Rev. Betsy Aldrich Garland
Acts 16:9-15
May 9, 2010 – Mothers’ Day

Mother Love

When my husband and I moved back from Indiana more than 40 years ago, he was assigned to the Hillsgrove United Methodist Church over by the airport. A characteristic of that church – something I have seen in no other – was the presence of Mother Brown and Mother Place and Mother Ennis. They were older women in the church, all mothers, if I remember correctly, but their title had less to do with their having children and more to do with their being mothers of the church. They were older women who, at one time or another, had been the leaders; now they carried “mother” as an honorary title for their wisdom, their service to the community, their continuity with the past and window into the future. They were the glue that had held the church together for generations.

Lydia was that kind of mother – although Luke, the writer of Acts as well as the gospel that carries his name – doesn’t tell us whether she was a mother or not. What he does tell us is that Lydia lived in Macedonia, in Greece, gateway to Europe. He calls her a “God-worshipper” which means she was likely a gentile who was attracted to Judiasm but not yet ready to take the plunge and convert. He tells us that she was a business woman, a dealer in purple cloth, which means she was accustomed to trade with the elite class in Philippi, and he tells us that she was the head of her own household, a rarity in that patriarchal society. She must have been quite a woman!

But Lydia shows up here in this story in Acts because she has gone to the river where God- worshipping people went to pray on the Sabbath if they were not able to go to the synagogue. This is where Lydia meets the apostle Paul who has seen a vision that calls him to take the good news of Jesus Christ to Europe. As she is walking along the river, she overhears Paul and his companions and stops to listen. She must be hungry for meaning in her life, open to listening to this man who talks of a God who reaches out to the marginalized – like women and children – and ex cons and immigrants, which is what Paul and his companions are, given that they have recently been in prison and are now in a foreign country.

Lydia is so taken with their testimony that she asks to be baptized, an act signifying her conversion to this new Jewish sect – Christianity. She is open to sharing faith with these strange men, here at the river of all places. Church-talk doesn’t have to wait until church; it can happen in the grocery store or the laundromat or the classroom. She is ready to hear the good news she has been waiting for – Jesus the Messiah’s message of love and justice for everyone, not just the upper crust with whom she is used to dealing. She is willing to put everything she owns at Paul’s disposal and insists he and his missionary group stay at her home, changing her plans for the sake of the gospel in spite of her busy life. There at the riverside, Lydia found the God who was finding her.1

Lydia seizes the day – and because of her boldness and generosity and willingness to put everything on the line, she becomes the “mother” of the church in Europe. Without Mother Lydia and her passion for Paul’s message, we wouldn’t be sitting here this morning.

Today is Mothers’ Day. The cards and flowers and candy are being presented; some mothers are surprised by breakfast in bed or a day to put their feet up; others are waiting to be taken out to dinner by appreciative husbands or successful sons.

But Mothers’ Day celebrations need to go beyond the sentimental to recognize the mothers who build our society, including those who may not have children of their own but who “mother” the larger community. Carolyn Pogue, a writer and editor living in Calgary, Canada, wrote “Childless”

Today I saw a childless woman: She was holding a child
Gently by the hand.
He was showing her a butterfly wing he had found.
She was smiling/And listening carefully.
I saw she was a teacher.
He a student of nine years old.
And when I saw that childless woman, my heart was lifted.
There are always enough children to go around.
There are never enough mothers.2

Not everyone has a mother, or a mother who is mother-like – and even if we do, we often need more mothers to teach us and challenge us and grow us into the persons God means us to be. Perhaps it was a teacher when you were a child, or a boss who taught you how to apply yourself on your first job, or a friend, who saw in your hesitation, a shy, insecure person needing to be drawn out. Maybe it was a compassionate nurse in the hospital room who respected your need for privacy, or a social worker who helped draw together the information you needed to make a decision for a loved one.

My mother was loving – but overprotective, afraid I’d get hurt, and never pushed me to find out who I am. It took years for me to grow into my skin – and I’m still working on me. How about you?

There are mothers like Lydia, who play pivotal roles in history, and there are mothers and grandmothers and step-mothers and aunts and cousins – who make a difference in our lives today. And we are some of those mothers who build the community of love and justice in an unfair and tragic and broken-hearted world.

Lydia was a business woman who dealt in purple cloth for the elite of Philippi. She was a woman of means, a woman of independence, a woman who was pushing deeper for meaning. She found what she was looking for – but she had to go outside of her comfort zone to embrace it, and she had to involve everyone else in her household as they became home base for Paul’s missionary journey. It must not always have been pretty or without argument or safe for a single woman. But she became “mother” to the budding Christian church.

In Lydia’s honor this Mothers’ Day, I share this prayer poem by Maren Tirabassi, Prayer for Things Purple:3

Gentle God, I give you thanks for all things purple –
for sunsets and thunderstorm August nights.
for lupine like freedom blowing above blue ocean,
for the scent of lilac,
and the transience of violet,
and the exotic luxury of orchid,
for advent candles that burn waiting and hope,
for a beautiful dress of childhood
and a postcard from a friend,
for one amethyst earring,
an eggplant and a plum,
grandmother’s faded lavender apron
and satin ribbon tied around a small gift,
for the common cup of wine like blood
and the purple taste of holiness in tiny glasses,
for the color of beauty when I have recognized beauty in myself.

Gentle God, I pray in intercession for all things purple –
for welt marks on a battered woman’s face and shoulders,
for the smudge under sleepless eyes,
for wine spilled across spoiled pages of life,
for the lonely childhood or migrant workers with grapes in their hands,
for stiff flowers on a sympathy card
and needle bruises on an old woman’s arms,
for a bridesmaid dress that will never be worn,
and a half-finished diary,
and the crumpled metal of a bicycle,
for the cloak they put on to mock a man with a crown of thorns,
and vinegar on a sponge
and twilight by a borrowed tomb,
for the color of pain when I see myself
and the color of healing when I do not look away.

All these “purple goods” woven into the fabric of my life
I lay before you in tender gratitude and urgent hope,
and ask that you clothe me in the garment of your grace. Amen.

1. Ronald Cole Turner, Feasting on the Word, Year C Volume 2, page 474.
2. Seasons of the Spirit, May 9, 2010, page 126.
3. Maren Tirabassi, An Improbable Gift of Blessing, page 181.