The Rev. Noah Van Niel
May 13th, 2018
St. John the Evangelist
Easter 7: Acts 1: 15-17, 21-26; Psalm 1; 1 John 5:9-13; John 17:6-19
My youngest son, Arthur, started walking this week. He’s been cruising around from 
couch to chair to table for a while now, and he’s really good at climbing up things but this week was the first time he willingly let go of my hand, as I walked alongside him, and took off on his own. In a couple weeks we’re going to have 13 kids from St. John’s graduate from High School. And in my mind I can’t help but zoom from Arthur’s first few steps away from me to that moment in 18 years when, God willing, he will walk right across that stage, take his diploma and keep walking right on to a life away from home, with some (but not much) need of me walking by his side, to catch him if he falls.
Of course, my reaction to Arthur’s first independent steps was mostly one of exultation. We were clapping, cheering for him, picking him up and giving him kisses of congratulations. But within those celebrations there existed also a pang of sadness, of loss. For I realized, in those first, few, wobbly steps, the truth that parenting is one long process of separation; a series of important milestones that punctuate a child’s gradual transition to independence as they leave their parents behind. We have a group for parents of young children that meets once a month here at St. John’s. If you’ve got a kid in elementary school or younger, come on by. We meet at 9am the first Friday of the month. And our conversations, jovial and engaging as they are, often circle back to this realization: that being a parent is to be on an endless emotional rollercoaster of celebration and separation–and that’s part of the reason it’s exhausting. Birth is a separation. First steps. First day of school. Learning to drive. Going to college. Getting a job. Getting married. Getting a house. These are all good, important, healthy transitions that are the cause for great joy but also, more than a little bit of heartache.
Having to endure this emotional roller coaster on a regular basis may be part of the reason we have days like Mother’s Day (which is today, as I hope you are aware). Mother’s Day in the United States was begun by a woman named Ann Jarvis in 1868, and it was meant to reunite families that had been divided during the civil war. (Talk about painful separations of parenting). Ann Jarvis’ celebration didn’t really catch on until her daughter, Anna (in a fitting tribute to her mother) took up the cause and in the early 20th century made the holiday a national observance. I found it interesting to read that Mother’s Day has become one of the top days for church attendance through the year, third only to Easter and Christmas in some places. And it is also one of the most commercially lucrative holidays for shop owners and florists. In fact, Mother’s Day quickly became so commercialized that Anna Jarvis spent the last years of her life saying she wished she had never started the holiday because of what it had turned into. A creation of yours going its own way once out into the world and frustrating you to no end? Sounds like motherhood.
Now even though it is celebrated across the world at this point, we should remember that Mother’s Day is not a day of celebration for everyone. Some have suffered great pain in regards to motherhood whether in trying to become a mother and not being able to; having a difficult relationship with their mother; losing their mother; losing a child; or not wanting to be a mother and feeling judged for their decision. For those of you who fall into any of those categories, I hope the church can be a place where we can hold both sadness and joy together; rejoicing with those who rejoice and weeping with those who weep. Being a mother is hard. Not being a mother is hard. Having a mother is hard. And not having a mother is hard. There’s nothing easy about motherhood either in concept or in practice. But there are also great reasons to celebrate mother’s at least one day a year and chief among them is for their enduring the lifelong cycle of joy and heartbreak that is their fate the moment a baby is born.
And so on this Sunday that we celebrate mothers, and we reflect on the roller coaster of celebration and separation that is the reality of parenting—from first steps to packing for college—it is appropriate that today is also one of celebration and separation, a day of mixed emotions, in the church. On Thursday of this past week we celebrated the feast of Jesus’ ascension into heaven. The time had come for his resurrected presence to settle into its rightful place at the right hand of God. It’s a big homecoming for him and the disciples rejoice for they get to bid him farewell not in dishonor and shame as they did at his crucifixion, but in triumph and great glory. It is a joyous feast day. But Jesus’ ascension also means a separation. A departure from his disciples. He is no longer with them. Peter and the gang now have to transition from being followers to being leaders. To be fair, Jesus does not leave them comfortless, he promises to send them the Holy Spirit to come and inspire, embolden and guide them in their work. But the truth is Jesus is no longer with them in the same way, and I bet that tempers their excitement and joy with some sadness and plenty of confusion about what lies ahead.
Excitement, joy, sadness, confusion…sounds like motherhood. But also sounds like any moment in our lives that is one of transition, whether we are mother’s or not. It can be hard to live in such a swirling sea of emotion as life passes through its inevitable evolutions whether that’s as a parent or not. It can be hard to know how to proceed when things are changing dramatically and rapidly. Which is why I think our Gospel passage is an important reminder to us when we find ourselves turned upside down by the unavoidable cycle of celebration and separation that is our life. For what did Jesus do when he found himself in this same position, this time of transition, preparing to leave his disciples and sending them out into the world? He prayed for them. To a world that prizes action and activity that might sound like a weak response, even coming from Jesus. I mean you might expect the miracle worker, the Son of God, to be able to conjure something better than a prayer as a parting gift. But Jesus knew that prayer is what we always have recourse to when all else is out of our control. That’s why it was the climax of his farewell to his disciples. Because it actually is the most powerful thing we can do for people. Prayer is the recognition that even though someone is not fully in your care, they are still in God’s care; you may not be able to walk by their side anymore, but He can. And it is a recognition that those who you raise up or who you love, even if they are bone of your bone and flesh of your flesh, never fully belong to you. But they always belong to God. When we pray for people, be they children or others, we are turning them over, or better yet, returning them, to the power from which they came; to a care from which they can never wander away no matter how hard they try. And we entrust them to the only power than can actually protect them as they walk through this world.
So, Jesus prays, “Father, I am asking…on behalf of those whom you gave me, because they are yours. All mine are yours, and yours are mine; and I have been glorified in them…Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me…While I was with them, I protected them in your name that you have given me. I guarded them, and not one of them was lost…But now I am coming to you, and I speak these things in the world so that they may have my joy made complete in themselves….I am not asking you to take them out of the world, but I ask you to protect them from the evil one….Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth. As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world.”
Or in other words, “Protect them Lord because I can’t anymore. I have to entrust them to your care because I can’t be with them every step of the way, but you can. They have always been yours, but I did my best while they were under my care to guard them, teach them, love them. You don’t have to remove them from the ups and downs of life, just…protect them. Let them know that you are with them. And let them know how loved they are by you, by me, by so, so many.”
Now I know prayer is not going to get a baby to sleep through the night or eat all their vegetables (believe me, I’ve tried). But it will help us weather the endless and exhausting cycle of separation and celebration that is the fate of parents, mothers, all of us in this life. For it reminds us that even separations from us are not separations from God. While sad, separation is necessary and important both for the empowerment of the disciples to go forth and spread the good news of Jesus Christ and start the Church, and for the empowerment of our children to go forth and blossom into the tremendous human beings God made them to be and we nurtured them to be. And we should rejoice in that. But boy, is it hard. I’m thrilled that Arthur is learning to walk, and it also makes me more than a little sad. I’m thrilled that so many of our young people are going on to bright and promising futures, but I’m going to miss them. The disciples knew that same mix of emotions as they sat in between Jesus’ ascension and Pentecost—where we sit today. And so too did Jesus as he prepared to leave them and send them out into the world. And in those moments he was left where we are left, with a hope and a prayer, which is really all we needed to begin with.