midwife – Feminism and Religion

It was four in the morning in the north Georgia mountains. A woman labored quietly but powerfully in her home, with her partner at her side. Her watchful midwife hovered nearby. I was a nursing student and a zealous “birth junkie,” tickled pink by the invitation to observe childbirth. At just the right time, the mother delivered her child from her womb to the world. The sun rose with a new soul suddenly among us, and I knew I would never be the same.

Feminist theology has long-invoked the image of God as a laboring mother, and progressive theologian Marcus Borg suggested that humanity is God’s midwife. But less has been written about the opposite metaphor. Imagine that we are in labor, in pain, and God is our midwife.

The word “midwife” means “with woman,” and that’s what midwives do: they are with birthing people through it all. They empower and guide, safeguard and witness, but they do not save. Midwives facilitate the birth process, but they don’t—they can’t—take the pain away. They don’t deliver babies; that honor belongs to their clients. Like physicians, they monitor the health of parent and baby, and can deftly manage a cord around a baby’s neck or stop a postpartum hemorrhage. But they mostly rely on the power of presence to bring babies earth-side.

The following is a guest post written by Stacia Guzzo. She received her MA in Theological Studies from Loyola Marymount University and is currently working toward a MDiv through Fuller Theological Seminary. She is also in the midst of completing certification in Childbirth Education and periodically serves women in her community as a labor doula. She has taught on the elementary and high school levels, led retreats, and spoken at regional congresses through the Los Angeles Roman Catholic Archdiocese. She lives with her husband, son, two dogs, two cats, seven chickens, and five beehives on a small homestead in Tehachapi, California.

“Hands!” The young woman gasped as the next contraction swelled. I quickly put the wet washcloth I had been using to dab her face back in the small bowl of water beside me and grabbed her hands. She squeezed them, moaning low. Her husband stood behind her in the birthing tub, pressing on her hips. Two midwives stood in the background, their encouragement silent and strong. The dim light of dawn was beginning to shine through the window of their home. In another room, the couple’s two-year-old son slept. Continue reading “Women Standing as Sacred Witness to One Another By Stacia Guzzo”