God Knit You Together in Your Mother's Womb? Perhaps...but Perhaps Not.

The Interplay of Faith and Reality: Psalm 139 Explored

So, there’s this verse in the Hebrew scriptures, part of a Psalm 139 and one I’m sure you’ve heard or come across at some point in your life. It’s quoted so often that one need not be a person of faith to be familiar with it. I, a Christian, am not a fan of this particular scripture.

Check that…

It’s not the scripture itself, I don’t think. The verse is fine. It’s how it’s typically used. For me, it fits into an ever growing list of verses to which we might apply the wisdom of Inigo Montoya and say, “You keep using that verse. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Or, perhaps it meant that when it was written, but we have more information now, which means I have trouble applying it to our current situation.

Here’s how it goes-

For you created my inmost being;
    you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

Typically when I come across this verse on a t-shirt, a motivational faith-based poster, a feel good meme, or so often gracing the status of a Facebook profile it seems to be used in reference to an understanding that God pre-ordains a person. More than that, it’s as if they believe God is actively creating the baby in utero.

If this is the case… I have me some questions.

Um, is God sometimes not a good knitter?

We discovered my wife was pregnant early in our marriage. Two weeks later she miscarried. We were relieved. Also kind of sad. Also feeling guilty for some of the relief we felt. It was a confusing time. Was God also of the opinion that we were not yet ready to have children? Inquiring minds want to know.

My grandmother, who wanted to have children had several miscarriages before finally experiencing a successful pregnancy with my mother. What was the deal with that? Was the previous pregnancies cursed with bad knitting materials? Or did God just change God’s mind. Maybe grandma or grandpa did something that made God have second thoughts about her suitability to be a parent the first few times. Maybe their situation was similar to me and my wife. I don’t know. I’m wondering.

Also, I read a story about a 12-year-old girl who lived in poverty. One day when she was playing outside a man grabbed her, took her behind her own house and raped her. The rape resulted in a pregnancy. It seems like perhaps the rape-victimized womb of a child living in poverty might be one in which we’d want avoid knitting together yet another child. I’m curious about this and if I’m being honest, probably a bit angry about it.

Also, I had a friend that was pregnant with twins. One of them did not survive the pregnancy. The other did and is awesome. Was God not into knitting a pair of children on that occasion? I’m curious.

Or, how about the loved one of mine who had a baby born very sick.

No. It wasn’t born sick.

Things didn’t develop right in the uterus. The baby passed away soon after birth. Was that knitting project a failure? Like, what’s up with that? As I held the child in my arms as it took a couple of the few breaths it would ever take - one of the most humbling experiences of my life - I pondered these things in my heart.

It would be understandable if you read the above scenarios and came to the conclusion that my cynicism about God drives me. For a time it did, but no longer. It’s not the verse of scripture I find problematic. If the ancient person who wrote that verse meant it in the way I think some use it, I can understand why they would have been of that understanding. Placed back within the context of the rest of the Psalm, it seems like they’re trying to say more than just, “God made me.” But we don’t usually see it in context.

Context doesn’t fit on t-shirts or Facebook profiles.

What troubles me about the way this verse is used is sometimes I get the sense people are using “God made me” as a way to understand why they are the way they are. Take athletes, for instance. We talk about Lebron James as having a God-given ability to play basketball.

Is it God-given though?

Maybe? I guess?

Or take the conversation around sexuality. I hear a lot of “God made me this way.”

Really? Isn’t it possible that God didn’t?

Am I wrong to be of the opinion that God isn’t a baby-making factory in the sky? That there’s other stuff responsible for the making?

Is it too much for us to take the responsibility for creating the next generation? I mean literally, and in every other way too.

One day, my wife and I decided we wanted to have a child. Fortunately for her, I know how babies are made. My parents told me.

When a man and woman love each other very much…

Well, hold on a second. While “love” is a nice idea, strictly speaking from a scientific standpoint, love has nothing to do with it. Two people who love each other very much can want to have a baby, and even do that which is necessary to create a baby without being able to do so. I’ve … ahem… “loved” my wife many, many times.

I only have two children. Love isn’t the key, biologically speaking.

At some point, a sperm comes into contact with an egg. The sperm fertilizes the egg, and then we have an embryo, which is the beginnings of a baby.

My biologist friend reminded me that the fertilized egg becomes a blastocyst. And then it begins to grow. The cells divide. There are videos of this.

God does not put it there.

We do.

In fact, sometimes this takes place in a lab. A sperm is injected directly into an egg, fertilization occurs, the embryo becomes a blastocyst, is placed into the mother…

…it’s a whole amazing process. A divine being we refer to as God might be involved, but also -definitely - so is at least one sperm and one egg.

In humans, this is what happens 100% of the time.

It’s reproductive biology.

Anyway, I think you see my point. If not, it is this:

When the sperm from the testes of one biological parent combines with an egg from the ovaries of another biological parent the result is an embryo, and we have the potential for a baby.

There’s no knitting.

The form takes shape in the same way each time.

It was the same for my grandmother’s pregnancies, my wife’s pregnancies, and for the 12-year-old rape victim. It was the same for my loved one who gave birth to a child which could not survive.

I’m sorry, Mr. Psalmist, but I don’t think your imagery is accurate. Well, at least not as I understand people from my faith tradition to be using it.

But it’s ok, because in the larger context of what you wrote, I understand you to be grateful and in awe of your life. Me too.

I need you, my reader, to pick a word here. I can’t do it myself. Choose from the following list:

• Fortunate

• Blessed

• Favored

• Prosperous

• Charmed

• Auspicious

• Felicitous

• Serendipitous

• Fortuitous

• Graced

Or perhaps, lucky.

This is how I feel about my life. For some reason which has yet to be shared with me, I was [lucky] enough to have my soul find its way into the meatsuit which developed in my mother’s womb and became me. I’m not sure when this happens. Maybe the knitting was in reference to the joining of the earthly fetus with the soul. I can get behind this because it’s easy to revel in the mystery. I don’t have to know how it works. Nor did the Psalter.

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
    too lofty for me to attain.

So, why all this incessant rambling from me?

I believe it’s important to appreciate the agency we have in our humanity.

I’ve found the evangelical Christianity I experienced in the 1980’s, 90’s, and early 2000’s to sometimes be based on good-feeling platitudes of out-of-context Bible verses. There was a day when “You knit me together in my mother’s womb” was comforting for me on some level.

God made me, so everything is ok!!!

But everything isn’t ok. I’d like to acknowledge this. I don’t want to blame my circumstances on God, or even give God credit for things God might not want or need the credit for.

Besides, what if God didn’t make me? What if - and work with me here - God wants us to play a role in creation? Isn’t that good too? If there is a creator-God, wouldn’t that be just a tremendous gift to the rest of us? To be able to participate in creation?

And then, when faced with the difficulties of life, can’t we try to understand how or why things go wrong, and then adjust our actions to prevent wrong in the future? Or conversely, can’t we try to understand how things go right and try to adjust our actions to bring more right in the future?

As we continue to unravel the mysteries of the universe and gain deeper insights into the intricate workings of life, my intention is not to deny the role of God or any divine influence in the reproductive process. Rather, it's an acknowledgment that our understanding of the world is evolving, and there's value in embracing our expanding knowledge. While the Bible offers profound wisdom, it coexists with the wealth of information emerging from scientific exploration. In this exploration, I find a harmony between faith and reason, recognizing that our perception of the meaning of life can be enriched by integrating both spiritual insights and the ever-growing body of scientific understanding. It's not about dismissing ancient wisdom but rather about appreciating the complementary nature of faith and knowledge.

I really think the meaning of life isn’t as hard as we make it out to be.

Just live.

That’s it for me.

Actually, no. There is one more thing.

Just live and help others to live.

Yes. That’s much better.

How this plays out is often difficult, but the fundamental goal for all of us in life might just be life itself.

I have much more I want to say about how this plays out.

So. Much. More.

But I’ll leave it for another day. Because this is my blog, and this is what I do.

In contemplating the complexities of life, from the intricate details of human reproduction to the myriads of interpretations of ancient verses, I am reminded of the beauty and mystery that envelop our existence. I recognize the diverse paths each of our lives traverse.

That’s the beauty.

As we navigate the woven paths of our lives, the call to live and help others might become a fundamental goal of life and a shared endeavor. Life, with all its complexities and nuances, invites us to embrace the mystery and marvel at the wonder of existence. This, perhaps, is the essence of the journey—living fully and contributing to the shared tapestry of humanity.

Ah, tapestry, there’s another needle-and-thread analogy¹. But we are a patchwork of those who come before us, are we not? And so, the exploration continues, weaving threads of understanding, experience, and compassion into the ever-unfolding narrative of life.

I’ve been doing quite a bit of exploring the tapestry of my own life. I’m going to share some of that below, and paid subscribers to The Unfiltered Scribe will have access. What you’ll find is a portion of a draft for a memoir I’m working on. We’re actually jumping back a bit in the work, because the part I’m sharing today came just before what I shared with paid subscribers last time, Snowy Beginnings: A Memoirist’s Dilemma. Today I want to share my earliest days. Actually, even earlier than that - how the beginnings of an evangelical pastor kid’s life began way before the fetus was an embryo or blastocyst. I want to share with you the story of when I was knitted into being; to talk about where the yarn came from.

Because the knitting begins before the womb.

My life began like most other people - in a fallopian tube. Now, I’m not a doctor of any sort, but from what I understand the fallopian tube is where the majority of human eggs are fertilized. At least the ones that aren’t fertilized in a petri dish with scientific assistance. 

I eventually made my way to the uterus and didn’t even need the assistance of my global positioning system. It was warm - dare I say perfect - so I nuzzled in, set down my roots and stayed for a bit. A little over 9 months to be exact. While there I grew at an average of over a pound a month before things got a bit cramped. Something told me there was real estate with a bit more room just to the south of where I’d been cuddled up so I decided to head out in that direction. 

The move was difficult for me. My landlord was giving mixed messages as if she knew it was time for me to move on but wasn’t sure how to help. During my time in utero I’d grown to over 10 pounds and as I made my attempt to enter the world, I got stuck.

Fortunately for me and mom, there was an experienced doctor involved who made a snap decision to break my collarbone thus allowing a bit more flexibility. The move likely saved my life, and perhaps even the life of my mother. So, it happened during the early morning hours of April 2, 1976 that I was born into an unfamiliar world, but one that held more promise than I ever could have experienced had I remained in my heretofore comfortable environs.

Such is life.

You should know that I’m a card carrying member of the lucky sperm club¹. What I mean by that is when dad...well, did what a father-to-be does when trying to become a father…there were tens, maybe even hundreds of millions of sperm racing for viability. I am a product of the lucky sperm - the fastest swimmer - that tracked down the egg that eventually became me. That’s pretty much all sperm do, and it’s not what made me lucky.

I was lucky because the above activity was the product of a loving relationship. I don’t know if I was planned, necessarily, but I was most certainly wanted. This was a pattern in my family. My dad was the firstborn in his family and was also a product of a loving relationship. So was my mother. Even more so for mom, because as I recall, my maternal grandparents had experienced several miscarriages, so when mom arrived on scene she was as wanted as any baby has ever been wanted. Calling her a member of the lucky sperm club is probably a bit of an understatement.

Mom and dad met at a brand new college growing in the middle of the cornfields of central Ohio. Mount Vernon, Ohio is located less than 2 hours southwest of Cleveland and about an hour northeast of Columbus. It’s a beautiful part of the country with rolling, grassy hills interspersed with farms and railroad tracks. In recent years I’ve had the opportunity to visit and never come away disappointed by the natural beauty this part of the Midwest has to offer. 

For most of my adult life to this point I’ve lived in New England, and I’ve grown to have a certain amount of distaste for the climate there in late winter. By late February the warm fuzzies that arrive with the first snowfall in autumn would cease to be a part of the snow storms of late winter and early spring. That is, if there were even any snowstorms at all. If not, the cold just gets old and I begin to long for the warmer months and outdoor activities. Often, just when we experience a balmy 45-degree day, BAM! We get to enjoy a March blizzard. As I shoveled the snow - which is usually more of an icy slush at that time of the year, I longed for the green grass.

I discovered the green grass returns sooner in central Ohio. It’s the darkest of greens in the way that only the brightest dandelions with their golden yellow know how to accentuate its understated shine. I love visiting the area in the spring, but the fall is just as beautiful. The rich soils provide just the right composition of nutrients to produce trees which explode into color in the fall. The bright oranges, yellows and reds which result are the colorscapes of which artists dream. The green of the grass, the colors of the trees, and the blue of the sky all work together as if intended. It’s a beautiful part of the country.

Perhaps the beauty is part of why my grandpa - my mom’s father -  chose the location to begin a new college. There was a bit more to it than grandpa making any sort of unilateral decision, but the details get cumbersome. I’ll let mom sum it up.

I was 14 … that time of my life when the world revolved around teen activities and social events. [The Nazarene] General Assembly was an opportunity to be with other teenagers from our denomination. I was definitely looking forward to the event that summer of 1964, with no inkling of the fact that it would radically change our family’s future direction.

I remember my father talking about the action of the Assembly to establish two new Nazarene colleges — one in Ohio and the other in Kansas. … He was the Director of Development for ENC [Eastern Nazarene College], chiefly charged with raising funds to support the college. Father to four children, aged 4 to 14, he was constantly on the road preaching and raising money for the college, as his father had done before him, and Ohio was one of the strongest zones for ENC [(Eastern Nazarene College)] college support. It was indeed a concern.

And then came the phone call from Dr. Harvey Hendershot, newly-elected Chair of the fledgling “Zone ‘A’ Nazarene College” Board of Trustees. Dad suddenly came home from his ENC office (a spot 20 feet from where I am typing this) to talk to Mom — visibly shaken. I know they spent time in prayer and deep searching for God’s will in this uncharted territory. As the decision was made, no one could ever have guessed the blessing, nor the cost, of their move to Ohio.

So we went — to Columbus for the first year as the location was being determined. Then to Mount Vernon where we lived in the Lakeholm Mansion prior to the building of the president’s home behind the campus. We waited for the school bus at the hedges and gate — both gone now — that were in front of the mansion. The four of us — aged 6 to 16 — worked at adapting to this new reality as Dad traveled continuously, working to piece together this fledgling institution — raising money, planning buildings, hiring staff, administration and faculty, designing curriculum for accreditation, and establishing the Mount Vernon Nazarene College family who began the adventure in faith together. Precious people, precious days.²

Grandpa’s story in Nazarene Higher Education could fill enough pages to be its own book. We wish he’d written it, and I think he started to, but dementia eventually extinguished his ability to think and communicate. As with any family who has watched a loved one disappear into the cruelty of cognitive impairment due to diseases associated with age, it was hard to watch him in the last years of his life. He was a man of distinguished character, both in his career and his personal life. His appearance matched his reputation, with a look that was similar in nature to that of Ronald Reagan. I remember his hands to be as large as his character. He was a caring man, but not overly affectionate, an attribute he’s passed on to more than one of his children.

All told grandpa was president of 4 Nazarene institutions of higher learning. First as the founding President of Mount Vernon, four years later he became the President of Bethany Nazarene College (now Southern Nazarene University), for the next 4 years he was President of the Seminary. In 1980 he began serving as President of Eastern Nazarene College. When the denominational leadership needed a commissioner to oversee the entire Nazarene educational system, they came to Stephen Nease. He was the first to fill the role of the Commissioner of Nazarene Higher Education.

Grandpa’s first role, however, was that of a pastor. He preached throughout his entire career. In so many ways he was just like his father before him - a Nazarene evangelist turned College President. His mother was a college registrar for decades. Preaching and administration was in grandpa’s blood. Following in his father’s footsteps seemed natural, and he found himself on the campus of a new Christian college, as its first president.

That’s where my mom and dad met, on the campus of the college grandpa started, Mount Vernon Nazarene College. As they tell the story, they met in the college choir, which I only mention because it’s the same way I met my wife. Different college, but similar pairing experience. 

Dad first met Dr. Nease - that’s what people called grandpa - in February of 1968 at a Meet the President dinner. At that point in the college’s short history, it might have been fair to call this a Meet the President, who is also the Registrar, the Athletic Director, the Director of Development… you get the idea. Grandpa was doing some student recruiting which also would have suggested he had a role with admissions too. My dad was an 18 year old kid living in Proctorville, Ohio, a town just across the river from Huntington, West Virginia where he attended church. If you were to look up “bustling metropolis” in a thesaurus, Proctorville might be listed as an antonym. So I imagine a “Meet the President” event might have been the highlight of his month that winter. I was curious what he remembered about grandpa from that night, back in the day when dad would have known him as Dr. Nease. I wanted to know what he thought of the man before he developed a personal relationship with him.

I almost didn’t go to the meeting because my pastor was pushing me in that direction. Then mom told me I should at least meet the president, so I went. 

He seemed very presidential, and excited about the new college. He was younger and better looking than Olivet or Trevecca’s presidents, but also a much better speaker. He was engaging, and made a point of speaking to each potential student.

Olivet and Trevecca were two other colleges from other regions who would have also been clamoring for students. Dad had planned to attend Olivet Nazarene College in Bourbonnais, Illinois as his parents had before him. But in early August, dad ended up choosing Mount Vernon. 

While it’s not a written rule, there’s a certain pathway that is expected of Nazarene youth. (I imagine it’s similar to pathways for youths in other Christian evangelical churches as well.) It goes something like this:

1. Go to college. 

2. Get married while there. 

3. Graduate.

4. Get a job and have a Christian family.

There is a caveat. Sometimes while working on numbers 1 and 2, a student may experience a call from God to become a pastor or missionary or some other clergy-type. If this happens (as it did to my father), stage 4 changes and a fifth stage is added to make sure the happy little love birds stay on track. The stages then look like this:

1. Go to college. 

2. Get married while there. 

3. Graduate.

4. Go to seminary directly upon graduating from college. 

5. Start having children while there. 

My parents followed these unwritten directives to the letter. So committed were they, that mom was 7 months pregnant with my older sister when she walked across the platform to receive her college diploma. (Mom always was one for getting a jump on a task.)  My birthing experience explained earlier occurred just before dad became Reverend dad having earned his Masters of Divinity. After a short stint as an associate pastor in Syracuse, New York - a relatively normal first job for any freshly graduated minister - he was called to a church in Fulton, New York. The parsonage was next door, and was the setting of my first memory in life and where my personal convictions began to take hold.

(Thank you for reading! You can find the next part of the story here.)

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1. Tapestry seems to be a favorite go-to word of ChatGPT, a tool I use as the ultimate thesaurus. I almost didn’t like it, but it felt appropriate to the discussion.