The Baby and the Bathwater

What is the baby, anyway?

It’s a common warning. It’s frequently issued to those who admit they’ve entered a “deconstruction phase.”

“Just be sure you don’t throw out the baby with the bathwater,” they say.

It is expected that you will dump the soapy, germ-infested, cloudy, dirty water after cleaning up that chubby little infant. But of course - no one would toss out that giggling, scrubbed child that smells so fresh and clean. The bathwater is disposable, replaceable, and expendable. The baby is to be cherished, protected and loved. Forever.

This week, I’ll interview a new friend. Jamin Coller. He found my podcast. He wants to talk.

He’s just written a book - a 450-plus page exploration into the fundamentalist religion that up until recently, has been his life. In his book, he leaves no stone unturned. The theology, the Bible, the politics, the church history, the anti-intellectualism, the separatism, the hubris of a supposed superior understanding of The Truth, the presumed moral authority, the rabid Us versus Them, the imagined Spiritual Warfare, the readiness to dismiss and demonize “The Other” - all of it - gets a thorough written treatment from a guy who has lived in all of this as a fish swims in the sea.

This week, we had a preliminary conversation. He’s on the hunt for men and women who are asking the same questions. 

When he announced to his pastor-father that he and his family could no longer attend his conservative church, tragically, Jamin Coller was summarily disowned. 

“You are no longer my son. God has released me from that responsibility.”

So the father and son haven’t spoken since. Neither have Jamin’s parents seen his wife or his six children since the banishment. The hardened pastor firmly believes this detachment from his own son and his family is his solemn obligation before God.

I expressed my deep grief over this cruelty prompted by a convoluted view of God.

As we spoke, Jamin brought up that familiar metaphor to describe his dilemma. “Ken, in writing my book, I just don’t want to throw out the baby with the bathwater.”

“Hmm. Let me ask you this,” I said. “When you think about that ‘baby,’ how would you describe it?”

“That’s the problem,” he replied. “I honestly don’t know what ‘the baby’ is… Got any ideas? I really want to know.”

This last Sunday, we gathered with about five families we’ve come to love. One of our members is a certified spiritual director. For the month of December, she’s leading us in a contemplation of Advent. We took some time to think about Mary’s song, known by many as The Magnificat. It’s a beautiful prayer, offered by a young girl who has come to realize that she will be a mother. A child is growing within her.

As Jamin and I talked, I brought up a lesson that I learned from Joseph Campbell and Carl Jung. In their discussion of myth and archetype, they point out that for us humans, fictional characters make a much longer and more powerful impression than historical characters. We respond to story way more than the facts of historical events. Facts are critical, but even then, we want to go beyond the event to purpose and meaning. “Why” can become just as or even more important than “What.” It’s human nature.

Fundamentalism expends way more effort into establishing historicity than exploring significance. This is the essence of literalism. If it didn’t happen in history, in actual time and space, then it can be dismissed. Noah’s Ark. Sun Stood Still. Creation - 10,000 years ago. Jonah and the Whale. Job one: prove that it really happened or our faith is in vain.

Jamin got me thinking.

We’ve got a Nativity Scene in our home as part of our Christmas decoration. It’s carved out of olive wood. Made in Israel. It came down out of the attic just after Thanksgiving along with our artificial tree, the ornaments, the lights, and all those other Christmassy things.

This time of year, nativity scenes appear all over the world, except in places where Christianity has harmed people. I don’t blame them. For folks who have suffered a toxic form of faith, the Nativity is a religious symbol - a reminder of atrocities and exploitation and abuse. I get that.

For some, the nativity scene is a validation of one of the many varieties of Christian faith. It happened right there in Bethlehem. For real. I get that, too.

For me, the scene transcends all of that. It’s something deeper. Something more profound. Something primal. Something human.

Maybe there was an actual Joseph and Mary who welcomed a little boy they called Jesus over there in Bethlehem. Maybe not. That’s not what I’m talking about.

The reason that scene has had such a powerful hold on so many of us for well over a thousand years (maybe two) is that it connects us with one of the most profound moments in our lives. It’s a sacred moment. A spiritual moment. It transcends science. Our anatomy classes don’t even come close to explaining it. It connects us to the universe. To the cosmos. To all living things. It draws us into the mystery and wonder of life itself. Man. Woman. Birth. Death. Infinity. (As Dr. Zorba wrote on the chalkboard in the introduction to the television series, Ben Casey.)

It’s a definite stretch for me as a male of the species to attempt to describe what happens to a woman when she learns she is pregnant. Sadly, for some, the news is unwelcome and triggers all manner of terror. But there are many others whose response would parallel Mary’s as she sings a song from her heart - the Magnificat.

That moment affects us men, too. But not in the same way. Full disclosure - I’m attempting to write these words as an observer. A witness. I’m the oldest of seven. I hardly remember my mother not being pregnant all the way through high school. I watched from close range as Carolyn delivered our three. In the last couple of decades, we’ve welcomed fourteen grandchildren (make that fifteen - we lost Isaac). I’ve been there for all those announcements, the nine months of waiting, the deliveries, the dedications, and the namings. It’s all magical. Hard work, too.

When the women in my life found out there was a baby inside, all of those profound thoughts and prayers flooded their minds and hearts. God has chosen ME to be mother to this new life. What will my child become? It’s terrifying - I have a primary role in the outcome. Can I do it? Am I ready? What role will my little baby have in this world filled with uncertainty and trouble and success and poverty and wealth? May the God of Heaven be honored in this new life! It’s a mother’s version of The Magnificat.

So every year I’ve been alive and aware, come December, those Nativity Scenes appear. What’s the draw?

Not everyone has the experience of parenthood. That’s OK.

But for those of us who have, that scene is a mother and a father looking longingly into a bed of straw at the miracle of a child, delivered whole and healthy; a child of promise, a fulfillment of their hopes and dreams, a new assignment that demands their best, a reason to stay healthy, to show up, to set the pace. Celebrating along with mother and father are dignitaries and regular folks, too… all of whom have seen the star in the heavens and heard the singing of angels. Even the animals seem to celebrate.

It’s a story. Wow. It gets me every time. Even as I write.

So I’ve got a suggested answer to Jamin’s question.

“What is ‘the baby’ anyway? I really want to know.”

Find yourself a nativity scene. Take a little time to look. To ponder. 

Let it touch your heart.

That’s the baby.