Such a Mom [Proper 13A]
The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson
Matthew 14:13-21
Such a Mom
Jesus: he is such a mom. There has been a death in the family. And he is worried about food. He's got to feed all these people; they're hungry. And, of course, just like a mom, he makes way
too much.
When he first heard about John the
Baptist’s death, he tried to get away, to
find place to be alone. With his
thoughts. To pray. To cry.
To grieve. To remember. Jesus is human too, don't forget; he is
broken-hearted. Of course he is. John the Baptist, whom Herod killed, was
special to him. And the death was sudden
and terrible.
But the fantasy of alone-time
didn't last long. The people followed
him. Like a toddler following his mother
into the bathroom, not a moment of solitude or silence, they follow Jesus. Emptying out the towns and the villages, they
go after him.
That quiet shore for which he
longed became a living thing. As his
boat approached the deserted place, that place where he would think and pray
and grieve, he could see that it was not deserted at all. Instead of sand, there were people – thousands of people – there to
greet him, touch him, swallow him whole.
Men and women and children instead of desert. They suffocated the open space – needy and desperate.
For him. He needed some time
alone. And they needed him.
Alone time would be easy if it wasn't
for the other people. As I wrote this
part of the sermon there was a toddler climbing my leg to hug my arm and a baby
shrieking on the floor. Kindly my wife
took them out for ice cream so that I could have some time alone. But for a few moments I kinda feel like I was
in the story: I needed some time alone and they needed me. And my wife, who knows this Bible story well,
asked me if I felt compassion for those two little sweeties stealing my
much-needed alone time.
It's a good question – because that is exactly what happened for Jesus. He sees them – all those
people – those interruptions, those
distractions – interlopers making his space their
space. He sees them turning his desert
into a temporary city. The opposite of
solitude. He sees them and he has
compassion on them. He just lost a loved
one; they should have compassion on him.
But that is never how this works.
We think about us. And Jesus
thinks about us too. We love us. And Jesus loves us too.
It has always been this way. These people were the Israelites wandering in
the desert, coming out of Egypt – separated
only by centuries. Lost and
desperate. Desperate for attention – for God's attention.
And hungry. Always hungry – for the bread of heaven. Infants crying for their mother's milk – scared and impatient.
There is a vulnerability that comes
with feeding another human being. It is
as if the offering comes straight from the heart. And it is present in all stages of life. It starts with a vulnerable naked
breast. And then eventually the
opinions and the refusal to eat and that slow discharge as the tongue pushes
food back out of the mouth. And then,
later, it is a dinner party with prospective friends or a meal meant to woo a
new love. When it is done right, there
is always some heart on the plate.
It was love that fed the Israelites
as they wandered the desert – sour
children fed the stuff of God. God's
heart in their discontent mouths. And it
was love that fed the crowds on the shore – the
children of desert wanderers, desert wanderers themselves. Waiting for Jesus to feed them. There were good reasons to send them away:
there wasn't enough food, Jesus needed some time alone, the logistics were
impossible. But while the food was in
short supply, the love of God never is.
And so, even in the desert, there is more than enough – always more than enough.
I find the sacrifice required to be
a mother staggering. It begins when a
mother gives her body to pregnancy. And
then risks her life in childbirth. It
means sacrifice at every turn: time, body, energy. The pouring out the stuff of life to give
life to another. It requires the
offering of self. A labor of love. A gift given but rarely rewarded with a “thank you.”
Jesus: he is such a mom. Giving to us life. Feeding us from his own body. Patient with us as we throw our
tantrums. Waiting for us when we
wander. Loving us much more than we
deserve. For sake of the children, he
offers himself.
Almost 1000 years ago Anselm of
Canterbury, recognized this and wrote this prayer:
Jesus, as a mother you gather your
people to you;
you are gentle with us as a mother
with her children.
Often you weep over our sins and
our pride,
tenderly you draw us from hatred
and judgment.
You comfort us in sorrow and bind
up our wounds,
in sickness you nurse us and with
pure milk you feed us.
Jesus, by your dying, we are born
to new life;
by your anguish and labor we come
forth in joy.
Despair turns to hope through your
sweet goodness;
through your gentleness, we find
comfort in fear.
Your warmth gives life to the dead,
your touch makes sinners righteous.
Lord Jesus, in your mercy, heal us;
in your love and tenderness, remake
us.
In your compassion, bring grace and
forgiveness,
for the beauty of heaven, may your
love prepare us.[1]
We are the children of desert
wanderers, desert wanderers ourselves.
Helpless, desperate, and hungry.
And Jesus sees us through his eyes of compassion – like a mother adoring a helpless infant. And he cradles us and feeds us from his body – on our lips and in our mouths, the stuff of life. Poured
out for us. Poured out for the
world. More than enough, always more
than enough. Of course, it is.
Jesus: he is such a mom.
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