Mothering Sunday - A Bittersweet Blessing

Every year, on the fourth Sunday of Lent, the Western Church celebrates Mothering Sunday. Irrespective of your own tradition (or lack thereof), if you have attended a church on this day, the likelihood is it will have shaped the service in some way or another. Perhaps you will have heard messages thanking and honouring mothers, poetry about motherhood or Biblical readings chosen to reflect this theme. If nothing else, you might have witnessed children wandering around the church, giving out daffodils to all the adult women present. 

Whilst the notion of celebrating mothers may seem uncontroversial, it has oft been noted that Mothering Sunday is a pastoral nightmare. Within any given congregation, there will be a whole host of people for whom the theme of motherhood might be problematic.  There will be those whose mothers may be frail or unwell, those who have or have had complex or difficult relations with their mothers or children, as well as those longing to be mothers for whom having children has not been a possibility. As one training for ordained ministry, I know that these are the people I need to lovingly honour on such a potentially delicate day. 

Meanwhile, as an individual, and as a son, I must admit I find Mothering Sunday to be bittersweet at best.

Just under three years ago, my mother died after a short but brave battle with Pancreatic Cancer. She was an incredible woman. I think I can speak for my siblings in saying that she was not only an amazing mother, but a wonderful friend. She was faithful, loving, kind, selfless and fun. She was and remains a true inspiration to me and I owe her so much. In saying all this, I am acutely aware that I was and am truly blessed and in many ways I have more cause for gratitude than I do for lament.

And yet, for the time being at least, Mothering Sunday seems to serve as a reminder of that which has been lost, and that which I miss so dearly. As we celebrate motherhood, it can almost feel as if that which I lack and that which I’ve lost is being rubbed in my face. I suspect I am far from alone in feeling this. 

Of course, this is not simply a liturgical issue, but one that is connected to the commercial behemoth that ‘Mother’s Day’ has become. Last year, a member of the church where I was on placement asked (innocently and earnestly) whether I had been a dutiful son and sent home a Mother’s Day card. An awkward pause ensued. Suddenly, what had started as post-service small talk over tea and a biscuit was in real danger of becoming an unexpectedly sombre conversation. Being painfully British, I elected to come across as a forgetful and neglectful son, rather than simply lie or subject either of us to the kind of melancholy musings that might have taken place had I shared my story.

Although I chuckle at my own Britishness during such an exchange, I was actually left feeling emotionally exposed. It illustrates how Mothering Sunday or Mother’s Day has the potential to be not merely awkward, but to pick at the raw wounds of our grief and grievances. I want to honour mothers. I want to celebrate motherhood. But Mothering Sunday is becoming a day I actively dread.

However, as I’ve pondered this in recent days, I’ve been alerted to the actual origins of Mothering Sunday. Indeed, dating back centuries, prior to the commercialisation of recent decades, Mothering Sunday was a festival that was not about individual mothers, but the ‘Mother Church’. In fact, it was a day in which people were encouraged to go back home to their Mother Church, be it in their local parish or even the place in which they were Baptised. 

For me, this resonates powerfully with what I think the Church is and can be at its best. 

I will never forget the day that I found out about my mother’s diagnosis. Not only because of the obvious shock and sadness, but because of the way in which G2, the church I went to and worked for offered such profound love and support. Throughout the journey that ensued, they offered constant, prayerful friendship that truly brought home to me what it meant for the church to be a family. Moreover, when I returned home to my actual Mother Church in North Wales, I was overwhelmed by the way in which they loved us, served us and in many ways carried us practically and emotionally, even though they themselves were grieving. 

At the heart of the Christian faith, is the idea that through Christ we can be children of God (John 1:14). All of us are in some ways orphans in the world who have been adopted into the family of God (Galatians 4:4-8).

The Church, our Mother Church, is that gathered family, here on earth. Of course, both history and our own individual experience will tell us that it is often a dysfunctional family. Like any other family, there is always the potential for brokenness and hurt to occur. And yet, at our best, we can be a community of people who step up to the plate whenever a brother or a sister is in need.

Therefore, as we approach Mothering Sunday let us celebrate mothers, whilst remembering those for whom such an occasion is potentially painful. But more than that, let us remember that the Church is called to be God’s faithful and loving family. We are a community that has been Baptised with a grace that enables us to be a family that goes beyond biology. It is our God-given duty to provide a place for those who lack and those who have lost and to be a home for the widow and the orphan alike. For the sake of the orphan, the widow, those who lack and those who have lost, this is the kind of family we need to be, not only this Sunday but every single day. 

This Sunday is still a day that in some ways I dread. However, I will return to my Mother Church, knowing that however bittersweet any service might be, it is my home and it is where I belong.