Sermon on Mothering Sunday (Colossians 3:12-17 and John 19:25-27)

Sermon for Mothering Sunday (Colossians 3:12-17 and John 19.25-27)
Originally given 19 March 2023 at St. Alban’s Church, Coventry

Everybody wants to save the world. Nobody wants to help do the dishes…or the laundry, or the cooking, or the cleaning, or the endless list of domestic chores that often (but not always) fall on a mother. Perhaps these two ideas seem so laughably disconnected, but are mothers not part of the world. In helping just one person you can help save, at the very least, their world…just like the starfish I talked about a few weeks ago.

I’ve started with talking about mothers because today is called Mothering Sunday. But Mothering Sunday isn’t about mothers. At least, not historically. Historically it was simply a day in the Church that people would return to visit their ‘Mother Church’, which was the church where they were first baptised and officially became part of the church family. Despite the historical origins, the day has morphed into something quite different, and perhaps more American and more secular. It’s a day when children are expected to tell their mothers how wonderful they are. But what if their mothers aren’t wonderful? Or what if their mothers are no longer on this earth to be told how wonderful they were? It’s also a time when mothers get to feel special for the life they’ve been able to give to another human. But we don’t talk about the childless mothers. The people who struggle with infertility, or the people whose children have died. We don’t talk about the babies that were born sleeping or the babies that were never even named. We don’t discuss the pressure from society that if you do have a child or children after a loss, you’re meant to somehow move on from or even forget about the one or ones that are no longer with you, or the one you never got to hold. Because all these conversations are just a bit too uncomfortable. In church, there seems to be a pervasive belief that we’re meant to talk only about the joyful things, leaving no space for lament.

I don’t think that’s what Jesus wants for us though. In today’s Gospel reading he addresses his mother and his beloved disciple, naming these two as each other’s son and mother. He knew the deep grief his mother and his disciple would feel at his death, and so he gave them to each other for comfort in their time of sorrow. And the brilliant thing about the beloved disciple is that they remain nameless. So the beloved disciple works out as anyone who Jesus loved, or anyone who Jesus loves. So you are the beloved disciple. And therefore you have a mother to love and comfort. A perfect mother who loves and comforts you. Jesus does not expect us to avoid grief or mourning, but Jesus gives us a path through that grief. And when that grief feels overwhelming, we have the knowledge that we are surrounded by the beloved disciples to carry us through when we have no strength for the journey. That doesn’t mean we pretend we’re not hurting. To be human is to experience pain, which Jesus knows only too well. But when we openly lament, when we openly grieve, when we openly hurt, we can then open ourselves to the love of Christ to start to heal with the help of the beloved disciples whom Jesus has given us in our lives.

This takes us to the Colossians reading, full of advice for how we should live in faith and how we should help others to live in their faith. Verse 15 tells us, ‘Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace.’ The Christian faith is not an isolated island. We are a community. We celebrate Holy Communion together not only with all who are present in this specific location and time, but also with all around the world, with all who have come before us and with all who will follow after us. The Christian faith is about relationship. Yes, our personal relationship with God, but just as importantly our relationship with each other. So we see in verse 14 it says, ‘And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.’ The law given by Jesus is to love God and to love each other, and both of these together form the entire law. One is not greater than the other, and they are one in the same. In loving God, we love each other, and in loving each other, we love God. In this we are acting as the beloved disciples, and we are also acting as mothers. 

So as we come to this Mothering Sunday, I implore you, do not let your hearts be discouraged. We all come with our different stories and different experiences. Some of you may be joyfully looking forward to celebrating this day with your biological mothers or your biological children. Or maybe you’re looking forward to honouring someone who has filled the role of mother for you. Some of you may have come dreading this day due to estrangement or bereavement. But know that whatever your earthly experience is, we have a hope that is greater than this. In Christ Jesus, we know we are all the beloved disciples, loved by our perfect Mothering Father. And in our Christian faith, we know we all take on the caring, nurturing, and loving role of a perfect mother for their child. So I say to all of you, look at each other, this is your child. And look at each other, this is your mother. And above all else, look to the Lord your God, who is always with you through the people who are beside you in your journey, the people who love you, the people who mother you through God’s perfect love.

Sermon on John 11:1-44 (The Death of Lazarus)

Sermon on John 11:1-44 (The death of Lazarus)
Originally given 13 March 2022 at St. Alban’s Church, Coventry

Where were you, Jesus?
Why did you let my brother die?
Is this how you show love? You, who can do anything. You, who can heal a blind man or a leper or someone who is lame. Why were all those strangers more important than my only brother, Lazarus, who loved you? 
You have so much power, and you sat and did nothing. 
And where were you when you got the news about Lazarus? If you can show your face now, then why did you not come sooner? Why? Do you not love us? Or do you just not care?

I cannot begin to imagine the pain Martha and Mary must have felt when Lazarus died. I’ve never known a world without my own big brother, and I honestly can’t imagine a world without him. The mere thought nearly destroys me. So I find it truly astonishing that Martha and Mary didn’t have more to say to Jesus on the death of their brother. Perhaps they were still in shock. The first days after the death of a loved one tend to be a blur. Or maybe they thought they couldn’t get angry with Jesus. Just as so often we feel we aren’t supposed to get angry with God.

‘Even when it hurts, I’ll praise you’. This is such a common theme sung in modern worship songs. And in some ways, it can be helpful. A form of ‘fake it ‘til you make it’. A mental gymnastics to push or pull yourself through the grief. It can be hopeful. But sometimes, it’s just not possible to praise God. It simply hurts too damn much. And then instead of singing praise, we respond with anger. But if we’re not allowed to be angry with God, then how do we channel it?

I know some people just walk away. They feel God has turned her back on them, so they turn their back on God. Others lash out at the victim, saying things like, ‘They brought it on themselves by not doing this or that, not eating enough vegetables or doing enough exercise, or they drank too much or smoked too much or lived too much.’ And some will just internalise all their pain, so that it consumes them. Considering all these possibilities, I am certain, God would much rather you rage at him. If she’s a great, big God, then she can handle any venom you might spew at her.

So why do we feel we are not allowed to be angry with God? Jesus as God incarnate showed a whole range of human emotions. In today’s passage we heard ‘Jesus wept’, which is a verse with a lot to unpack, and we’ll come back to that. A few weeks ago we heard about Jesus’ rage and anger as he overturned the tables in the temple. If Jesus can be sad and angry, why do we feel unable to? Or rather, why do we feel sadness and anger are emotions we must hide from God? What makes sadness or anger somehow negative emotions?

I think our Western society has for some reason turned its back on lament. The caricature of the British stiff upper lip doesn’t fit with lament. Other cultures see the bereaved wailing and screaming and clawing to be with the person they loved. Raw and vulnerable emotions pour out from those left behind. Our culture doesn’t even feel comfortable saying someone is dead. We prefer terms like ‘passed away’ or ‘was laid to rest.’ But lament and sorrow and anger all go together. And Jesus Christ expressed it all. Because there’s no such thing as a negative emotion, it’s the way we express, or rather don’t express, the emotion that can be detrimental.

I’d like to go back to the shortest verse in the Bible, ‘Jesus wept.’ Very often this verse is used to prove the humanity of Jesus. To show that Jesus was not only divine, but also a fully fleshy, human who did human things like crying. But I believe this verse instead shows the divinity of grief. Grief is not some weak, human emotion, grief is a gift from God. And as Christians, who know that death is not the end, there is still room for grief. But we recognise a hopeful grief instead of an earthly hopeless grief. We, like Martha, know that Jesus is the resurrection, and so we know our grief is temporary. Of course God would cry at the death of any beloved child, because death is sad. When you can no longer talk to or hold someone you love, that is sad. But being sad and missing the person you love does not make you less Christian. Jesus shows us that not only is it normal in human nature, but it is also divine to grieve the end of mortal life.

In fact, all of these emotions – sadness, anger, rage, grief – can be understood as being divine when expressed appropriately. It’s not God’s fault when people die. But we can rage at him with the full force of our grief if it helps us feel better. All the typical Psalms of lament begin with raging at God, saying ‘How long, O Lord?’ or ‘Why have you forsaken me?’ But when we release our heart to God, God can then lift us up and give us the blessings to get through any of the terrors. And that is why we can still praise him.

I won’t pretend any of this is easy. And even as a Christian, nobody is promised an easy or pain-free life. But I do think Jesus makes things a bit easier. By putting our hope in Jesus, we know that although it hurts now, we will one day be reunited with the people we love. We know we can look to a world with no more pain, no more tears, no more death. By putting our hope in Jesus, we put our hope in life.

On Lament in the time of Covid-19

Originally written 29 April 2020

It’s been nearly two months since I’ve given a sermon, and I have no way of knowing when our world will be in a place where I can preach again, but I wanted to share some reflections. At the moment I’m studying Psalms, and in particular I have been looking at Psalms of Lament. So often in our society, especially Christian society, we avoid the topic of lament. We want everything to appear joyful, perfect, and painless. But that’s ignoring the very real circumstances of the human condition. Humans are not perfect, and our world is far from it. There are situations of injustice, pain, suffering, and death that give rise to emotions of anger, sadness, despair, and hopelessness. And that’s okay.

It’s human. It’s human to be outraged when we see the oppression of populations. It’s human to be devestated when someone we love has died. It’s human to be angry with God, accuse God of being absent, scream and cry at God for an apparent impotence or lack of empathy. The Psalms of Lament bring out all this human emotion. But, they also look back to the joys of life. In remembering the goodness, perhaps we can move beyond our current tragedy. That doesn’t mean you can’t be angry, or question God. Instead, it is encouragement to move forward from that place, but it’s important to note that there is no time frame on grief. Many of us are in a time of grief, whether that be for the loss of a holiday or the death of a loved one. Though the former may seem trivial, it is no less valid. Because all human emotion is valid, and that is why we must embrace lament along with joy.

Today marks day 40 that my family has been in quarantine. This is a momentous amount of time for Christians, as we remember the 40 days Jesus spent in the desert and the 40 years the Israelites spent in the wilderness. Following on the theme of lament and inspired by the Psalms, I have written a poem of lament reflecting on 40 days in isolation.

Forty days in the desert,
and no oasis in sight;
Forty days of isolation –
where is the end to my plight?

I call out to God for salvation,
but feel her face has turned away.
Where has my loving Mother gone
who nurtured me from my first day?

A babe, abandoned, naked,
in the wilderness.
There is no light,
I’m consumed by darkness.

I cling to hope of new tomorrows,
desperate for the end of sorrows.
No more tears, pain is gone,
anger fades, and death is done.

It feels eternal, this new norm,
but in glory I shall go back home.
With arms wide open, divine embrace,
the death of darkness will have no place.

For now in desolation I weep,
though I know this night will soon pass by.
A new day will dawn, filled with hope.
A rainbow of love will paint the sky.