“As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world.” John 17:18
Let’s acknowledge up front that Mother’s Day can be emotionally complicated. Of course we want to lift up those women in our lives who have guided us and nurtured us – although I hope we will do that more often than once a year. If your mother has revealed God’s grace and love to you, give thanks for that. I know some of you are grieving that your mother is no longer here to be celebrated today. Or you’re worried about your mother’s health as she grows older and more fragile.
We also know that many people have had difficult relationships with their mothers – or with their children. Others struggle to have a child or have lost a child. Still others struggle to help a child held captive to addiction or depression or a thousand other things that terrify us. This life is messy, and the work of mothering is messy. What we know is that God is with us in all of it – in the joys and in the heartaches and everything in between.
In a curious way Jesus is doing some mothering in today’s gospel. Today’s piece of John’s gospel comes from a long prayer that Jesus offers on the night that he is arrested, just before his crucifixion. He knows that his time with the disciples is growing short, so how does he spend those final hours? He spends a lot of that time in prayer – a prayer offered up to God on behalf of these people he has loved with all his heart, people he chose from different backgrounds and places – none of them glamorous – and shaped into people of holy purpose.
A lot has already happened this night. They’ve shared a meal together. Jesus has washed the disciples’ feet, doing the work of a servant. He’s watched Judas slip away into the night to betray him. He knows that a few hours later Peter will deny knowing him.
So if you’ve ever had a family meal turn weird, if you’ve ever had to do something pretty gross for someone you love, if you’ve ever been disappointed or betrayed by a family member – well, then, you have a sense of what brings Jesus to this moment of prayer.
Jesus knows he’s about to leave them. And he must send them out into the world, a world that will not embrace them with open arms. Jesus knows that the world can be a dangerous and painful place.
That’s the work of mothering too – preparing kids to live without you. Sending them into a world that is not always safe. Mothers always remember the first time you left your kid in someone else’s care…the first time your kid fell or got hurt…the day your kid started kindergarten…the first school dance…the driver’s license…the beginning of college…the first job…it goes on and on. So many milestones, so many fears.
I sense that Jesus feels some of that fear and worry in this moment. He pleads with God: Protect them in your name…so that they may be one, as we are one.
Protect them from the evil one, Jesus says. Protect them from all of those things that might hurt them. The ways that the world will break their hearts. The people who will come after them with weapons of every kind because the disciples are proclaiming a message of God’s powerful love.
Jesus knows the world is dangerous. He’s about to be put to death because the world is threatened by a love that demands justice and peace for all people.
Jesus says it plainly: The world has hated them. In John’s gospel the “world” often stands for those powers that do not understand what Jesus is about and actively oppose him. Those forces won’t go away after he dies. They will sometimes seem to grow stronger. The people who hear John’s gospel for the first time will have already seen the temple, their place of worship, leveled by the Romans. The people hearing this gospel know how destructive hate can be.
But Jesus also knows in this moment what the disciples will only know later – that fear and death and destruction will not win the day. There’s resurrection on the horizon. God’s triumph of life over death means that the world does not have the ultimate power.
How do we send children out into the world in spite of our fear? We do exactly what Jesus is doing here. We pray for them. We remember that while we love the children in our lives, we do not possess them. Their lives are a gift from God too, and we owe it to them to let them find their own paths. We trust in resurrection hope.
And so, whether we have given birth to children or not, we can all share in the work of mothering – by surrounding children and youth with an unconditional love that reflects God’s own unshakable love for them. By caring for them in ways big and small. By preparing them to head off into the world on their own, ready to face whatever they find there.
We do these things following the example of Jesus, whose love for his first disciples and for each of us, his disciples now, is both fierce and tender. A love that prays without ceasing, teaches through words and actions, and gets down on the floor to wash feet.
None of us does the work of mothering perfectly. We are not perfect people. But we rely on a Savior who mothers us too – and offers forgiveness when we have fallen short.
My friend Kimberly, whose own path to motherhood was not an easy one, admits that, even now, as the mother of two children, she finds Mother’s Day bittersweet. She offers this reflection:
Maybe we should embrace all of the emotions of Mother’s Day for exactly what they’re worth: poignant reminders that the deepest and most intense relationships in our lives are an undeniable part of our personal stories. Reminders to hope and reminders to reflect. Reminders to cherish and reminders to grieve. Reminders that Mother’s Day isn’t about celebrating someone perfect, but rather celebrating those who do the best they can to love the best way they know how in the midst of their own imperfection. And that might look a little bit different for all of us, but that’s okay. Let’s celebrate mothering on this Mother’s Day – in whatever way and whatever place you pour love out of your imperfect self onto those around you. Let’s celebrate that.[i]
S.D.G. – The Rev. Dr. Christa M. Compton, Gloria Dei Lutheran Church, Chatham, NJ
My parents’ house, the place where I grew up, lies in the suburbs of St. Paul, Minnesota on a shallow hill overlooking a beautiful marsh. If you walk to the right of the house from the backyard, you find yourself climbing old, faded grey wooden stairs built into the hillside. These stairs are flanked by a deck on the left and by wooden retaining walls that double as garden plots on the right. At the very top of the retaining wall stands an apple tree that we planted when I was young. Its branches now stretch up and out into our neighbor’s yard and even to the deck. In the late Summer, when you walk up the stairs, it’s hard to avoid the low-hanging branches heavy with fruit and it’s hard to avoid the many apples that have fallen all over the place. And in the Fall we get to make them into pies and sauces and whatever else you can think of.
I particularly love making apple pies for my family’s annual tradition we call Apple Day. For about 35 years my family and my Godparents’ family have been celebrating Apple Day. Each Fall our families pick a day when we go apple picking, play football, and have a feast of apple-filled dishes. It’s like our own apple themed Thanksgiving. There are few places I would rather be than around the dinner table with all of us together. These are the people who have upheld their baptismal promises by fostering my faith and supporting me in love. In many ways my life and my faith are the fruit of their love.
Sometimes I wish that I had a lighting storm faith experience like Martin Luther. As the story goes, Luther was walking home in a terrifying storm and he made a bargain with God. If God brought him home safe, he would become a monk for God. I wish I had that one moment that changed my life forever, one moment that gave me some sort of “genuine” faith. But no. My faith journey, and I imagine most of yours, has been a little different. It’s been more of a gradual change, like the slow maturing of fruit on a tree.
In last week’s Gospel reading we heard Jesus tell his followers that he is the true vine and they are the branches who bear fruit. He says, “Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing.” Jesus is the source of love and good things in our lives. Because of Jesus we can produce these fruits.
Today’s Gospel reading is a continuation of this passage from John. I hope most of you when you heard this reading just a minute ago thought, “What in the world is this guy talking about??” Jesus in John’s Gospel can be especially hard to understand. He likes to speak in complex riddles. This passage in particular has some snares we can fall into if we aren’t careful. We might hear Jesus say, “I will love you only if you do my commandments.” But this is not quite what he says. He says, “As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abidein my love. If you keep my commandments, you willabide in my love.” Do you hear the difference? It’s subtle. Jesus already loves us. Jesus already laid down his life for us. Our task is to live in that love. If you abide in that love you make it your abode, you make it into a home. It is this love that bears fruit.
We might also be tempted to be proud of the good fruit we produce, as if we could have done these things on our own. But Jesus reminds us, “You did not choose me but I chose you. And I appointed you to go and bear fruit.” We did not choose Jesus, Jesus chose us. We could not bear fruit without him. The word translated as appointed in this passage means something more like placed, established, or laid down. In a sense, Jesus planted us. In the same way, I did not choose my nurturing family. My family’s apple tree did not choose which hill to be planted on. Our confirmation students learned last week that we Lutherans practice infant baptism for particular reasons. As Pr. Christa explained, this practice is a way of living out our faith that Jesus chooses us, not the other way around.
But what exactly does it mean to bear fruit? What exactly does it mean to abide in God’s love? What does it mean to live out our baptism? Jesus gives us a hint. “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” I hope this commandment makes you uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable. One of the things I love about Jesus’s teaching is his amazing ability to stretch us far beyond our normal limits. I heard Pr. Markay over at Chatham United Methodist Church preach about this commandment and I appreciated his sermon.[i]He reminded me that getting to this kind of love can be the task of a lifetime, yet we may find at some point that we are in fact called to give up our life in love for others.
Oddly enough, Jesus talks about this difficult commandment as a type of grace; he gives us this commandment so that joy may be in us and that our joy may be complete. Yet I have found in my own life that it is grace which compels me into all kinds of uncomfortable places. Through discomfort and change grace has taken me into joy. It is grace that has brought me 1000 miles from home to this strange land called New Jersey to attend seminary. It is grace that has allowed me to grow as a minister these past 8 months. I had so many opportunities to get out of my comfort zone to experience the joys of ministry.
Grace actually brought me out of my comfort zone just recently. Two weeks ago at Drew, student organizations held a forum about racism because a public sign was defaced with racist graffiti. Discussion quickly turned to the topic of discomfort. In that room I became aware of my own discomfort as a white person in talking about race. Perhaps you know this same feeling. Perhaps you are feeling it right now. I think my discomfort comes from knowing that I have lot of privilege and a lot responsibility to combat racism in this country. I don’t know much but I do know that I grew up in an affluent white suburb, that my parents never had to talk to me about interacting with police, and that I have never even met anyone who has been arrested for sitting in a coffee shop.
Having a sense of responsibility to fight racism means changing how I live. And change can be uncomfortable. It means laying down our life in big and small ways. We do not always know what the fruit of this kind of love will look like. Love is a risky business after all. When we try to dismantle racism we will not know the outcome. But God promises that this love will bear fruit, fruit that will last.
Now, I could very well avoid this discomfort. But it seems to me that if we are uncomfortable we are likely catching a glimpse of who we really are. We recognize that we are at the same time sinner and saint. We recognize that God is opening up an opportunity to embrace this identity and an opportunity to bear fruit.
Those apples that my family picks every Fall are full of defects and places where insects have burrowed. This used to gross me out. But we could always use these apples despite their defects to make a feast. Despite our defects, God still uses us and still wants us. God looks at us and sees our bruises, bumps, and bugs. And God says: “I can work with that.”
Grace draws us into all sorts of uncomfortable places. Grace brings us onto an adventure that we would not have chosen by ourselves. At the same time, it is grace that gives us the strength to set out on this adventure. When we set off onto the path that is scary or new or unforeseen, we can trust that Christ abides in us. Because Christ abides in us, we can bear fruit even in situations that are uncomfortable. Christ leads us up that hill to where there is fruit and family and fellowship.I pray that the love of Christ continues to live and work in this community to bear the fruit of love for many seasons to come. AMEN.