Last week, I was preaching at Choral Evensong for Advent 2. The story of Zechariah and Elizabeth drew my attention to what it is to be childless - through choice or circumstance. As Carole Cadwalladr reflected on the comments made about her being a mad cat woman, I reflected on how such judgemental stereotyping continues to silence or belittle women. It's not something I've named in the pulpit quite so explicitly as on this occasion, but it felt timely and pertinent. The texts were Isaiah 40:1-11 and Luke 1:1-25
Carole Cadwalladr (pictured left from The Guardian website) is an accomplished British investigative journalist and features writer. Earlier this year, she won the Orwell Prize for her reporting of the impact of ‘big data’ on the EU Referendum and the US Presidential Election.
She’s a woman who knows the power of words to communicate and challenge; to question and persuade.
She’s a woman who found herself on the receiving end of words which wound and damage. In the early hours of a November morning, Andrew Neil used a few key strokes to type out and send a Tweet calling her a ‘mad cat woman’.
It’s a familiar stereotype: the more mature women, living alone, who has a cat or cats. As Carole puts it ‘it isn’t a harmless animal lover with freethinking views; it’s a woman who’s outside acceptable society. Who doesn’t conform to conventional norms’.
In the twenty-first century, is being a middle-aged woman, without children, to occupy of the last bastions of seemingly acceptable prejudice?
Is the ‘crazy-cat lady’ an example of using stereotypes to cast judgement or shame women into silence? As a society, do we still see woman who’re childless through circumstance as to be pitied for avoided; do we see those childfree by choice as somehow ‘unnatural’ intimidating or too fiercely independent?
Or is there a sense that such women hold up a mirror to our own fears; fears which lurk around the edges of consciousness: fears about ageing or being lonely; fears about being isolated, with no one to care; the fear of being forgotten and the fear of death itself.
Beyond, the stereotype of the crazy cat lady is the reality that one in five women in the UK has turned forty-five without having had children. These women - and men too - find themselves living the life unexpected; moving beyond disappointment and grief to find meaning, purpose and fulfilment.
Our scriptures are echo with the cries of those who long for a child of their own. And in this season of Advent, it is in the lives of the childless that God chooses to witness to promise and calling beyond the scope of biological kinship.
We hear of the faith of Abraham and the laughter of Sarah; the wordless prayers of Hannah and the confusion of Mary. Today we hear of the Zechariah and Elizabeth who are both getting on in years.
Luke sets out an orderly account of the events which have been handed on to him - by eyewitnesses and following his own investigations. He does not spare us the tragedy of this human situation.
He presents us with a couple who were devoted to each other; and also devoted to God. They had lived out the commandments in faithful love and dedicated service. But they had no children.
‘Sons are a heritage of the Lord', writes the psalmist, and ‘the fruit of the womb a reward’. But for Zechariah there was no son to join him in the priestly oder of Abijah, no hope in his old age; for Elizabeth, there had been no children to teach, no grandchildren to take by the hand.
Despite this apparent lack of blessing, there is no hint of bitterness in Luke’s account of their character. This couple might be aged and barren but their lives were not unfruitful. For we find them at the heart of the Temple - the place where God’s people gathered to draw near to the holiness of the divine presence. We find them living out the promise of the law with gratitude, service and love.
In this place, the horizon of life is extended beyond old age to the breaking in of a new age.
In this seemingly barren place, there is a depth of attentive and faith waiting which speaks of new hope.
In this place of patient prayer, God is present, preparing hearts to receive afresh promise and blessing.
God chose Elizabeth and Zechariah to nurse and nurture John. He was not a child to bring comfort in the old age; but a child who would speak words of comfort to an entire nation.
His parents will know joy and gladness because John will speak powerful words which will bring healing. Human hearts will opened; relationships will be restored.
Just as Elizabeth and Zechariah walked in the ways of righteousness, their son will invite others to place their trust in God; recalling them to those paths of wisdom and obedience.
Luke’s orderly account reminds us that in the most ordinary of circumstances, God addresses us by name and invites us to live the life unexpected.
Perhaps we feel as unlikely candidates as Elizabeth and Zechariah; we still trust in God but we’re uncertain as to what the next season of our life will bring.
Perhaps we feel as if we are exhausted, stigmatised or in some way ‘past it’; perhaps we’re feeling overwhelmed or fearful.
Or may be the fact that we’ve already endured much is opening up in greater capacity for resilience and altruism. There is nothing to lose - because in small gestures of care, in smiling at the stranger, or an act of kindness, joy and blessing are multiplied.
In the midst of all this, God releases us from the stereotypes of the judgements of others.
We won’t be seen as crazy cat ladies or ruthless careerists; grumpy old men or broken hearted widows; as snowflake millennials or middle-class consumers.
We are released from such stereotypes when come before the loving mercy of God - who knows our heart-breaks and our dreams; our potential and our fragility.
John stands in a long line of prophets who seek to bring comfort to God’s people by restoring of vision of what is possible; by challenging us to walk in ways of justice and mercy; by opening our hearts to reconciling love.
Zechariah was rendered speechless by the fulfilment of God’s promise; his son cried out with a loud voice pointing us to the one who is God with us.
The record of John is to prepare the way for our Lord Jesus: he is our God drawing near to bring us hope and healing; we are gathered together as members of his body. In him we are loved; we are freed from stereotypes and invited into new life.
However impatient our waiting and however patient our prayers, may we know the promise of his Holy Spirit leading us onwards from fear to hope; from despair to new life. The Spirit’s breathes words which silence voices of inadequacy; and quells our fears.
Prayer written by Alison Webster, as part of the Oxford Diocesan health, wellbeing and social care group.
God of compassion,
you meant us to be both fragile and ordinary,
Silence the voices that say we are not good enough;
haven’t achieved enough;
haven’t enough to show for our lives;
that we are not enough.
Help us to know that we are treasure, we are prized,
We are cherished,
We are loved.
Infinitely.
By you.
So be with us in our corrugations of feeling:
When our hearts are in downward freewill, be with us.
When our minds race with anxiety, be with us.
When our throats close in fear, be with us.
When sleep will not come, be with us.
When walking hurts, be with us.
In the name of Jesus,
Who knew trauma, abuse, despair and abandonment
And has nothing but love for us.
Amen.
© Julie Gittoes 2018
