MOTHERING SUNDAY

A Sermon by Marcus Ramshaw

Reading: Luke Ch: 2 v. 33-35

Do you remember the day you finally left your parent’s home? Does it stand out as a vivid memory? A tearful mother feeling the pain of separation from their offspring and a brave-faced father trying to give advice to his child when sending them out to face the world. Today is, of course, Mothering Sunday but it is, obviously impossible to celebrate Mothering Sunday without thinking about the children who make mothers what they are. Mothering Sunday, the fourth Sunday in Lent has long been a time for a momentary celebration, sometimes also known as Refreshment Sunday, Mid-Lent Sunday or Laetare Sunday, a medieval term which referred to the introit at the beginning of the Mass which included the words ‘Rejoice ye with Jerusalem’ which meant that worshippers could temporarily relax their penitential disciples in anticipation of the preparations of the Messiah to enter Jerusalem. Traditionally on this day worshippers would remember three things - they would perhaps visit their local cathedral as the mother church of their diocese from which their parish was a growing child, they would visit their own mother on this day and take her flowers and gifts, and they would remember the words of the traditional epistle, Galatians 4:26 which talks of the heavenly Jerusalem which is free and is taken figuratively as our mother.

All of these facets give a cause for celebration, for kindness and tenderness in the past and the anticipation of future joy, kindness and pleasure - ‘for a mother’s work is never done.’ Today stands out as the one day in Lent, which embraces the celebratory rejoicing of Easter Day.

There are two recommended gospel readings for Mothering Sunday. Both of them are quite curious, deeply thought provoking and perhaps rather unexpected. They are both very short so I will read them both to you in their entirety. In Luke’s gospel reading we are told the story of the boy Jesus being presented in the temple; ‘The child’s father and mother marveled at what was said about him. Then Simon blessed them and said to Mary, his mother: ‘This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too.’ You can easily imagine how proud and how delighted Mary and Joseph were at the maturity and promise of their son. How unprepared they must have been, Mary in particular, at Simon’s last sentence; ‘And a sword will pierce your own soul too.’ Letting go of a loved one is not easy for anyone to do, it must be very hard for a mother who has cared and devoted their lives to such an immeasurable degree and for so long to take a step back and let their precious child experience the hardships of the world on their own strength. Joy and pain are often two sides of the same coin. Yet this, of course, is not a reference to Jesus leaving the comfort of the carpenter’s workshop and entering into his full-time ministry, here is a veiled reference to the pain and horror of Good Friday, and in the life of our Church we know how meaningless and hollow the festivities of Easter morning would be without the penitence and the painful solemnity of the three hours on Good Friday afternoon.

The alternative gospel reading from St. John spells out the nature of this pain, this sword piercing the mother’s heart, in no uncertain terms.

‘Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Cleopas and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing near by, he said to his mother, “Dear Woman, here is your son.” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother” From that time on, this disciple took her into his home.’

This is a powerful cameo, a turning full circle of the relationship between a mother and her child. If we are to learn anything from the example of our mother’s and the emotional pain they, at times, must quietly and patiently bear, it is the spirit of tenderness and concern, a sacrificial love, the knowledge that sometimes a letting go is the more loving act to do, even when it is painful, but a letting go which is never harsh, which is tempered with a practical as well as an emotional concern. Jesus remebered the welfare of his mother and, with his dying breaths, made a provision for it. How often do mothers, who are often so much more emotionally practical than fathers, do the same?

Today, though, is a day for celebration, a momentary lifting from the austere days that lie ahead between now and Holy Week. It is a day to thank God and to thank our earthly mother’s for our nurturing, for our upbringing and the chances in life, which they have given for us, often sacrificially. And it is also a day, to learn from the example of their love, and the continuing giving of Christ, even whilst he breathed his last breath on the cross.