Preached to the Congregational Church in Exeter, U. C. C., on Lay Sunday, May 12, 2002, by Danette Wineberg, a member of the church.
"God could not be everywhere, so he created mothers." At least that's what this Jewish proverb asserts. It has become an almost trite phrase, especially common around Mother's Day. However, on this Mother's Day I don't intend to debate its theological soundness or even to talk specifically about Mother's Day. What I'd like to do instead is to reflect a bit on other kinds of mothers -- besides the "traditional" ones -- those mothers who nuture and guide and challenge and inspire us in our faith. These mothers may be men or women or children, and we might have encountered them in lots of different places -- inside and outside the church. They help shape who we are and contribute to why we sit in this particular church on this particular Sunday.
First, a word about that word: "faith". For me, faith is a journey -- at times difficult and challenging, as well as compelling and rewarding. In her book, Amazing Grace -- a vocabulary of faith, Kathleen Norris comes close to describing my concept of faith. She writes: "...[F]aith is best thought of as a verb, not a 'thing' that you either have or you don't..." She quotes what she calls the "wisdom" of novelist Doris Betts in asserting that faith is "not synonymous with certainty...[but] is the decision to keep your eyes open."
The decision to keep your eyes open. So who are those "mothers" who have helped us decide to keep our eyes open?
Early in his second letter to Timothy, Paul expresses his confidence in Timothy, writing, "I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice, and now I am sure dwells in you."
For Paul, Timothy's faith was learned, maybe even "inherited" from his grandmother and mother, handed down so to speak through generations. That might be true of some of us here today, and if so, it is a wonderful legacy.
My grandmother, however, did not even go to church. My father's mother was born and grew up in a small village in the hills of Italy outside Naples late in the 19th century. By all rights, she should have been a practicing, if not devout, Catholic. But her husband's family had a fight with the village priest, and no one in her family went to church, including her children, including after they came to America. That's my legacy -- a bit of a contrast to Timothy's, I guess. But I learned a lot from my grandmother. Not about the church or Christianity specifically, but about living a good life. She lived a life of devotion to her family and her community. She endured losses and struggles and she was very poor. But she was positive and joyful in the way she embraced life, and she was selfless and generous in her love. She was humble and strong and exemplified in every way the values I came later to know and label as Christian.
My grandmother mothered me in my faith.
I grew up in a home where church was central to our family life -- the Methodist church within walking distance. Also, for 8 years, beginning when I was 7 years old, I spent 2 glorious weeks each summer at the Presbyterian church camp my mother attended as a child -- on a beautiful lake in northern Michigan. That was a magical place for me -- a "girls only" camp where -- decades before the women's movement and Title IX -- we were challenged and pushed, by adults who cared, to stretch ourselves mentally and physically and even spiritually. By the time I was 15, a small group of us felt we had met all of the physical challenges -- swimming, canoeing, wilderness camping, sailing -- the camp had to offer, and we were up to the big challenge of swimming across the lake. No girls had tried this, but we knew a few boys had during boys camp. It was about 3 miles -- a distance we were certain we could handle. And, we had the support of the waterfront director, Bill Jones. But it was the Camp Committee (serious, powerful and important men sitting at the Presbyterian Church in Detroit) which had to give its approval. The Committee was scheduled to meet while we were away on a several day canoe trip. We would know their decision when we returned. As we were leaving Camp, I said optimistically to Bill, "I'm going to pray that they decide to let us do it." He quickly responded, "No, pray that they make the right decision." That stopped me in my tracks -- what did that mean? What was the right decision? Could prayer be something other than just asking God for what you wanted? Oh, my -- maybe this was a bit more complicated than I thought. (No, they didn't let us swim across the lake, and I still think it was the wrong decision!)
But Bill Jones mothered me in my faith.
The '60s found me at Oberlin College -- where the civil rights movement, dramatic social change, and the issues of Vietnam took precedence over what I saw to be a largely irrelevant institutional church. But I found my way into a few religion classes -- exploring religion as an academic discipline. I found this enlightening and exhilarating. In a course called The Life and Teachings of Jesus, I was introduced to the theology of story, the central role of stories in teaching fundamental truths about religion in general and Christianity in particular. The course was taught by Professor Tom Frank, a tall imposing Scotsman with a booming voice, who I can still hear declare: "If you ask how big the star was that the wise men followed to Bethlehem, you've missed the whole point of the story!"
Professor Frank mothered me in my faith.
As the '70s began, we lived in Germany, courtesy of the US Army. My husband was stationed on a very small Army base out in the country. Because there was no organist for the small base chapel, and because someone found out I could play a small handful of hymns, I was hired as the organist. I played for both the Catholic and Protestant services. Attendance was probably 10 or 15 soldiers at each service -- and that filled the place. The Catholic priest was a local German, who lived in a monastery in a town near us. Because the soldiers often forgot to pick him up in time for church, I usually gave Father Andreas a ride to the base. That was a gift for me, as I got to know this extraordinary man. I learned that he spent WWII in a Russian prison camp, and that at the end of the war, he walked all the way home to Germany. I don't remember precisely how he got connected to the US military, but he ministered to US soldiers in -- so far as I could tell -- most of southern Germany. He visited "his boys" as he called them, in Army jails and mess halls and barracks, and he also spent time with their generals and commanders. The monastery where he lived was entirely self-sufficient. He often brought me butter the nuns had churned, eggs gathered from the hens that morning, and bread from the monastery ovens. Far from being out of touch with the real world, however, Father Andreas' sermons and conversations were amazingly relevant to all of us -- particularly to those young soldiers so far from home. His warmth and humor, his deep humanity and humility, his examined and tested faith, and his openness and just plain goodness touched deeply everyone he encountered.
Father Andreas mothered me in my faith.
When we returned to the States, we settled in Ann Arbor, Michigan and became part of the University community. One Sunday afternoon I was working with a few other folks on a door to door campaign, trying to secure signatures from other student parents on a petition for child care for University families (this was a revolutionary concept at the time). One of the two guys I was working with asked the other if church was at his house that evening. "What church?" I asked, curious. They explained about this unusual church which had no building -- a house church. People just met in each others' homes, and talked about stuff. That conversation got me and my family involved in what was then a mission of the Lutheran church -- intended to meet the needs of those who had dropped out of, or were otherwise alienated from, the institutional church. Services were held in homes and at non-traditional times -- Thursday evening, and Saturday, as well as Sunday. The service format was liturgical, but with guitar music (primarily provided by the talented pastor). The pastor gave a brief homily, which was followed by an open discussion. The service ended with communion. Those discussions were something else -- wide ranging and passionate -- including political and social issues of the day. We questioned, and explored, and shared, and argued -- with each other and with the pastor. We came to care deeply about each other and we learned from our doubts and wonderings and explorations and disagreements. Ultimately, such a church, peopled mostly by poor graduate students, could not be economically sustained, once the mother church's support was withdrawn. But while it existed, it was an important part of all our lives. And still today, nearly 30 years later, I am often tempted to raise my hand after a sermon ends to begin asking questions.
The people of The Fellowship of the Acts mothered me in my faith.
Then, after many many years of not being much involved in any institutional church, I found my way here. I look back with wonder on that first Sunday just over 4 years ago, when I came here "church shopping" in the hope of meeting a few people -- and never left. You have mothered me in my faith. This is a special church community -- warm and welcoming and interesting and challenging and supportive and nurturing, and I will always be grateful for the grace which brought me here.
To all those who have mothered me in faith over the course of my life, I am deeply grateful. I hope that you can reflect today on those who did the same for you. And I also hope that together we can be mindful of how we are and can be mothers in faith to each other every day. Imbedded among my spiritual doubts and uncertainties and questions is my very strong conviction that how we treat each other, how we live together in our homes and communities and the world, how we care for each other, and what we do together here in this church community -- how we mother to each other in the faith, matters very much.
"God could not be everywhere, so he created mothers." Actually, I believe God is everywhere -- including with and in and working through those who mother us in our faith -- those who nuture and guide and challenge and inspire us, so that we can always to decide to keep our eyes open -- open to new experiences and ideas, open to learn and grow in new ways -- open to care for and mother to each other in faith -- open to all the possibilities that a life in faith together can offer.
Happy Mother's Day.
Amen.