On this Mother’s Day I am thinking of families. And I’ll tell ya, when it comes to families, most times I cannot imagine what God could have been thinking.Take my own family as an example.
I am the middle of three children. I am six years younger than my older sister, and one year older than my younger brother. We were all born in the 1950's, were raised in the same home by the same conscientious parents who loved us each unconditionally...and yet, it has also seemed to me that we are not only born of different parents, but raised on different planets.
My sister tended to be a free spirit; my brother tended to be a political and economic Republican; and I tended to be quiet and shy and more or less left-leaning. It often seemed that the only thing we have in common with one another is the parents who raised and encouraged us.
Consequently, and not surprisingly, there was a lot of bickering amongst the three of us as we were growing up. So much so that I recall my father telling us at dinner one evening how unpleasant it was to be in our company, because all we ever seemed to do was quarrel and nit pick each other.
And the dinner table was often a tempestuous place to be, because it was often the first time we were all together since parting company in the morning to go to school. If only that had been the only location of the family strife...but it wasn’t. So was the bathroom we shared in the morning, and the breakfast table, and the car on the way to school, and the car on most family trips, and the TV room after evening chores. You name the place, and Tina and Frank and I probably had a fight there.
Something changed as we grew up. Tina went away to college, and came home again and got married. Frank went away to college, while I went to college at home. I remember missing him while he was gone, but never, ever breaking down enough to tell him. My sister divorced and came home again. My brother married and left the house. We didn’t have the knock-down, drag-out screaming matches of our childhood any more.
In our maturity, the histrionics were replaced by more mature methods of being disagreeable.
We would ignore each other. Or we would be sarcastic toward one another. Or we would speak badly about one of us to the others in the family. We never quite resolved the sibling thing – but we weren’t fighting out loud. It was good enough.
Whenever my mother told the story of the day my brother got married, she would delight in speaking of the mysterious sniffing sound that was coming from somewhere in the crowd. She’d tell of how she looked around the room to find out where the noise was coming from, only to learn that it was my sister and me, tears streaming down our faces, sniffing back the mucous running out of our noses. Mom would always end the story by remarking how surprised she was by our reaction to my brother’s marriage, and then exclaiming, "I didn’t even think they LIKED each other...."
Ah, but families....Families....you know what I mean?
No matter our petty differences, we always managed to rally for the important things. I got myself in some trouble, and the family rallied. My sister had her issues, and the family rallied. Daddy got sick, and the family rallied. Always, the family rallied. Because that’s what people who love each other do.
Then Mommy got sick. Really sick. And the family rallied. In spite of the complicated, layered relationship we each had with her and with each other, we laid aside the petty garbage and did what had to be done to make it through those days. As my mother’s condition deteriorated, she was placed on a respirator, and even though she lingered for some months, I never heard her voice again.
But two days before she was intubated, my mother said to me the last clear words I would ever hear her speak. She said, "Try to enjoy your life."
Families....
My mother loved me as much as any human being can love another; and I felt the same about her. But that didn’t stop us from picking at one another when we let our broken humanness get the best of us. The same went for her relationship with my sister, Tina, and with my brother, Frank, and with my Dad. No group of people ever loved each other more; and yet we were so often at each other’s throats.
Through it all, in spite of all, my mother taught us what it was to be family:
What it was to look out for each other even if we were angry at each other in the moment. What it was to stick up for each other against outsiders. What it was to protect the family unit from interlopers. What it was to rally behind one another when need arose. What it was to encourage one another, between the spats, to reach further and higher to achieve the highest possible goals. We learned what it was to be a family, imperfect, yes, but fiercely in each others’ corner.
And then the family changed. Mommy died. And for a moment it seemed as if the cohesiveness that she had trained into us all had died with her. In our grief, we were snappish and bickering youngsters once more – short tempered with each other, manipulative and self centered in our approach to each other....
Don’t look now, but reflecting on those days provides a perfect counterpoint for considering today’s lesson from the Book of Acts. The whole Bible story hinges on the relationship and interaction between Philip and the Ethiopian Eunich.
Philip, you see was a member of the house of Israel; the Eunich was a convert to Judaism. They were family, you see, but the value of the relationship depended entirely on Philip’s willingness to acknowledge and value the connection. And, at first glance, it seems he was not necessarily ready to do either.
As a Eunich, the Ethiopian man enjoyed a certain status of trust in his own community, but in Philip’s community the man’s inability to impregnate a woman rendered him a marginalized person. In order for them to find their way to each other as members of the same family of God, Philip would have to be willing to look past the Eunich’s perceived errors, and embrace him as a valued part of God’s creation. And, at first glance, it seems he was not necessarily ready to do that.
How do I know? Because Philip was rude coming out of the box: "Do you really understand what you are reading?" It sounds vaguely like our childish cat-calls, hurled at each other around the dinner table or in the back seat of the car: "I can’t believe how stupid you are! Maaaaaaa!"
The Eunich’s response seems measured enough when you read it, but it has around its edges the same family dynamic that creates the discord I’ve described to you: "How am I supposed to understand if no one helps me? Maaaa!"
For a moment, big brother Philip’s decision hangs in the balance. Will he refuse to acknowledge and honor his family connection with this man and go on his way? Or will he put aside the bickering to achieve a higher goal?
He rallies. He does the family thing. He climbs into the carriage with the Ethiopian Eunich. He explains the scriptures to him and brings him the Good News of Jesus Christ. The Eunich is encouraged to reach further and strive higher and try harder. He asks to be baptized. And Philip obliges, wrapping them both in the cloak of family – a unique and enduring family forged by the love of God and the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.
Families...Families...You know what I mean?
We cannot pick our families – not our earthly blood families and not our spiritual ones. Our parents’ behavior dictates who our earthly blood family will be. The activity of the Holy Spirit dictates who our spiritual family will be. But what we can choose – what we must choose – is to embrace the task of BEING family to one another, ever committed to laying aside the petty garbage so that we have energy to spare to lift each other up, encourage each other to grow and expand and be everything God is calling us to be.
Sometimes I despair for our United Methodist Church, for it seems we are also a family subject to the same broken human dysfunctions I have described about my own nuclear family.
This became all the more clear to me when I was a delegate to the 2012 General Conference. Talk about the world-wide nature of the church is just a concept until you sit in a room with 1,000 other people who speak 15 languages different from your own and work to understand where people are coming from and what people mean and how you might partner with them in a responsible, loving way. To be sure, despite the call to holy conferencing, not all of us tried to rise to a sacred level of discourse. Sometimes we would rally, just as my own family rallied in times of challenge or threat, but we would, more often than not, quickly forget who we were and scatter. More often than not, it seems to me, we forgot what it means to be family.
But, in spite of some very disappointing moments at that General Conference, I still have hope. You see, although my own family relationships did not magically become less complicated when my Mom died. But something else did happen.
Going through the mail one day shortly before my first birthday after Mommy’s death, I saw an envelope addressed to me. The return address said "Heaven." Inside was a card that said, "Daughter" on the front cover. And inside it read, "dream bigger, fly higher, shine brighter, live freer...today and always." It was signed, "Mommy (from heaven)," but the handwriting was my sister’s.
My mind flashed back to that day in the hospital room. My Mom, afraid and in pain and searching for the right thing to say. Because she was more worried about me than she was about herself. Because that’s how families are. I read the words in the card that so completely reinforced the words I had heard her speak that day: "Try to enjoy your life."
And I thought of my sister, born of aliens, raised on some distant planet, and yet, nevertheless keenly aware that we are a family, and that this is a time to rally and reach out with the love of God. Because that’s what families are for. That’s what families do.
And I thought, "Families...Ah, families...
Thanks be to God."
I am the middle of three children. I am six years younger than my older sister, and one year older than my younger brother. We were all born in the 1950's, were raised in the same home by the same conscientious parents who loved us each unconditionally...and yet, it has also seemed to me that we are not only born of different parents, but raised on different planets.
My sister tended to be a free spirit; my brother tended to be a political and economic Republican; and I tended to be quiet and shy and more or less left-leaning. It often seemed that the only thing we have in common with one another is the parents who raised and encouraged us.
Consequently, and not surprisingly, there was a lot of bickering amongst the three of us as we were growing up. So much so that I recall my father telling us at dinner one evening how unpleasant it was to be in our company, because all we ever seemed to do was quarrel and nit pick each other.
And the dinner table was often a tempestuous place to be, because it was often the first time we were all together since parting company in the morning to go to school. If only that had been the only location of the family strife...but it wasn’t. So was the bathroom we shared in the morning, and the breakfast table, and the car on the way to school, and the car on most family trips, and the TV room after evening chores. You name the place, and Tina and Frank and I probably had a fight there.
Something changed as we grew up. Tina went away to college, and came home again and got married. Frank went away to college, while I went to college at home. I remember missing him while he was gone, but never, ever breaking down enough to tell him. My sister divorced and came home again. My brother married and left the house. We didn’t have the knock-down, drag-out screaming matches of our childhood any more.
In our maturity, the histrionics were replaced by more mature methods of being disagreeable.
We would ignore each other. Or we would be sarcastic toward one another. Or we would speak badly about one of us to the others in the family. We never quite resolved the sibling thing – but we weren’t fighting out loud. It was good enough.
Whenever my mother told the story of the day my brother got married, she would delight in speaking of the mysterious sniffing sound that was coming from somewhere in the crowd. She’d tell of how she looked around the room to find out where the noise was coming from, only to learn that it was my sister and me, tears streaming down our faces, sniffing back the mucous running out of our noses. Mom would always end the story by remarking how surprised she was by our reaction to my brother’s marriage, and then exclaiming, "I didn’t even think they LIKED each other...."
Ah, but families....Families....you know what I mean?
No matter our petty differences, we always managed to rally for the important things. I got myself in some trouble, and the family rallied. My sister had her issues, and the family rallied. Daddy got sick, and the family rallied. Always, the family rallied. Because that’s what people who love each other do.
Then Mommy got sick. Really sick. And the family rallied. In spite of the complicated, layered relationship we each had with her and with each other, we laid aside the petty garbage and did what had to be done to make it through those days. As my mother’s condition deteriorated, she was placed on a respirator, and even though she lingered for some months, I never heard her voice again.
But two days before she was intubated, my mother said to me the last clear words I would ever hear her speak. She said, "Try to enjoy your life."
Families....
My mother loved me as much as any human being can love another; and I felt the same about her. But that didn’t stop us from picking at one another when we let our broken humanness get the best of us. The same went for her relationship with my sister, Tina, and with my brother, Frank, and with my Dad. No group of people ever loved each other more; and yet we were so often at each other’s throats.
Through it all, in spite of all, my mother taught us what it was to be family:
What it was to look out for each other even if we were angry at each other in the moment. What it was to stick up for each other against outsiders. What it was to protect the family unit from interlopers. What it was to rally behind one another when need arose. What it was to encourage one another, between the spats, to reach further and higher to achieve the highest possible goals. We learned what it was to be a family, imperfect, yes, but fiercely in each others’ corner.
And then the family changed. Mommy died. And for a moment it seemed as if the cohesiveness that she had trained into us all had died with her. In our grief, we were snappish and bickering youngsters once more – short tempered with each other, manipulative and self centered in our approach to each other....
Don’t look now, but reflecting on those days provides a perfect counterpoint for considering today’s lesson from the Book of Acts. The whole Bible story hinges on the relationship and interaction between Philip and the Ethiopian Eunich.
Philip, you see was a member of the house of Israel; the Eunich was a convert to Judaism. They were family, you see, but the value of the relationship depended entirely on Philip’s willingness to acknowledge and value the connection. And, at first glance, it seems he was not necessarily ready to do either.
As a Eunich, the Ethiopian man enjoyed a certain status of trust in his own community, but in Philip’s community the man’s inability to impregnate a woman rendered him a marginalized person. In order for them to find their way to each other as members of the same family of God, Philip would have to be willing to look past the Eunich’s perceived errors, and embrace him as a valued part of God’s creation. And, at first glance, it seems he was not necessarily ready to do that.
How do I know? Because Philip was rude coming out of the box: "Do you really understand what you are reading?" It sounds vaguely like our childish cat-calls, hurled at each other around the dinner table or in the back seat of the car: "I can’t believe how stupid you are! Maaaaaaa!"
The Eunich’s response seems measured enough when you read it, but it has around its edges the same family dynamic that creates the discord I’ve described to you: "How am I supposed to understand if no one helps me? Maaaa!"
For a moment, big brother Philip’s decision hangs in the balance. Will he refuse to acknowledge and honor his family connection with this man and go on his way? Or will he put aside the bickering to achieve a higher goal?
He rallies. He does the family thing. He climbs into the carriage with the Ethiopian Eunich. He explains the scriptures to him and brings him the Good News of Jesus Christ. The Eunich is encouraged to reach further and strive higher and try harder. He asks to be baptized. And Philip obliges, wrapping them both in the cloak of family – a unique and enduring family forged by the love of God and the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.
Families...Families...You know what I mean?
We cannot pick our families – not our earthly blood families and not our spiritual ones. Our parents’ behavior dictates who our earthly blood family will be. The activity of the Holy Spirit dictates who our spiritual family will be. But what we can choose – what we must choose – is to embrace the task of BEING family to one another, ever committed to laying aside the petty garbage so that we have energy to spare to lift each other up, encourage each other to grow and expand and be everything God is calling us to be.
Sometimes I despair for our United Methodist Church, for it seems we are also a family subject to the same broken human dysfunctions I have described about my own nuclear family.
This became all the more clear to me when I was a delegate to the 2012 General Conference. Talk about the world-wide nature of the church is just a concept until you sit in a room with 1,000 other people who speak 15 languages different from your own and work to understand where people are coming from and what people mean and how you might partner with them in a responsible, loving way. To be sure, despite the call to holy conferencing, not all of us tried to rise to a sacred level of discourse. Sometimes we would rally, just as my own family rallied in times of challenge or threat, but we would, more often than not, quickly forget who we were and scatter. More often than not, it seems to me, we forgot what it means to be family.
But, in spite of some very disappointing moments at that General Conference, I still have hope. You see, although my own family relationships did not magically become less complicated when my Mom died. But something else did happen.
Going through the mail one day shortly before my first birthday after Mommy’s death, I saw an envelope addressed to me. The return address said "Heaven." Inside was a card that said, "Daughter" on the front cover. And inside it read, "dream bigger, fly higher, shine brighter, live freer...today and always." It was signed, "Mommy (from heaven)," but the handwriting was my sister’s.
My mind flashed back to that day in the hospital room. My Mom, afraid and in pain and searching for the right thing to say. Because she was more worried about me than she was about herself. Because that’s how families are. I read the words in the card that so completely reinforced the words I had heard her speak that day: "Try to enjoy your life."
And I thought of my sister, born of aliens, raised on some distant planet, and yet, nevertheless keenly aware that we are a family, and that this is a time to rally and reach out with the love of God. Because that’s what families are for. That’s what families do.
And I thought, "Families...Ah, families...
Thanks be to God."
