A word from a seminarian . . . The grace of hearing and remembering

Infertility in antiquity and modernity

The grief of infertility is deep. It is dark, and it is common. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), approximately one-fifth of US women will experience infertility, and one-quarter of those women will struggle to carry a pregnancy to term. ¹ Serene Jones expands on the CDC’s broad definition of infertility to include “a biological condition in which conception cannot take place,” miscarriage, and stillbirth. ² Jones offers a critical qualification that turns attention to a spiritual component of infertility, clarifying that her description of infertility does not address “the subjective experience of the women for whom these biological events become the occasion of grief . . . and who experience this bodily inability as failure, a desire thwarted, a loss of a potential child they hoped for and expected.” ³ Together the CDC and Jones reflect a modern understanding of infertility, rooted in biology and further complicated by the advent of reproductive technology, such as in vitro fertilization and sensitive at-home pregnancy tests. Scientific advancements offer a means of increased control and expectations of healing and, sometimes, greater grief when they remind people of what their bodies simply cannot do.

Jones continues by outlining various modern contexts of infertility, framed first by a lens of gender studies. “To grow up a ‘woman’ in this culture is to grow up formed by a thickly gendered identity script wherein one’s body is assessed in terms of its treasured capacity to give life and thereby to make one ‘a mother.’” ⁴ She adds a perspective rooted in social science and economics, analyzing both motherhood and production as constructs deeply embedded in cultural and theological understandings:

Our culture identifies persons according to what they do. . . . In such a culture, to experience one’s body as “unproductive” is consequently to experience the body as a social failure and to view the hopes that were tied to this body as a failure as well. ⁵

In acknowledging the realities of the constructs of motherhood and production, Jones concludes the section by once again turning to the humanity of her analysis. Understanding the contexts of infertility in our own time “involves listening in a manner that resists the urge to simply reduce the experience of grief to an account of its social construction.” ⁶

First Samuel 1:1-20 is an account of infertility as seen in antiquity. Infertility in Hannah’s world, termed theologically and anatomically in the text as a womb closed by God, carried economic and theological implications not entirely different from those in modernity. According to Laurel Koepf-Taylor, a woman’s infertility in antiquity was “a form of economic hardship and threat to communal survival in addition to a personal tragedy.” ⁷ And Rachel Havrelock observes that in the text, “Female infertility indicates a breakdown of God’s promise to the patriarchs that ‘a nation, an assembly of nations shall stem from you, and kings shall come forth from your loins’ (Gen. 35:11).” ⁸ Women experiencing infertility today might identify with Hannah’s theological and social crises of barrenness, and for good reasons. Her emotional response to her situation speaks across time and culture as one of grief and confusion. While Hannah’s personal experience as a barren woman may be universal, her story’s telling in the Hebrew Bible bears its own unique interpretive qualities that warrant a closer look by the modern pastoral caregiver.

The story of Hannah’s temporary infertility is an example of one understanding of Deuteronomistic History, that it is retrospectively transactional in nature. When Martin Noth published his theory of Deuteronomistic History, he asserted that the author produced it shortly after King Jehoiachin’s release from prison to “show [his contemporaries in the Babylonian exile] that their sufferings were fully deserved consequences of centuries of decline in Israel’s loyalty to Yahweh,” ⁹ but through a very specific lens. Noth believed the author sought to demonstrate “their histories had ended in complete destruction, in accordance with the divine judgment envisaged by Deuteronomy.” ¹⁰ Tony Cartledge clarifies the character of the author’s Deuteronomic fulcrum, noting that “themes such as the importance of obeying the Deuteronomic law and avoiding apostasy are predominant, as is the rigid systems of expected punishments for those who do or do not adhere to the law.” ¹¹ Noth offers a theological framework that paints the relationship between God and God’s people as transactional, in which piety and faithfulness will motivate God to maintain the covenant established in Deuteronomy, such as “opening” a womb to produce heirs.

The thread of the Deuteronomist is woven throughout the corpus of theological history. For example, the famous story of Samson begins with his mother’s own infertility, followed by an annunciation scene with a requirement of piety (Judg 13:2-5). Samson experienced blessing from God as he grew (Judg 13:24) and eventually led Israel for twenty years as a judge (Judg 15:20; 16.31) with immense strength and cunning. Ultimately, however, his interest in his Philistine wife and later, Delilah, whose origins are not stated, created several conflicts and led to his shameful demise. ¹² The story of Samson’s life and death is fascinating unto itself, but accompanied by the laws in Deuteronomy, it serves as the Deuteronomist’s reminder of the warning against alliances with foreigners (particularly through marriage) in Deut 7:1-6. ¹³ Like Samson’s mother, Hannah’s infertility is seemingly resolved by obeying God’s laws: observance of centralized worship and remembering God as the singular God, in her case, through prayer and cultic loyalty. Through the story of Hannah, one certainly sees signs of the Deuteronomist’s fingerprints but also alternative modes of interpretation that may better equip a pastoral caregiver to offer theologically informed care to women experiencing infertility today.

First Samuel opens by revealing the role of motherhood in social standing, first introducing Elkanah according to his tribe and ancestors before describing Hannah and Peninnah according to their (in)ability to bear children: “He had two wives; the name of one was Hannah, and the name of the other Peninnah. Peninnah had children, but Hannah had no children” (1:2 NRSV). This introductory format of name, pedigree, and geography is typical of biblical accounts, according to Robert Alter. ¹⁴ His analysis, however, does not convey that Hannah is the main character in the text, and her exposition contains none of these biographical details. Lillian Klein explains why: “The significance of the women lies in their relationship to Elkanah and their childbearing capacity.” ¹⁵ Hannah’s implied infertility affects her social standing elsewhere in the text as well. Paba Nidhani De Andrado references the portion scene (vv. 4-5) as an example. “As a barren woman, Hannah comes last in the hierarchical order, receiving her portion only after everyone else in the household receives their share.” ¹⁶ Despite advances in both theology and medicine, attributing infertility to a dysfunction of gender and/or a function of God remains a constant even today.

The role of pastoral care in infertility grief

The pastoral care of women experiencing infertility falls to laity as well as clergy, whether in a tearful conversation in the church parking lot, a counseling session in a pastor’s office, or holy listening in the office break room. As the church at large continues to decentralize and morph, addressing labels such as “spiritual not religious” and “nones,” as well as taking form in faith-based social enterprises and nonprofit organizations, pastoral care increasingly occurs outside the walls of churches. Howard Clinebell’s telos of pastoral care is up to the task. “The caregiving arts enable a congregation to translate the good news of the gospel into a down-to-earth language that brings healing and wholeness in everyday life crises and opportunities.” ¹⁷ In defining pastoral care more pointedly, he describes it as

the broad ministry that includes the many ways that spiritually energized care is given to people in faith communities for the basic purpose of enabling them to live life with the maximum possible wholeness in all their dark valleys, sunlit peaks, and everyday plateaus. ¹⁸

Examining the theological and cultural textures of the Hannah story in 1 Sam 1:1-20 can equip pastoral caregivers to identify the influence of the Deuteronomist, consider alternative interpretations, and provide compassionate care that honors the text while encouraging women suffering from infertility grief to explore the narrative of their sorrow instead of automatically accepting an established Deuteronomist prescriptive.

In Bearing the Unbearable: Trauma, Gospel, and Pastoral Care, Deborah van Deusen Hunsinger outlines a pastoral care role akin to Clinebell, adding a focus on a continuum of care that incorporates spiritual formation.

While ministry cannot replace the work of psychiatry or psychotherapy, it can nevertheless function as an indispensable part of the healing process. When human trust has eluded them, the traumatized desperately need an anchor, a point of reference, something or someone reliable in which to place their trust. ¹⁹

The story of Hannah’s infertility is a natural narrative anchor because of its satisfying story arc stretching from barrenness to motherhood, from problem to solution. A congregant can certainly be comforted by seeing her theodicy represented in a beloved biblical character.

The story is low-hanging fruit for a compassionate minister anxiously searching for a solution to their congregant’s suffering. Scripture, after all, is a gift passed down through millennia and a source of comfort and guidance. Koepf-Taylor rightly observes, however, “Because infertility is a familiar subject to the contemporary reader, it can be all too easy to make anachronistic assumptions about biblical infertility.” ²⁰ Although the Hannah story is inspiring in its own right, the embedded theology of a plain reading can quickly exacerbate shame when elements in the congregant’s own control, prayer, and yearning like Hannah’s, are not enough to resolve her infertility. Instead of reading 1 Sam 1:1-20 as a pastoral care solution to infertility grief, pastoral caregivers can turn to the cultural, theological, and pastoral textures of the passage to reframe Noth’s Deuteronomistic narrative as one of hearing and remembrance. Pastoral awareness of this powerful interpretive lens can influence modern pastoral care of women experiencing infertility by empowering the minister and comforting the suffering woman.

Hearing and remembering in the text

The text highlights Hannah’s interactions with Elkanah, Eli, and God, famously conveying Elkanah’s obtuse disconnection from the reality of Hannah’s plight. In verse 8, Elkanah’s line of questioning ends with a self-centered inquiry that quickly shames Hannah and bypasses her grief: “Am I not more to you than ten sons?” As a scene change approaches in the next verse, Klein illustrates the final straw for Hannah. “Not granted the dignity of her suffering, Hannah suffers even more under Elkanah’s ‘comforting.’” ²¹ In the conclusion of the pericope, Elkanah’s and Hannah’s second interaction is coupled with God’s remembrance, resulting in Samuel’s conception. Elkanah may not have understood his wife’s concern, but he plays an important role in Samuel’s entrance into the world. Such is grace, that God comes alongside humankind in these unexpected and dark corners of life.

Hannah approaches God in the form of a quiet, perhaps even silent, prayer (vv. 9-11). Her request is colored by her social location. According to Jo Ann Hackett, “She seems simply to want to give birth to a son. At that point her societal position will be secure, even though she would still live without children.” ²² Hannah stands outside the temple, uttering a prayer through desperate tears, vowing that her hoped-for son will be set apart and dedicated to the service of God, thereby eventually removed from Hannah’s direct maternal care. Many women today find themselves next to Hannah in the depths of their grief for a baby, moved by her plea for even a taste of motherhood, yearning to join the sea of “normal” women who wear the coveted blue ribbon of fertility.

Hannah’s longest interaction is with Eli, the temple priest. He abruptly accuses her of drunkenness during her prayer and goes so far as to command Hannah to put away the wine he believes she is drinking in excess. He is the second man in the story to confront and misunderstand Hannah, Klein points out. ²³ At this moment, Hannah has functioned outside the social and religious hierarchy of her time by resisting her husband and a temple priest as the gatekeepers of her connection with God. She has discovered that the men who have minimized her pain are no longer standing in the way of her agency.

Despite the rocky beginning of their conversation, Eli acknowledges Hannah’s prayer, but the intent of his words in verse 17 is unclear. Cartledge explains that the verb in Eli’s sentence (“grant,” NRSV) can be read more likely as “may grant” for a blessing, but also as “will grant,” causing “some interpreters [to] refer to Eli’s response as an oracle . . . though the obliqueness of his language allows for variant interpretations.” ²⁴ Whether Hannah received a blessing or an oracle, Eli’s words as a religious leader are worth additional consideration. He may not have truly understood Hannah’s pain, but Hannah was not expecting the temple priest to sympathize. His ritual words ministered to Hannah. Modern ministers can take comfort in the grace of this image. Pastoral care does not require perfection, but it does require presence.

Hearing and remembering in pastoral care

The narratives we read, and the narratives of our own lives, are retrospectives. People often prefer the belief that they can control what happens after “once upon a time,” but in reality, stories are colored by their endings. First Samuel 1:1-20 is the beginning of a theological history of Israel’s monarchical era and God’s role in it. As such, it is a metaphorical and dramatic vehicle for the Deuteronomist’s central message: God will reward those who obey God. McKenzie calls on the work of Gerhard von Rad, who “showed that the DH contained the history of Yahweh’s word at work,” pointing to the example of Jehoiachin’s release from Babylonian imprisonment at the end of the DH (2 Kgs 25:27). ²⁵ In a stroke of grace, the King of Judah may live after all, and Israel might survive beyond the exile. This ellipsis in the story of Davidic rule begins with Hannah, barren, misunderstood by her husband, and criticized by her local priest. She remembered God, and perhaps in an act of grace instead of transaction, God remembered Hannah. She found grace in her family, in her community, in her relationship with God, the God who heard her. She set a new world into motion despite the odds stacked against her.

In the context of infertility grief, the role of the pastoral caregiver is to hold space for the ellipsis, to bear witness to theological imagination until the grieving woman can wonder what could be next in the wholeness of her own story. How readers see themselves in Hannah’s beginning cannot be a character-by-character and dialogue-by-dialogue equivalence. To do so risks tripping over the contextual gaps of history and culture and the theological prescription of the Deuteronomist. A natural outcome of the alternative hermeneutic of hearing and remembering, this point is critical to the spiritual and emotional healing process. Deborah van Deusen Hunsinger writes,

Healing begins as the traumatized begin to piece together a coherent narrative, creating a web of meaning around unspeakable events while remaining fully connected emotionally both to themselves and to their listener. ²⁶

The ellipsis of grief is the core of the gospel: to trust that hope lies on the other side of death.

According to van Deusen Hunsinger, hearing and remembering through pastoral care can take the shape of “the essential practices of our faith—compassionate witnessing, communal lament, and public worship,” adding that these practices can draw on the love of God and community to transform mourning into joy.” ²⁷ In Trauma and Grace, Jones braids compassionate witness with individual lament:

In testifying, the survivor gives voice to previously unspeakable agony, and in witnessing, the receiver of the testimony is able to confirm that the survivor’s voice is heard and that the plight no longer needs to be hidden in a dark corner of the soul. ²⁸

Both van Deusen Hunsinger and Jones focus on the role of the relationship between communal lament and public worship, echoing Amy-Jill Levine’s observation that reads like a benediction: “When we feel the absence of the divine, when we think there is no reason to hope, we call out to God to remember, because we remember.” ²⁹ Those who have experienced great suffering know that remembering can go hand-in-hand with lament.

Hannah’s everyday story is a holy reminder that God is a God of listening and remembering. God invites all pastoral caregivers, laity and clergy, to do the same and, in the words of Jones, “to stand courageously on the promise that grace is sturdy enough to hold it all—you, and me, and every broken, trauma-ridden soul that wanders through our history. To us all, love comes.” ³⁰