Mother's Day Reflection

Following is a reflection I gave on the occasion of Mother's Day, May 9, 2010 at St. Anthony Catholic Church, Anchorage, Alaska

In honor of mothers and Mother’s Day, I would like to share the words of another mother, first heard when I was my oldest daughter, Jasmine’s age. It’s interesting how things change. My mother probably had me read this in newspaper:
When the Good Lord was creating mothers, He was into his sixth day of “overtime” when an angel appeared and said, “You’re doing a lot of fiddling around on this one.”
And the Lord said, “Have you read the specs on this order?
She has to be completely washable, but not plastic; Have 180 movable parts... all replaceable; Run on black coffee and leftovers; Have a lap that disappears when she stands up; A kiss that can cure anything from a broken leg to a disappointed love affair; And six pairs of hands.”
The angel shook her head slowly and said, “Six pairs of hands... no way.”
“It’s not the hands that are causing me problems,” said the Lord. “It’s the three pairs of eyes that mothers have to have.”
“That’s on the standard model?” asked the angel.
The Lord nodded. “One pair that sees through closed doors when she asks, ’What are you kids doing in there?’ when she already knows. Another here in the back of her head that sees what she shouldn’t but what she has to know, and of course the ones here in front that can look at a child when he goofs up and reflect, ’I understand and I love you’ without so much as uttering a word.”
“Lord,” said the angel, touching His sleeve gently, “come to bed. Tomorrow...”
“I can’t,” said the Lord, “I’m so close to creating something so close to myself. Already I have one who heals herself when she is sick... can feed a family of six on one pound of hamburger... and can get a nine-year-old to stand under a shower.”
The angel circled the model of The Mother very slowly. “It’s too soft,” she sighed.
“But tough” said the Lord excitedly. “You cannot imagine what this Mother can do or endure.”
“Can it think?”
“Not only think, but it can reason and compromise,” said the Creator.
Finally, the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek. “There’s a leak,” she pronounced. “I told you you were trying to push too much into this model. You can’t ignore the stress factor.”
The Lord moved in for a closer look and gently lifted the drop of moisture to his finger where it glistened and sparkled in the light.
“It’s not a leak,” said the Lord. “It’s a tear.”
“A tear?” asked the angel. “What’s it for?”
“It’s for joy, sadness, disappointment, compassion pain, loneliness, and pride.”
“You are a genius,” said the angel.
The Lord looked somber. “I didn’t put it there,” He said.
This was written by the late, great humorist, Erma Bombeck, still mothering us. She was also a devout Catholic.

My son, Jesse choked up a bit when he read an earlier draft of this reflection. His email critique was a full page. I should expect this from a son who inherited his mother’s writing talent and his father’s sense of humor.

He reminded me that the amazing blessing that is motherhood is a gift from him and his siblings, not yet mentioned: Jacques my oldest son; Aron, my youngest son; and Jordan, my youngest daughter. I won’t live this down if I don’t mention them. And they are all my favorites. He also reminded me of the challenge of entering into a world made new through cooperation with the One who created it—a sometimes unnerving, even annoying challenge.

Those we mother, make us mothers. This experience of mothering, in its broadest sense, is not limited, however, to those who have given birth, or even those who have raised children. The attributes of mothers are those of God. He gives them to each of us. Mothering is as much a spirit as it is a vocation, and each of us is called to mother another. As both a daughter and a mother of the church, I must continue to birth it into being, as we must all do.

Paul, in the first reading, is mothering the Church into being, watering the seeds Christ planted, tending young Christians. He is midwife and mother; thinking and reasoning and compromising; to deliver truth to the world, our sacred charge as well. Mothering is how creation begins—spirit brooding over water. It is what brings Jesus to us, to be birthed into our world. Mary’s “yes” enables our salvation to take on flesh, to live as one of us, to be, for Mary, that tear of joy, sadness, disappointment, compassion, pain, loneliness and pride. It is our “yes” to Jesus that allows Him to be birthed and borne again and again into a world that sorely needs Him.

As we all know, and mothers in particular, birth is often attended with much pain, not because of some curse of Eve, but because something must give way to allow new life to come forward. It is interesting that the word “tear” and “tear” are so similar. The pain, I believe is God’s way of getting our attention. Tears are our way, it seems, of getting God’s attention. Love hurts.

In today’s gospel, Jesus says, “Whoever loves me will keep my word, and my father will love him, and we will come to him and make our dwelling with him.” It is quite obvious that a pregnant woman’s body is a “dwelling” for her unborn child—so too are our bodies the dwelling for the Holy Spirit. Jesus speaks of the promised Advocate in his farewell at the Last Supper--a farewell much like the ones mothers and family members and friends we give to our graduates, who we honor today as we send them out into the big, scary world. We wish to do as Jesus does, send an Advocate, in our name, to remind our children of all we have told them.

In a very concrete sense we do that, not just in keeping ties with our children through letters or electronic means. Our bond with Christ through the Holy Spirit is as real, material even, as our spiritual and biological connection to our offspring, to each other, and all creation.

As a one time childbirth educator I have helped women and families to prepare baby’s birth; and I have been privileged and humbled to be a labor assistant at the birth of a mother, in its most fundamental sense. In my study of pregnancy and birth, one of the most fascinating things I have learned is about a phenomenon called microchimerism.
A chimera reminds me of the extraordinary beings in John’s book of Revelation—a composite of other beings. Remember the ones with the wings on their feet, four faces on their heads, to see in all directions.

Microchimerism is the fact of biology; that a woman’s body contains fetal cells—actually very small amounts of her child’s stem cells, long after its birth. We too possess the cells of our mothers, and quite possibly those of our grandparents and siblings born before us. Such cells may be implicated in causing, but perhaps, more importantly in healing and preventing disease. It is the Communion of Saints on a biological level.

Dr. J. Lee Nelson, a neurosurgeon and researcher studying this phenomenon referred to these cells as “seeds sprinkled through the body that ultimately take root and become part of the landscape.” It sounds a lot like what Jesus said, “we will come to him and make our dwelling with him.” God takes root in, us coloring and changing our inner landscape, and hopefully our outward living as well.

What all of this suggests is our connectedness to each other and to Christ—a bond celebrated and again made new and real in Eucharist. We see in God’s plan of creation a continuity which ties us to one another and to God. This is Paul’s trust, and ours, to do what is right, to build a legacy of faith. This is the essence of motherhood, of mothering.

Mother Teresa said, “Every mother is like Moses, she prepares a world she will not see.” What we do now has huge implications for the future. It is our vocation to prepare well that world we will not see well, but also to prepare a world we hope to see, a world we believe we will see—the fullness of the kingdom of God.

This is what my mother did for me, in bringing me to church, in teaching and nurturing my faith, as did a long, long line of ancestors—mothers and others—before her. This is what I hopefully do for my children, and they will do for theirs.

It is a cycle yes, but one that spirals forward toward that kingdom; an ever evolving spiral that binds us in relationship, much like the double helix of DNA—simple, elegant. It is life, written in our hearts and in our cells. As my son Jesse said, “We pass on the story of our never ending quest to find more of ourselves in faith”—much as we pass on our genes. In her article on microchimerism in Scientific American, Dr. Nelson quoted poet Walt Whitman who wrote in “Song of Myself,” “I contain multitudes.” What better explanation could there be of the Body of Christ?

A line from a song by contemporary band, Switchfoot says: “The world begins with newborn skin.” And so it is, “In the beginning was the Word…and the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us. So too does that flesh dwell in the body of Mary our Mother. In a very literal sense, Mary is the tabernacle of God. So too, are we.

Fifth Sunday of Lent Reflection

Last week we celebrated Laetare Sunday, which is all about being joyful as we approach the end of Lent and the promise of Resurrection. But I think that despite the considerable references to death in today’s readings they give us even more reasons to rejoice. At first glance you might not think so, to some extent they almost seem like bad scripts to horror movies, dead bodies rising from graves, life given to mortal bodies, and most incredibly a man, four days dead and wrapped in burial cloths, emerging from a tomb. It all sounds kind of creepy—like “Night of the Living Dead” or “Frankenstein.” Hollywood loves zombies, and more recently vampires and all manner of the undead. So apparently, do we, if box office receipts and the lines to buy the "New Moon" DVD are any indication.

Someone unfamiliar with such stories and the scriptures we hear today might dismiss them as fantasies in the creative and morbid mind of a novelist or screenwriter. But sometimes it is the familiarity with these readings that cause us to dismiss them as well—especially the account of the raising of Lazarus. Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard it before, many times, Jesus calls Lazarus from the tomb, can we sit down now? This gospel reading is long and our attention spans short. But it is a richly layered story, dense with meaning—much of which I can’t even begin to explore in this reflection. I must have read this at least a dozen times in the last couple weeks, and each time I found both deeper meaning and less certainty of what it is all about.

If you could for a moment, imagine yourself in Bethany. Perhaps you are a friend or an acquaintance of Mary and Martha, and you too are saddened by the death of their brother. Like these sisters you might be disappointed when Jesus finally shows up that He didn’t arrive earlier. Mary doesn’t even go out to meet him, and she was the one who sat at his feet, of whom He said she had chosen the better part. You think she’s upset? Like Martha, you might trust that Jesus can bring good from what appears to be a futile situation—and you hope, that despite appearances something miraculous might happen, as it has on other occasions. You’ve heard the stories of, or perhaps even witnessed the healings, the multiplication of loaves and fishes which feeds thousands of people, the powerful teachings and words of this one that perhaps like Martha you believe is “the Christ, the Son of God, the one who is coming into the world.”

Or maybe you’re a skeptic, or even an enemy, who misinterprets miracles as magic; words of comfort and hope—especially to the poor and oppressed—as the rhetoric of rebellion; servitude as weakness. You’re just looking for an excuse to condemn this one who comes to save. And you are about to get it.

If you find yourself conflicted in your role as friend or foe, or if you struggle to believe at times that this really occurred; then trust me, you are not alone. I have found myself struggling with these things. But for now, take your place among the mourners in this unfolding drama and a curious thing happens. Confronted with the grief of those who love Lazarus, “Jesus wept.” This is the shortest verse in the Bible, and for me, one of the most enigmatic ones. Why does He weep? When I was younger and life was less complicated I thought, well, if He knew He was going to raise Lazarus from the dead, why would He cry? Some of the reasons I have heard, or have thought about myself are that Jesus knows by raising Lazarus He is taking an incredible risk which will ultimately lead to condemnation and death. When word gets around about His bringing a dead man back to life what kind of reaction will there be—more and bigger crowds, a clamoring for this kingdom of which He speaks. He is becoming far too dangerous. Perhaps He weeps because no doubt Lazarus will be treated much like the blind man in last week’s gospel, hauled before the authorities and questioned, perhaps eventually persecuted. And poor Lazarus, brought back to life, must eventually die again. We have heard the stories of “near death” experiences some have had when they were revived or resuscitated—some not too happy about it as they speak of their "post death" experience as one filled with light and love. This glimpse of what might be on the other side of death seems far more appealing and that is certainly our hope and our belief.

Jesus’ weeping tells us much about the character of this man who was fully human and fully God. Familiar with suffering, He stands in solidarity with us in all the things that sadden and shake us, and death is certainly one of the most profound occasions of grief for all of us. As with Jesus’ Baptism, His mourning is another example of a response that is not required, but His action speaks to our lived and shared experiences, and His willingness to enter into them fully.

It is tempting to think that this story ends with Lazarus joyfully tearing up his will and throwing a big party. A happy ending no doubt, but the last line tells us this is only a beginning: “Now many of the Jews who had come to Mary and seen what he had done began to believe in Him.” Where does belief begin, when is faith quickened in us? Is it the result of witnessing a miracle? Perhaps, but none of us has witnessed anything like this—the raising of a dead person. Despite our unreasoned hopes, this has never happened since Jesus walked the earth. Something else is going on here. This is not just a story of a profound and unrepeated occurrence, though it does give rise to a very reasoned hope that we will all be called forth from our earthly graves to a new life with God in heaven.

This “new life” however, this beginning of belief is given to us in Baptism—and for our catechumens, who are undergoing their third scrutiny this weekend this dramatic transformation will be played out when they enter the baptismal pool—and literally die to their old selves, to emerge with a new life, united with Christ in His living and His dying. St. Paul makes this very clear in the second reading: “the One who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also, through his Spirit dwelling in you.” Paul is talking about that new life, here and now, for all the baptized—whether this Baptism occurred when you were too young to even realize it, or as you now prepare to enter into Christ’s death and resurrection in the waters of Baptism at the Easter vigil. This is not a re-animation of dead flesh but literally a new life in the Spirit—a life continually renewed and sustained as surely as breath renews and sustains the body. To illustrate the significance of this it might help to know that in the past catechumens were held under the water long enough to feel oxygen deprived and panicky. Three times their heads were immersed, making it difficult to catch their breath, rather they caught the breath of the Holy Spirit. In a very real sense, they were brought close to literal death. What’s the first thing you do when you emerge from a deep plunge into a pool or a lake? — You breathe in. In Hebrew, the word for breath and spirit is the same—“ruach” which is also a name for God.

But what is the point of all this—this powerful symbol of plunging toward death and emerging a new creation? Baptism is truly the beginning of a new life, a life where we, like Lazarus get to throw off what binds us and holds us in death’s grip. Do we enter into this near death experience simply to save ourselves—to assure our ticket to heaven? Like all the sacraments, Baptism is not about us, as individuals—it involves the whole community. Think about that, every sacrament creates or restores a relationship Remember, Jesus tells the bystanders to untie Lazarus and let him go. Jesus doesn’t until him and Lazarus doesn’t do this himself. It is done for him, by those around him, his community. Jesus gives new life, but the community assists and nurtures it. Think back to the first reading from Ezekiel. God says: “O my people, I will open your graves and have you rise from them, O my people! I will put my spirit in you that you may live” These words are addressed to the nation of Israel, a nation in exile, a people who have lost hope in being restored, folks who for all intents and purposes are as good as dead. Though their bodies live, their spirits are crushed. God promises to settle them upon their lands and God will do it.

To what end then, is this new life given? It is given for the life of the community—a life sustained and renewed each time we come together for Eucharist, each time we receive Jesus and embrace in our “Amen” the very essence of what Jesus is all about. We assent anew to a baptism not just in His death, but perhaps more profoundly in His life, living as He lives, loving as He loves, and forgiving as He forgives. Consider carefully what it means and what is required of us when we hear and affirm the words, “The Body of Christ.” They are not just a reference to this Bread of Life, but an address to and acknowledgement of each and all of us.

Certainly, we can turn our backs on this; we can choose to see in today’s readings just some fantastic stories that make for interesting reading. Baptism cannot be “undone” but we can choose to live a life in the flesh, a life that cannot please God because as Paul reminds us that those who do not have the Spirit of Christ do not belong to him. And that my brothers and sisters is downright scary. What must it be like to never be pleasing to God? That sort of life is one of a horror that even Hollywood cannot truly begin to imagine.