25 years ago I preached for the first time in my village church – a few months into Reader training.
It was Mothering Sunday and my vicar had
decided that as I, the mum of 3 small children, should take the opportunity for my debut with an engaging,
interactive, all-age service.
If I recall correctly, I was geared up to compare and contrast the perfect mothers beloved of the media with real mothers like myself, who got things wrong, got cross, weren’t always on time for school pick-up and didn’t run immaculate homes....the point being that we can none of live up to impossible hype, but scramble through life by the grace of God and the kindness of friends, and that only God is the perfect parent
Or something like that.
But then, Dunblane happened – and I found myself in a very different world from the cosy celebration of happy families and egg-box daffodils that I might have imagined
The mothers who miscarried the babies for
whom they had such hopes, such dreams - I think hope is written in the DNA of all mothers
The mothers spending agonised, anxious
hours surrounded by the life-saving but terrifying technology of SCBU, or
watching at bedsides in hospice or hospital, hoping beyond hope
The mothers of Aberfan, Dunblane, Sandy
Hook, Chibook and so many many more
The mothers whose sons were victims of
knife crime - and those who carried the knives
The Argentinian mothers of the disappeared
The mothers who still entrust their
children to tiny boats in rough seas in the hope that they will find a better
life when they arrive on the far side
The mothers whose children were simply
walking home on a quiet night
The mothers whose children have gone off
the rails – who are sure it was all their fault
The mothers who have lost touch with their
children, who didn’t know how to love them well enough, who don’t understand
what went wrong.,,and the children who grew up feeling that they were somehow
not good enough, unlovble, unacceptable.
And those who never became parents at all, whether by choice or by mischance.
Those
who feel absolutely alone in life, with nobody to confide in, nobody to delight
in joys or share in sorrows
All those who won’t risk coming to worship
today because it’s just too painful.
Why am I saying all this today?
Surely last week’s thoughts about the way
of the cross provided more than enough pain and disquiet for a while…
I’d love to simply preach consolation...but
reality keeps forcing its way in.
Because this has been an emotional week in
an emotional year for many, probably ALL of us.
Because I don’t know anyone who hasn’t
struggled at least a little – probably a lot – as we go through this month of
covid anniversaries
Because we need to be honest to God about
our feelings…not tidy them up, replace reality with a glossy mask that we think
God might prefer.
Because we need to make our churches REAL –
places where all feelings can safely be named, where no grief, no
disappointment, no anger at self or God is unacceptable
None of us gets through life without a few swords through the soul.
Our wounds may not always seem to be of the
same order as Mary’s, but that in no way diminishes their power to knock us off course and leave us bruised
and grieving
So – let’s admit it.
We who love our battered, glorious
cathedral should surely be able to manage that!
The inspired choice more than 60 years ago to
retain the ruins preserves our wounded reality in broken stone and heat warped
iron. It’s a place which understands grief. Torn apart itself, it offers room
for those whose lives have been torn apart in different ways.
And beside it, though the new cathedral may
appear all triumphant transformation, beneath the overwhelming presence of
Christ enthroned in glory, inextricably connected to it is the figure of Christ
crucified, drawing the whole world to himself.
And there, unlovely in her grief, but constant
in her love, is the statue of his mother.
Mary the representative of all the wounded loving
souls who can only stand at the place of suffering and hope that new life may
yet begin, even there.
Last night, after I’d finished writing these thoughts I went downstairs to light a candle and place it in the window, knowing that many many others would be doing the same. And then I saw fearful images from Clapham Common and was tempted to despair.
But the candle still burned.
A candle of love and remembrance for Sarah, of course – and for so
many other women who never got home safely – but also an act of subversion…a
reminder of the extraordinary, ordinary truth that even here, and even now, even
as our souls our pierced, this truth remains
Goodness is stronger than evil.
Love is stronger than hate.
Light is stronger than darkness.
Life is stronger than death.
Victory is ours through Him who loved us.
Thanks. I needed that! The Sarah Everard thing was just round the corner from us - had she gone home the shortest way instead of (mistakenly) thinking she'd be safer on the main road, she would have come within metres of our block of flats. It has thrown us both rather badly.
ReplyDeleteI get that Annabel. We lived in Leathwaite Road, and my daughter is still in S London. It's all a bit too close to home, isn't it.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Kathryn! Even at this distance it is clear how deeply this week has been felt in the UK.
ReplyDelete*This* is the sermon about which you tweeted the night before as "very miserable and probably a bit too real"...?
ReplyDeleteIt's beautiful, honest and hope-orientated.
One of your best, Kathryn.
ReplyDelete