice when joy is breaking in.

Making space and waiting for the Spirit—these are still counterintuitive. Because my natural temptation, and maybe yours, is to trust only my actions to get the thing done, to bring the joy, rather trusting the triune God I claim to worship. 

As in the Isaiah passages, the woman stands as a symbol for the community, suffering through tribulation in order to receive God’s awaited salvation and new life. Again, to be a passive recipient-oh, how challenging it can be to wait and receive, as those first disciples did.

For those of us reading this scripture so many years later, we know how the story ends. You know that upon the occasion of the Jesus’ resurrection, the disciples’ very real pain arising from his death turned to joy. Mary’s weeping dissolves into joy when she encounters the risen Jesus at the empty tomb. The disciples will see Jesus not crucified and dead, but living and by implication victorious. 

And all this joy is not merely joy that follows relief from great pain. It is also the joy that belongs to the era of salvation or healing, pictured now as the rebirth of God’s people. The text tonight points you to Jesus, who is the savior, not a mere example for your action. He is speaking about his own death and resurrection. 

Drawing upon an image from Christianity in the Nordic lands, Sam Giere writes, “This trustworthiness looks like a cross whose roots and branches envelop the whole of the cosmos, upon which hang all the sins of the world, upon which Christ took on these sins and our death, gifting the cosmos with His righteousness, freedom, and life. The cross of Christ is the tree of life. Trusting in Jesus invites us to see the world in this way—enveloped by this life-giving tree.”  

We live in the already but not yet. The tree of life has already defeated death and ushered in an age of joy. The life of faith is living this daily reality. Joy comes after sorrow. Birth comes after anguishing labor. Green shoots come out of charred hillsides. Grass grows out of muddy prairies. New life, healing, and mercy will be received by you in simple gifts of bread and wine. As a community, we will pray come Lord Jesus, knowing God is already here among us. Amen.