 |
| Today is overloaded with meaning! |
©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson
Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.
There’s a strangely fitting kind of beauty in how the Church calendar falls this year. Today is often called Good Shepherd Sunday, which yearly lands on the Fourth Sunday of Easter. It is a day of tenderness and trust—of comfort in the voice of Our Exemplary Shepherd who calls each one of us by name. But this year, Good Shepherd Sunday shares the occasion with Mother’s Day, a holiday that carries its own weight of tenderness and trust—but also grief, and loss, and joy—in short, complexity.
So, right here in the mix of these two celebrations, that’s where I want to begin. Because here’s the truth: if you spend enough time hearing people’s life stories, you realize something. Mothering, like shepherding, is not one thing.
For some, this day is filled with brunches, flowers, hugs from children and calls from grandkids. For others, it’s the ache of absence. The hollow space where a mother once stood. The sting of a child never born. The silence of estrangement. The weariness of single parenting. The beauty of chosen families. The burden of watching a parent slowly fade. The pain of not being mothered well. To be blunt, real life.
So, it seems only fitting that on this particular Sunday, we get these particular readings.
In Acts, we meet Tabitha, also known as Dorcas—a woman so beloved by her community that when she died, the widows gathered, held up the garments she made, and wept. These were not just clothes. They were stitched memories. They were turns of care and service. They were acts of mothering, in the deepest sense of the word.
And when Peter raised her from death, it was not just about resurrection in a physical sense. This was a proclamation that the work of love—especially the quiet, ordinary love of tending to others—matters. It lives on. It is resurrected, too.
In Revelation, we heard of a great multitude, from every nation, every tribe, every people, gathered before God’s throne. And in this vision, they cry out—not in despair, but in worship. They have come through “the great ordeal,” we’re told. They have suffered. They have known hunger and thirst and grief. And yet—they are there. They are seen. They are held.
And finally in John’s Gospel account, Jesus speaks to the skeptical crowd and says: “My sheep hear my voice. I know them. I give them eternal life. No one will snatch them out of my hand.”
Cutting to the heart of this message, we discover: Jesus knows us. The shepherd knows the sheep—not as a faceless flock, but one by one, voice by voice, story by story. Jesus doesn’t love us in general. Jesus loves you. And me. Even on days when we feel lost, or ashamed, or invisible. Even when we don’t feel very “resurrected.”
The Good Shepherd’s love does not demand that we be unbroken. In truth, it assumes our brokenness. Like in the Psalm we know by heart—The Lord is my Shepherd, which the choir beautifully led us in today. In that beautiful piece of spiritual poetry we hear, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” God is with us in our brokenness and when we walk through pitch black valleys because friends, there’s no if about it. We will face challenges. We will experience fearful things. And yet—we will not go through themalone. Our Shepherd never leaves us.
So, what does this constellation of readings and occasions mean for us?
It means we can hold our grief and our gratitude in the same hands.
It means we can be honest about the mess and still trust in God’s mercy.
It means we don’t have to be whole to be worthy of Love.
It means we can stop pretending to be who we think the world wants us to be and start listening for the voice that calls us by name—the Shepherd’s voice who says: You are mine. You are not forgotten. You are beloved.
And as we gather at this altar, at the Good Shepherd’s Table, at Our Holy Parent’s Feast, I want to share a prayer for all of us, and especially for those holding grief or complexity this Mother’s Day. These words are inspired by the Rev. Heidi Carrington Heath, former Young Clergy Women International’s chaplain, and the Rev. Katie Kirk-Costas, Associate Rector at St. Thomas in Huntsville.
A Prayer for Mother’s Day
(adapted with gratitude from the Rev. Heidi Carrington Heath)
I want you to know I’m praying for you—
if you are like Tamar, facing infertility or grieving a miscarriage.
I’m praying for you—
if you are like Rachel, surrounded by pregnancies while you wait with empty arms.
I’m praying for you—
if you are like Naomi, and have known the bitter sting of a child’s death.
I’m praying for you—
if you are like Joseph or Benjamin, and your mother is no longer with you.
I’m praying for you—
if your relationship with your mom is strained, marked by pain or absence.
I’m praying for you—
if you have given a child up in love, entrusting their life to another’s care.
I’m praying for you—
if you have taken in a child not born of your body but born of your heart.
I’m praying for you—
if you sit beside a mother whose memory is slipping slowly away.
I’m praying for you—
if you are expecting, anxious and full of wonder at the life growing within.
I’m praying for you—
if you have watched your beloved child suffer injustice or violence, and still you grieve and rage.
I’m praying for you—
if your children have turned away, and you carry their absence like a stone in your chest.
I’m praying for you—
if mothering is your greatest joy and your hardest calling.
I’m praying for you—
if you are watching your child walk a path of struggle, and all you can do is love them from the sidelines.
I’m praying for you—
if motherhood is not your path, or not your desire, and you feel out of place in today’s celebration.
I’m praying for you—
if you are someone who mothers through mentoring, teaching, caregiving, or simply by showing up with love—though you have no children of your own.
I’m praying for you—
if you see yourself in these stories, or if yours remains unwritten, unnamed, or unknown.
This Mother’s Day, wherever you find yourself—
in joy, in sorrow, in longing, in gratitude—
know this:
We walk with you.
You are not alone.
You are loved.
You are seen.
You are worthy.
And may you come to know—more deeply today than yesterday—
the fierce and tender love of God,
whose care for us is stronger than death,
and whose embrace is wide enough to hold every story.
Amen.
These prayers are pastoral, prophetic, and profoundly true. They speak what too often goes unnamed. They dignify those whose stories don’t get Hallmark cards.
On this day, may we walk this road together—sheep and shepherds, mothers and children, the grieving and the rejoicing, all wrapped up in one Body. And may we trust that the voice of Love, the voice of Our Good Shepherd, Our All-Loving Parent is still calling our names. Still leading us forward. Still making all things new.
So, borrowing words from Saint Clare: Live without fear: your Creator has made you holy, has always protected you, and loves you as a mother. Go in peace to follow the good road, and may God’s blessing be with you always. Amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment