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| "The Ascension" Dosso Dossi, 16th Century |
“Now they know that everything you have
given me is from you; for the words that you gave to me I have given to them…” (John 17:7-8)
As I compose these reflections, a lady in
my congregation is lying in a hospital bed. She is ninety years of age, and, quite
frankly, I don’t think she’s doing very well. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised
if she were called home to the Lord by the time I get around to turning these
written reflections into a preached sermon on Sunday. I’ll be sorry to lose
her. She’s been a member of my parish ever since it was founded, and she’s an
awfully sweet and faithful old gal.
Her sixty-year-old daughter is by her
bedside now—just as a faithful child should be at a moment like this. She knows
her mom’s time is probably short, but she’s having a hard time keeping that
torturous vigil. If you’ve ever been in her place, you know how tough this is.
Even though your mom is old, sick, and suffering, it’s still hard to let her
go. She’s still your mom.
Unfortunately, we all face a time when we
have to let our mothers go. They also face a time when they have to let us go, too. You know what I mean—kick us
out of the nest and see if we can fly on our own. It’s time to see if we can
hunt our own prey, make our own decisions, create our own meaning and purpose
based on the guidance they’ve given us.
There’s an old saying that learning
doesn’t start until the lesson is over. That is, if we still have our teachers
with us, if we can rely on them for direction, we don’t really know what we’ve
actually learned. It’s only when they’re gone that the lessons become
internalized and become part of us. So, in a sense, our teachers—and our
mothers are some of our most profound instructors—never really leave us.
I am eternally grateful that my mom was a
woman of faith who often spoke about her understanding of God to her children.
She shared bedtime prayers with me and my sisters when we were little, and she
was once my Sunday School teacher. She was also devoutly Lutheran, and, as I’ve often told people, some of the things I heard
in lectures in seminary I’d already heard from my mother. What had been given to her, she passed on to me. I am where I am today
because of her.
The gospel lesson in the Revised Common
Lectionary for Easter 7 (John 17: 6-19) is part of a farewell discourse from
Jesus. He knows he’s going away, but he’s given the disciples the truth and
wisdom which he received from God. It’s theirs now. Now they have to make
choices on their own (See the First Lesson from Acts 1: 15-17, 21-26). Now they are the ones entrusted with God’s
word. This is when they make that big, scary jump from being disciples
(students of Jesus) to being apostles (representatives of Jesus). I’m sure none
of those guys wanted to see their friend and teacher go; nevertheless, they had
to let him go or they’d never be grown-ups in the faith he had given them.
But here’s the comforting thought: Jesus
delivers this discourse in the form of a prayer. “Holy Father,” Jesus prays, “protect
them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are
one.” (v. 11) It’s awful nice to know that someone is praying for you, isn’t
it? That’s what moms do for their children, and that’s what Jesus is doing for
us.
Mother’s Day is May 13 this year, on
Easter 7 and three days after the Feast of the Ascension. Maybe we can observe
it by contemplating the things our moms taught us, or by considering the
prayers they might be praying for us—whether they be prayed here on earth or
before the throne of Heaven.
A blessed Mothers’ Day, my friends. Thanks
for stopping by.
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