GO ASK YOUR MOTHER
Mother’s Day holds a very prominent place in the hearts of most Americans. The Hallmark card company estimates that 150 million Mother’s Day cards will be sent this year, compared to about 95 million Father’s Day cards. Americans spend an average of $105.00 on Mother’s Day gifts, while they spend an average of only $90.00 on Father’s Day gifts. The phone rings more often on Mother’s Day than it does on Father’s Day too, although the statistics do indicate that more collect calls are made on Father’s Day. I’m not exactly sure what that implies.
What do these statistics reveal? It seems to me as though they reveal that Mom is more popular than Dad. And why is that? Perhaps it’s due in part because – when our children come to us with difficult questions – we fathers tend to reply, “Go ask your mother.” Mom tends to be the primary go-to source for the questions that plague men’s minds…literally! Keep that thought in mind as we move on.
The scene in the passage I read from the gospel according to John is the Last Supper. Judas Iscariot has just arisen to go betray the Lord. Jesus Christ, the consummate teacher – fully aware of the fate about to befall him – continues to instruct his disciples. And what is the first thing he talks about, in spite of what’s about to transpire? Jesus speaks of love. “A new commandment I give you,” he says, “that you love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples.”
Love is a familiar theme for Jesus. Perhaps that’s because love seems to be so difficult for us. For example, how do we love the unlovable? How do we love someone we’d really rather strangle? How do we love the people who make themselves so incredibly difficult to love? Listen to the following two stories, and try to decide for yourselves which one better expresses love for the unlovable.
Apartment dwellers in New Zealand now have a brand new weapon to use against noisy neighbors. It seems a local man has recorded a compact disc that consists of 64 minutes of lawn mower noise. Thus, if your neighbors have a party that keeps you up really late, what you do is get up at six in the morning, put the lawn mowing C.D. in the stereo, crank up the volume, and go out for breakfast. The new compact disc offers listeners general lawn mowing sounds, along with special features like the emptying of the grass catcher and the blades clipping stones.
Believe it or not, this has become a huge seller in New Zealand. The lawn mower C.D. is actually the creator’s second. His first was entitled, “Urban Assault,” which consists of a car alarm, a revving motorcycle, and a crying baby. For some, love consists of what we might call “tough love,” and tough love seems to be all about getting even. Is this the love of which Jesus speaks?
Here’s another story that depicts loving the unlovable. The author is unknown. I found it in an old newsletter in my files entitled, From the Ranch. The author writes:
A friend of mine went to the County Clerk’s office to renew her driver’s license. The clerk said to her, “Do you have a job, or are you just a…” My friend – fuming – replied, “Of course I have a job! I’m a mother!” The clerk replied, “We don’t list ‘mother’ as an occupation. ‘Housewife’ pretty much covers it.”
I found myself in the very same situation one day when I was at our town hall. The clerk was obviously a career woman: poised, efficient, and possessing an impressive-sounding title like, “Town Registrar” or “Official Interrogator.” She asked me that very same question: “And what is your occupation?”
The words just popped out of my mouth: “I’m a Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations.” The clerk paused; pen frozen in mid-air. I repeated the title slowly: “I’m a Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations.” The clerk wrote my pompous title in bold, black ink on the official questionnaire. Then she asked, with a measure of suspicion in her voice, “Might I ask just what you do in your field?”
I replied, “I have a continuing program of research in the laboratory and in the field. I’m working for my Master’s – the whole family – and already have four credits…all daughters. Of course, the job is one of the most demanding in the humanities, and I often work 14 hours a day. But the job is more challenging than most run-of-the-mill careers, and the rewards are in satisfaction rather than just money.”
There was an increasing note of respect in the clerk’s voice. She completed the form, stood up, and personally ushered me to the door. As I later drove into our driveway, buoyed by my glamorous new title, I was greeted by my lab assistants – ages thirteen, seven and three. Upstairs I could hear our new experimental model – six months old – in the child development program, testing out a new vocal pattern.
I felt triumphant. I had scored a beat on bureaucracy. And I had gone down in the records as someone more distinguished and indispensable to society than “just another…”
Jesus gave his disciples a new commandment: that they love one another. He gives the very same commandment to us. Yet we know all-too-well how difficult some people make themselves to love. So, how do we love them? Do we love them by getting even? Or do we love them by instilling a gentle sense of humor? You be the judge.
Philip Gulley is the author of a book entitled, For Everything a Season. In it, he offers an intriguing philosophy as to what love really is. He writes:
Now I want to tell you a lie. Hate is an emotion we can’t help. Hate is a feeling we cannot overcome. If we hate someone, it’s because we just can’t help ourselves. We’re human; we have no choice but to hate. That is a lie. Unfortunately, it is a lie that many people believe. They believe this lie in order to excuse their hatred. After all, if we can’t help but hate – if hate is a feeling we simply cannot help – then hatred is never our fault, is it?
But we can help it. Hatred is a choice. We choose to hate, just as we choose to love. Oh, I know, there are people out there who believe love isn’t a choice…that love is primarily an emotion, a feeling, a stirring in the loins. Those are the same people who love the idea of love, but seem to be unable to stay in it. Love is a matter of the will – something we decide to do. Love, my friends, is a choice.
Now that’s a fine definition for those who need a definition of love. You know, I often say in wedding sermons myself, “Love is so much more than a fickle emotion. Love...is a state of being.” And that it is. Yet perhaps love defies description. Perhaps love is something that is better witnessed than discussed.
The following e-mail came to me last January. I saved it for Mother’s Day because it talks about mothers. But I think it also reveals true love. Love may be a choice – love may be a state of being – but love is also something much, much more. Listen to the following story, and I think you’ll see what I mean.
This is for all the mothers who froze their backsides off on metal bleachers at football games on Friday nights, instead of watching from the car, so that when their kids ask, “Did you see me?” they can say, “Of course I saw you. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” and mean it.
This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up sputum laced with Oscar Meyer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, “It’s okay, honey. Mommy’s here.”
This is for all the mothers of the earthquake in China who fled in the night and can’t find their children. This is for all the mothers who gave birth to babies they’ll never see. And mothers who took those babies in and made homes for them.
This is for all the mothers of the victims of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting, and the mother of the murderer. This is for the mothers of the survivors – and the mothers who sat in front of their T.V.s in horror – hugging their child who just came home from school safely. This is for all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. And for all the mothers who don’t.
What makes a good mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time? Or is it heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school for the very first time? The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread – from bed to crib – at 2:00 a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby? The need to flee from wherever you are to hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, or a baby dying?
So this is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to, but just couldn’t. This is for reading Goodnight, Moon twice a night for a year. And then reading it again, “Just one more time.”
This is for all the mothers who mess up. Who yell at their kids in the grocery store, and swat them in frustration, and stomp their feet like a tired two-year-old who wants ice cream before dinner. This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead. For all the mothers who bite their lips until they bleed when their 14-year-olds dye their hair green. Who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won’t stop.
This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair, and milk stains on their blouses, and diapers in their purses. This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook dinner, and their daughters to sink a jump shot. This is for all the mothers whose heads automatically turn when a little voice calls, “Mom?” in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home.
This is for all the mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children’s graves. This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, and who can’t find the words to reach them. This is for all the mothers who sent their sons to school with stomach aches, assuring them they’d be just FINE once they got there, only to get a call from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up. RIGHT AWAY.
This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning how to let go. For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, mothers without. This is for you all. Without precious mothers, children would flounder. Thank you for being the best mom you could be. Love is what catches us when we fall. And we all fall.
Jesus commanded us to love one another. We feel the need to define that love. We say, “Love is a choice.” We say, “Love is a state of being.” Yet love is really so much more. Love is what God is. Love is what we become when someone means more to us than we mean to ourselves. If that’s not clear enough…go ask your mother. Amen.
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