December 14, 2022

Zechariah 9:9

By Rev. Brandee Jasmine Mimitzraiem 

Zechariah 9:9 “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion; shout, O daughter of Jersualem: behold, thy King cometh unto thee: he is just, and having salvation; lowly, and riding upon an ass, and upon a colt the foal of an ass.”

The crimson of Christmas-to-come can carry a different meaning for the infertile. Hidden in the shadows of city sidewalks, behind the anticipation of the birth of the Child so easily conceived, Advent for infertile and low-fertility women can come with the silent dread of seeing a crimson ribbon where none should be.

I went home for Christmas, after a compassionless ob/gyn giddily announced that I would not be burdened with the ability to conceive children, on crutches. I was moving too fast, carrying too much, and had rolled down a flight of marble stairs. I couldn’t navigate the shopping malls or the piles of snow. I stayed behind while my family members went out. The babysitter. The aunty who could not have her own. Resigned to her fate.

Somehow, we all managed to get to church on the third Sunday of Advent. My mom’s pastor preached the first reading, Zechariah 9:9. “Rejoice,” he said, “for everything you desire is coming soon. Be joyful in the expectation of your wildest dreams coming true.” I hobbled back to my mom’s house, with two sprained ankles and a torn meniscus, feeling the pain of ovaries wrapped in cysts and a uterus that the doctor said would remain empty, and I wondered where the joy was for me, who deeply desired children, but whose physician rejoicingly declared that I would not be one of the scores of Black women who would “suffer through that.” I felt defeated, invisible, and no matter how many times I heard the words “rejoice, O Daughter” ring from my mom’s recording of Handle’s Messiah (or its Joyful Celebration), I could find no cause for rejoicing. 

I wonder if the daughters of Jerusalem and daughters of Zion who heard Zechariah’s prophecy felt the same way. Known by their relationships, Zechariah calls out to the women as daughters. Not the mothers. Not the wives. He calls out to the women who were the accidental casualties of a war they did not wage. Rejoice. From the sidelines where they watched the warriors fall. Rejoice. From the margins where they witnessed the mighty be pulled into exile. Rejoice. From the shadows where they heard decisions being made for the nation around them, decisions that did not include them. Rejoice. Unmarried. Cut off from having children. Invisible to the narrative. Rejoice. 

We’ve been in a war for abortion rights, this season. Across the United States, we’re battling for access, for the rights of impregnable women to make their own decisions. And in the fringes, on the margins, the infertile and low-fertility shudder in invisibility. The infertile and those of low fertility are the accidental casualties of the battle for abortion rights. Political arguments about the beginning of life – whether at conception or at the first signs of electrical activity – leave fertility clinics, doctors, impregnable people and their families shuddering in the shadows, invisible and unheard. What do these emerging laws mean for the embryos waiting for implantation? What do they mean for the embryos that cannot be implanted? What do they mean for the patient that can conceive but suffers miscarriage after miscarriage, crimson ribbons appearing where they are not welcomed to be? In this battle over the rights of the easily pregnant to choose their own narrative, even those voices crying out in the wilderness, “keep your hands off my uterus” tend to not see the pain of those for whom pregnancy is not simply a choice but is, itself, a battle.
Rejoice.

Perhaps Zechariah’s call to rejoice is not a demand for easy joy, a demand to forget the pain and suffering of exilic life. Perhaps Zechariah’s phrasing of Jerusalem and Zion as daughters – and not mothers or wives – awaiting good news and good tidings is a call for the nations, the community to witness the pain of those marginalized by the battle. Rather than a call for the expectant hope of deliverance at the hands of a king that never came or never existed, perhaps Zechariah calls the daughters to see, simply, that God is present in the midst of their pain. Rather than an easy supercessionist slip into a messianic hope for salvation, perhaps Zechariah calls the community to see that God sees the pain of those at the margins and choose to alleviate the fear therein. Perhaps the rejoicing is not a promise for what is to come but a recognition that the torment and trauma was real and so is the permission to grieve, to heal, and to simply no longer fear. Rejoice.

The Christmas after the Christmas on crutches, I came home in defiant opposition of that doctor. Whatever level of infertility I had, I decided, I would make my body cooperate and bear a child. I came home reeling from multiple failed medicated attempts, never ever wanting to see another red dot or crimson streak. Since I was in charge of decorating the tree, we had a pastel Christmas. And, somewhere deep behind the jingles of joy, I found a trove of sad holiday music. It was a community of tears and, there, I found the possibility of rejoicing. I rejoiced – not in spite of what I lost, not because of the possible fulfillment of all I dreamed, not because of a new hope found – because my pain was shared and vocalized. I was no longer alone. God saw me. I recognized God with me. I rejoiced.

O daughter, whose pregnancy story never makes it to front page news: we see you. Rejoice. O daughter, who hides your tears in the rosiness of frozen cheeks, behind the twinkling of silver bells: God is with you. Rejoice. O daughter, for whom the story of an easy impregnation of a young woman serves as a reminder of your own difficulties: God sees you. Rejoice. O daughter, the trauma of your story has not been swept aside in this battle for sovereignty. Every year, every Christmas, we join our tears in communion with your own. That is rejoicing. O daughter, O aunty, O sister: we remember you, we recognize your pain, we reimagine a future where you are not pressed at the edges of our community. That is rejoicing.

We stand together, rehearsing the words of Zechariah to the daughters left behind after war, exile, and devastation: rejoice, O daughter. Rejoice. Behold – look and see! – God holds and sees you, in your pain. Behold – look and see! – God is with you. Don’t fear disaster. We, too, are with you.
Rejoice.

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As Religious Coalition for Reproductive Choice's (RCRC) Director of Institutional Engagement and Public Theology, Rev. Brandee Jasmine (she/her/hers) leads efforts to move outside of strictly-Christian spaces and into reproductive justice (RJ) spaces, incorporating a diverse and multi-faith strategy into our work. Rev. Brandee Jasmine was ordained an itinerant elder in the African Methodist Episcopal Church in 2003 and has pastored congregations in Utah, Kansas, and Nebraska. She prioritizes the well-being within the real-lived experiences of Black Queer women and children, and works to create and sustain safe places across the intersectional realities of race, sexuality, gender expression, and class within the Church and in communities. She has two donor-conceived sons and two dogs (she calls them “models of pastoral leadership”), all of whom keep life full of laughter. Rev. Brandee Jasmine is a proud member of Zeta Phi Beta Sorority, Inc.