Sermon for Sunday, May 13, 2018
First United Presbyterian Church – Winterset, Iowa
Rev. Randal K. Lubbers, Pastor and Teacher
A Sermon inspired by (and based upon) THE PINK ROSE by Jeanne Stevenson Moessner. And dedicated to Jeanne, one of my spiritual mothers. Used by permission.
Part One: The Down-to-Earth Gardener
But I am.
Funny, every time I rediscover this it throws me for a loop.
Like around three years ago when I was delivering a bouquet of roses to church on the Saturday before Mother’s Day. First of all, I felt bad enough about swearing in the very presence of the roses when they fell over in the van. What kind of pastor would swear while delivering flowers to church? And if that wasn’t horrible enough—What kind of pastor swears as he enters church because the box holding the bouquet—made limp because of the water that had spilled when they tipped over in the van—the bottom of the cardboard box disintegrates and the whole thing nearly crashes to the floor!
And after this all happened I could only wonder: How many Hail Marys—yeah, I know we’re Presbyterian, but—how many Hail Marys would I need say in order to purify the roses from my anger and bad words and make them suitable again for a sermon illustration?
First United Presbyterian Church – Winterset, Iowa
Rev. Randal K. Lubbers, Pastor and Teacher
A Sermon inspired by (and based upon) THE PINK ROSE by Jeanne Stevenson Moessner. And dedicated to Jeanne, one of my spiritual mothers. Used by permission.
Part One: The Down-to-Earth Gardener
THE GARDENER By Mary OliverEver feel like life is passing you by? Do you wonder, “Have I lived enough? Have I loved enough?” Yeah. Me too. Sometimes it feel like I haven’t considered what Mary Oliver calls “Right Action” enough and I even feel ashamed because, doggone, if the pastor hasn’t come to any conclusions, then.... Well, what then? Of course at those times I’m falling into the common misconception that the pastor isn’t human.
Have I lived enough? Have I loved enough? Have I considered Right Action enough, have I
come to any conclusions? Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude? Have I endured loneliness with grace? I say, this, or perhaps I’m just thinking it. Actually, I probably think too much.
Then I step out into the garden, where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man, is tending his children, the roses.
But I am.
Funny, every time I rediscover this it throws me for a loop.
Like around three years ago when I was delivering a bouquet of roses to church on the Saturday before Mother’s Day. First of all, I felt bad enough about swearing in the very presence of the roses when they fell over in the van. What kind of pastor would swear while delivering flowers to church? And if that wasn’t horrible enough—What kind of pastor swears as he enters church because the box holding the bouquet—made limp because of the water that had spilled when they tipped over in the van—the bottom of the cardboard box disintegrates and the whole thing nearly crashes to the floor!
And after this all happened I could only wonder: How many Hail Marys—yeah, I know we’re Presbyterian, but—how many Hail Marys would I need say in order to purify the roses from my anger and bad words and make them suitable again for a sermon illustration?
What kind of pastor...?
A human one, I guess?
I can laugh now about my misadventure—to grasp humor is to be human (and humble)—and yet, the questions from the poet persist.
Mary Oliver asks, “Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude?” Surely I’ve experienced happiness—just as surely I know I’m not sufficiently grateful. Not all the time.
“Have I endured loneliness with grace?” Yes, I’ve endured... but not with the grace I see in others. My sense is that most people in this quirky and incredibly loving congregation are better than I am at all these things—better at doing what Jesus has commanded us to do and which we can only do while connected to the True Vine: to simply love one another.
Here’s the thing—and I think it’s true for Moms and all of us: When we’re trying to do five things at once and feeling overwhelmed because of this-or-that going on behind the scenes (that maybe nobody else knows the whole story about); and when we’re a bit tired and our resistance is at a low ebb; and miss the grace-sightings all around us and forget to say thank you; and we might even start feeling like the world owes us roses...
And at that very moment...
Some jerk in a snazzy BMW will cut you off.
Can you believe that? That guy clearly doesn’t understand that I’m the one who indeed does own the road!
And then the vase of roses tips over.
So what do we learn from this? Well, for one thing, since top-heavy roses can tip over and make a mess; maybe we’d best not let ourselves get too top heavy either. And, one more thing: If we think mothers or pastors or elders or teachers or saints are somehow exempt from the humus—the earthiness—of life; exempt from days when boots get stuck in the mud and manure; then we are mistaken. Because there’s always one of those “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days” out there—just waiting for us—for saints and sinners and even moms.
Did you know? The word human comes from the same root word as the words humus and humor and humility. The common root word refers to something that comes out of the earth, as in, “the Lord God formed the human from the dust—the humus—of the earth...” To be human is to be down-to-earth.
I can laugh now about my misadventure—to grasp humor is to be human (and humble)—and yet, the questions from the poet persist.
Mary Oliver asks, “Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude?” Surely I’ve experienced happiness—just as surely I know I’m not sufficiently grateful. Not all the time.
“Have I endured loneliness with grace?” Yes, I’ve endured... but not with the grace I see in others. My sense is that most people in this quirky and incredibly loving congregation are better than I am at all these things—better at doing what Jesus has commanded us to do and which we can only do while connected to the True Vine: to simply love one another.
Here’s the thing—and I think it’s true for Moms and all of us: When we’re trying to do five things at once and feeling overwhelmed because of this-or-that going on behind the scenes (that maybe nobody else knows the whole story about); and when we’re a bit tired and our resistance is at a low ebb; and miss the grace-sightings all around us and forget to say thank you; and we might even start feeling like the world owes us roses...
And at that very moment...
Some jerk in a snazzy BMW will cut you off.
Can you believe that? That guy clearly doesn’t understand that I’m the one who indeed does own the road!
And then the vase of roses tips over.
So what do we learn from this? Well, for one thing, since top-heavy roses can tip over and make a mess; maybe we’d best not let ourselves get too top heavy either. And, one more thing: If we think mothers or pastors or elders or teachers or saints are somehow exempt from the humus—the earthiness—of life; exempt from days when boots get stuck in the mud and manure; then we are mistaken. Because there’s always one of those “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days” out there—just waiting for us—for saints and sinners and even moms.
Have I lived enough? Have I loved enough?...
I say, this, or perhaps I’m just thinking it.
Actually, I probably think too much.
Then I step out into the garden, where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man, is tending his children, the roses.
The gardener isn’t thinking too hard about things.
Just tending to things that need to be tended.
He’s living and loving by tending the roses.
Part Two: Barrenness and the Pink Rose
In parts of the South, it’s a custom on Mother’s Day to wear a red rose if your mother is still living. And, in the South, men, women, and children wear a white rose if their mother is no longer living—if she has, as they would say in the South, “passed over.”
Red roses symbolize love. Red is the color of the Holy Spirit and the color of passion and life- blood. Red roses are a fitting symbol for our long-suffering, patient, never-take-the-last-cookie moms. White symbolizes Easter and resurrection and victory. We’ll white robes in glory— clothed in Christ’s righteousness. What a celebration! And, yet, the white roses might bring tears when we remember those we dearly miss. The white roses are for any of you who, like my kids, can no longer say “Happy Mother’s Day, I love you, Mom” face-to-face.
Sing, O Barren One (written by Mary Calloway) traces the theme of barren women in the Old and New Testaments. You may recall some of their stories:
Just tending to things that need to be tended.
He’s living and loving by tending the roses.
Part Two: Barrenness and the Pink Rose
In parts of the South, it’s a custom on Mother’s Day to wear a red rose if your mother is still living. And, in the South, men, women, and children wear a white rose if their mother is no longer living—if she has, as they would say in the South, “passed over.”
Red roses symbolize love. Red is the color of the Holy Spirit and the color of passion and life- blood. Red roses are a fitting symbol for our long-suffering, patient, never-take-the-last-cookie moms. White symbolizes Easter and resurrection and victory. We’ll white robes in glory— clothed in Christ’s righteousness. What a celebration! And, yet, the white roses might bring tears when we remember those we dearly miss. The white roses are for any of you who, like my kids, can no longer say “Happy Mother’s Day, I love you, Mom” face-to-face.
My friends Dave and Kim live in Montana. Three years ago—right about this time of year—Kim was in the check out line at the Costco and was greeted with “Happy Mother's Day!” to which she responded, “I'm not a mom.” Not willing to let it go at that, the still-cheery clerk said, “Well, we all have moms.” At that point, Kim composed herself, and said, “Yes, we do; and mine died two years ago. I miss her.”Mother's Day can be really, really hard for those grieving. And, there are agonies, heartbreaks, and tears even beyond the symbol of the white roses. Mother’s Day can be especially painful for women and men who wanted to become parents and could not.
Sing, O Barren One (written by Mary Calloway) traces the theme of barren women in the Old and New Testaments. You may recall some of their stories:
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In Genesis 11, Sarai was barren; she had no child.
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In Genesis 25, Isaac prayed to the Lord for Rebecca, for she was barren...
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And then there’s Hannah in 1 Samuel, and Elizabeth in the New Testament,
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And the whole nation,
Sing, barren woman, you who never bore a child; burst into song, shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband, says the Lord.
The theme of barrenness in the Bible functions to demonstrate that the gift of life came from God
alone. Fruitfulness was seen as a reward for obedience. Barrenness was seen as humiliation or
even a curse.
Indeed, in Genesis 30, when Rachel saw that she bore Jacob no children, she envied her sister; and she said to Jacob, “Give me children or I shall die!” And Jacob becomes angry with her and says, “Am I in the place of God, who has withheld from you the fruit of the womb.” Ouch.
In all of the biblical stories of barren women—in the end, a son is given. In the end, prayers are answered.
So where does a woman who has not been given this gift of life connect on Mother’s Day? There are only a few obscure narratives of childless women who remain barren in Bible and I’m not going to tell those stories because they are—quite frankly—terrifying. As my friend and mentor Jeanne says, “Not a lot of comfort here.”
If the red roses represent living mothers, and the whites roses mothers who have passed over, what symbol do we have on Mother’s Day for the women who never bore a child?
What symbol do we have for my friend, the oldest sister of four girls, who longs to be a mom: She’s in her late 30s and her three younger sisters have seven children between them? What symbol so we have for women still dealing with infertility, for a mom waiting for a child to be placed with her through adoption, or for mothers who have lost children through miscarriage, stillbirth, accident, or illness? What symbol do we have if a child’s mother is alive but not around—a thousand miles away; or in prison; or imprisoned by addictions? What symbol do we have for the experience of losing one’s mother slowly—fading memories, dementia...?
For all these stories and more, our vase includes pink roses.
For the mother who has lost a child, a pink rose.
For the women who longed to be mothers, but could not, a pink rose.
For mothers who gave up a child for adoption, a pink rose.
For women waiting to adopt, a pink rose.
For a mother abused, a pink rose.
For a young girl shamed by her community, a pink rose.
And for all the other experiences—many fail to fit into our neat categories—a pink rose.
The pink roses are for unspoken agonies and sorrows the commercialized Mother’s Day glosses over. And for way, way too long the Church in North America has been complicit in this.
Part Three: Blessings and the Pink Rose
Yet, the pink roses are not only for hurts in need of healing, but also for the graces and joys we risk overlooking if we buy into the one-size-fits-all approach.
Indeed, in Genesis 30, when Rachel saw that she bore Jacob no children, she envied her sister; and she said to Jacob, “Give me children or I shall die!” And Jacob becomes angry with her and says, “Am I in the place of God, who has withheld from you the fruit of the womb.” Ouch.
In all of the biblical stories of barren women—in the end, a son is given. In the end, prayers are answered.
So where does a woman who has not been given this gift of life connect on Mother’s Day? There are only a few obscure narratives of childless women who remain barren in Bible and I’m not going to tell those stories because they are—quite frankly—terrifying. As my friend and mentor Jeanne says, “Not a lot of comfort here.”
If the red roses represent living mothers, and the whites roses mothers who have passed over, what symbol do we have on Mother’s Day for the women who never bore a child?
What symbol do we have for my friend, the oldest sister of four girls, who longs to be a mom: She’s in her late 30s and her three younger sisters have seven children between them? What symbol so we have for women still dealing with infertility, for a mom waiting for a child to be placed with her through adoption, or for mothers who have lost children through miscarriage, stillbirth, accident, or illness? What symbol do we have if a child’s mother is alive but not around—a thousand miles away; or in prison; or imprisoned by addictions? What symbol do we have for the experience of losing one’s mother slowly—fading memories, dementia...?
For all these stories and more, our vase includes pink roses.
For the mother who has lost a child, a pink rose.
For the women who longed to be mothers, but could not, a pink rose.
For mothers who gave up a child for adoption, a pink rose.
For women waiting to adopt, a pink rose.
For a mother abused, a pink rose.
For a young girl shamed by her community, a pink rose.
And for all the other experiences—many fail to fit into our neat categories—a pink rose.
The pink roses are for unspoken agonies and sorrows the commercialized Mother’s Day glosses over. And for way, way too long the Church in North America has been complicit in this.
Part Three: Blessings and the Pink Rose
Yet, the pink roses are not only for hurts in need of healing, but also for the graces and joys we risk overlooking if we buy into the one-size-fits-all approach.
The pink roses are for blessings we have received from the spiritual mothers in the church and for
stepmothers and grandmothers who came to the rescue... for a whole host of substitute moms...
my kids could name many! Many of you here today are these spiritual mothers. For you, the pink
rose is a badge of honor.
My spiritual mothers include my grandmother and Sunday school teachers and a host of other strong and wise women: Elizabeth, who introduced me to Hebrew and new ways of understanding the Old Testament; Bev, who was that one person who dared to ask, “How are you? No, how are you really?” and Jeanne, Janice Hope, Dawn, Heather...
The pink roses are for the “mothers of the church” who hold us together through nurturing and caring—through meals for the confirmation class and giving kids a ride because mom has to work. The pink roses are for women who are spiritual models and mentors.
Part Four – The Very Womb of God
Such a wide variety of experiences we have.
So many different emotions.
Where do we go with all this?
Jeanne Stevenson Moessner says, “May I suggest that we bring our flowers—red, white, pink—to the altar of God who...” (like a mother) “...carries, feeds, protects, heals, guides, disciplines, comforts, washes, and clothes us as children.
My spiritual mothers include my grandmother and Sunday school teachers and a host of other strong and wise women: Elizabeth, who introduced me to Hebrew and new ways of understanding the Old Testament; Bev, who was that one person who dared to ask, “How are you? No, how are you really?” and Jeanne, Janice Hope, Dawn, Heather...
The pink roses are for the “mothers of the church” who hold us together through nurturing and caring—through meals for the confirmation class and giving kids a ride because mom has to work. The pink roses are for women who are spiritual models and mentors.
Part Four – The Very Womb of God
Such a wide variety of experiences we have.
So many different emotions.
Where do we go with all this?
Jeanne Stevenson Moessner says, “May I suggest that we bring our flowers—red, white, pink—to the altar of God who...” (like a mother) “...carries, feeds, protects, heals, guides, disciplines, comforts, washes, and clothes us as children.
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Giving Birth – Listen to me, you who have been borne by me from birth and have been
carried from the womb
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Comforting – As a child who is comforted by her mother, so I will comfort you
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Washing – I will pour clean water over you and scrub you clean; I’ll give you a new heart
and put a new spirit in you
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Healing – Look, God has moved into the neighborhood. God will wipe away every tear.
Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more
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Suffering & Long-Suffering (and even caring for difficult children) – The more I called
them, the more they ran away from me; yet it was I who taught these children to walk, I
took them up in my arms; but they didn’t know that it was I who healed them. I led them with cords of human kindness, with bands of love. I was to them like those who lift infants to their cheeks. I bent down to them and fed them.
What ways of re-imaging God ring true to you? A woman dealing with breast cancer said, “After my surgery, I could not image God as a male. I needed to image God as Mother Hen. Because it is only God as mother hen who would know what it is like to lose a wing.”
In a similar way, parents who have lost a child most often need and want visits from those who have gone through the same. And they need a God who knows what it was like to lose a child. I’m reminded again of Nicholas Wolterstorff’s book A Lament for a Son, “God is not only the God of the sufferers but the God who suffers... Instead of explaining our suffering God shares it.”
We can also re-image God as adoptive parent. The book of Ephesians in particular presents God
as adoptive parent. God has destined us for adoption as children with an inheritance. God also
knows the empty pain of childlessness when someone rejects the gracious invitation to come into
the adoptive family.
The pink roses carry a meaning unique to each of our own experiences. The pink rose is for each of us, for all of us. My friend Jeanne wrote, “It would take an all-knowing, all-seeing, vulnerable, and loving God to fully understand what the pink rose signifies to each one of us.”
Jeanne—who taught pastoral care—was herself in need of tender care three years ago. She and her husband David experienced the death of their son. Jeanne would be the first to tell you that God’s healing doesn’t happen overnight. And yet she would speak, through her tears, of grace and love and laughter-in-the-midst-of-tears.... and of hope!
Jeanne wrote, “Our God is a God who formed our inward parts, knit us together in our mother’s womb, and saw our unformed substance. It is from such a God that healing will one day come, a healing that extends beyond childhood, before birth, to the very womb. This healing is to be found somehow in the very womb of God.”
It’s a place of hope and healing, of revelation and understanding.
We don’t learn to live by analyzing what it means to love...
We learn to love by living.
In the garden...
Tending the roses...
Trusting that all the bouquets in our lives, all our stories, are held close to the very heart of God.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The pink roses carry a meaning unique to each of our own experiences. The pink rose is for each of us, for all of us. My friend Jeanne wrote, “It would take an all-knowing, all-seeing, vulnerable, and loving God to fully understand what the pink rose signifies to each one of us.”
Jeanne—who taught pastoral care—was herself in need of tender care three years ago. She and her husband David experienced the death of their son. Jeanne would be the first to tell you that God’s healing doesn’t happen overnight. And yet she would speak, through her tears, of grace and love and laughter-in-the-midst-of-tears.... and of hope!
Jeanne wrote, “Our God is a God who formed our inward parts, knit us together in our mother’s womb, and saw our unformed substance. It is from such a God that healing will one day come, a healing that extends beyond childhood, before birth, to the very womb. This healing is to be found somehow in the very womb of God.”
I like to think of the garden as the womb of the gardener.Then I step out into the garden, where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man, is tending his children, the roses.
It’s a place of hope and healing, of revelation and understanding.
We don’t learn to live by analyzing what it means to love...
We learn to love by living.
In the garden...
Tending the roses...
Trusting that all the bouquets in our lives, all our stories, are held close to the very heart of God.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
A Prayer for Mother’s Day (Rev. Leslie Nipps, adapted)
On this Mother’s Day, we give thanks to you, O God, for the divine gift of motherhood in all its diverse forms. We pray for all the mothers among us today: for our own mothers, those living and those who have passed away; for single mothers who helped their children pick out their own card or gift; for mothers who loved us; and for those who fell short of loving us fully; for all who hope to be mothers someday and for those whose hope to have children has been frustrated; for all mothers who have lost children; for all women and men who have mothered others in any way—those who have been our substitute mothers and who have done so for those in need; and for the earth that bore us and provides us with our sustenance. We pray this all in the name of our birthing and adoptive God, who loves us to the uttermost. Amen.
On this Mother’s Day, we give thanks to you, O God, for the divine gift of motherhood in all its diverse forms. We pray for all the mothers among us today: for our own mothers, those living and those who have passed away; for single mothers who helped their children pick out their own card or gift; for mothers who loved us; and for those who fell short of loving us fully; for all who hope to be mothers someday and for those whose hope to have children has been frustrated; for all mothers who have lost children; for all women and men who have mothered others in any way—those who have been our substitute mothers and who have done so for those in need; and for the earth that bore us and provides us with our sustenance. We pray this all in the name of our birthing and adoptive God, who loves us to the uttermost. Amen.
