Mothering Sunday


It is time to get back to blogging. I have not written anything new here for several years, because my attention was elsewhere; specifically I was in discernment and going through the selection process for training for ordination in the Church of England. I attended a BAP last May and was recommended for training (more of all that later). I deferred beginning training for a year, and will start this September. Since last May I have been focused on moving back to the UK from Japan, and finally, two weeks ago, I arrived back in the UK. No more life in Japan for me, although I’m sure I will visit.

Mothering Sunday (March 31st) was my first Sunday back in the UK, and I have to say, I have always struggled with Mothering Sunday. This year was especially hard, and I felt rather triggered. I didn’t grow up in a family that made a big deal of Mothering Sunday, and I have always felt perplexed at the focus on mothers and grandmothers, the appearance of people who are not usually in church on a Sunday morning, and all the bits and pieces that go along with it.

That morning, wanting to attend a Eucharist but also wanting to get lost in a crowd, I decided to go to a service at Sheffield Cathedral instead of at the parish church I usually attend. Since I don’t usually go there on a Sunday morning I can’t say whether the congregation was its regular size or bigger than usual. The hymns had been chosen in part to reflect that fact that it was Mothering Sunday, which raised more thoughts for me, specifically about the theology of hymns. I have been thinking recently about what we sing and how much we think about what we are singing. More of that later too.

There was an acknowledgement at the beginning of the sermon that Mothering Sunday can be a difficult day for many. At the end of the service baskets of daffodils were blessed and offered to people as they left; I declined. I met a friend for lunch and vented about all the things that had bothered me. I came home and started this blog post and again went through all the things that had bothered me, then realised that I was winding myself up more. I saved the draft, and left it for a while.

Coming back to it today I deleted all the ranty stuff about what had upset me, and I decided instead to write about my thoughts and what I would have found helpful. After all, it may be helpful for me in the future and I know I’m not the only person who finds the day difficult.

First, I was glad that it was acknowledged that the day is not all rainbows and fluffy bunnies for everyone. At the same time, I know a lot of people do love it, who would miss it if the church did not acknowledge the day, and it is a wonderful opportunity to welcome people into the church who maybe don’t come very often. How can everyone’s sensitivities be taken into account?

Poking around online, I wanted to find out more about the origins of Mothering Sunday, and I found there were two main points. Apparently in a previous age Mothering Sunday was the day when young women in service were given the day off to return home to visit their mothers. It was also the Sunday when people were supposed to attend the ‘mother church’ of the diocese, that is, the cathedral, not their parish church. It seems the former may have grown out of the latter, since everyone would get together to make their way to the cathedral. Of course, there is also a lot of commercialism surrounding Mothering Sunday and these days it’s very easy to know what the secular expectations are; cards, flowers, chocolates, breakfast in bed, lunch out . . .

My mother always asked me and my brother to not bother with Mothering Sunday, because she felt she had got trapped into doing things for her own mother and didn’t want us to feel the same. Her mother, my grandmother’s preferred gifts were daffodils (she was Welsh so this was expected on St. David’s Day too), knitting wool, Thornton’s toffee and cigarettes. In later years I dodged my mother’s request by giving her things she enjoyed and saying that I thought the prohibition on Mother’s Day gifts covered only wool and cigarettes.

My mother died at the end of September last year, and it is still hard. I miss her a lot, though the pain is nowhere near as awful as it was in those first few days and weeks (something else to write about later). The grief comes and goes, but I miss her every day. On top of this (much less of an issue but still, part of the day for me), I was adopted when I was a baby and so Mothering Sunday for me is about two mothers. Also, I am single, and do not have children.

There is plenty in the idea of Mothering Sunday that I can enter into, appreciate, give thanks for. I love the idea of going back to the ‘mother church’, of everyone coming together as one family through Christ. I am reminded that Julian of Norwich wrote about ‘Christ our mother’ and how we are nurtured. Of course, we can also think about Mary, the mother of God, and our relationship with her.

But the usual focus is narrower than that. Why? Because that is what people expect? I suppose so. If people come to church on Mothering Sunday expecting to hear about how wonderful mothers are, and, if they are mothers and grandmothers themselves to feel praised, celebrated, and they don’t get that, might we as a church fail them in some way? Might we lose them and the opportunity to invite them in? Probably.

Then, what can the church do for people like me, for whom, as Connie Schultz, an American journalist writes of difficult days, ‘the day does not land gently’? If I wish the church could do things differently, what do I think that could look like? Hmmm.

First of all, I think about two festivals in Japan, Girls’ Day (or the Doll Festival) on March 3rd, and Boys’ Day on May 5th. Only the latter is a national holiday, and so although a lot of the imagery and decorations that are associated with the day are the ones for boys, the national holiday is called Children’s Day. Maybe Mothering Sunday could also expand to think of all the ways we can help each other to grow. I am mindful that there is no ‘Fathering Sunday’. And before anyone feels a need to remind me that every other Sunday is a reinforcement of the patriarchy, I know that the language we use is very male, but we don’t expand that to appreciate our own fathers on any particular Sunday.

There are many people for whom, surely, the imagery and language of Mothering Sunday are difficult. People who, like me, have lost their mother, either through bereavement or estrangement. Women who have longed to be a mother, but for some reason have not been. Mothers who have lost a child or who dearly longed to be a mother to a child but could not be. At best, Mothering Sunday might leave some people cold. At worst, it has the potential to open wounds and to trigger painful feelings.

Maybe it is too much to do everything in one Mothering Sunday service. Then how about two? The traditional, expected service, with the celebration of mothers, with daffodils for  all women. But also another service, a quiet time for people for whom it is not a day to feel celebrated, a day instead to think about difficult feelings, of failure, of disappointment and loss.

As I went through discernment and the selection process I thought a lot about how the church can reach out to everyone, and to meet people where they find themselves. This time next year I’ll be an ordinand. I wonder what Mothering Sunday will look like then.



August 23rd, Eckington again

S. S. Peter & Paul

Last Sunday I went to the parish church again. Another sunny morning, more bells. Although I don’t go there often it feels like my home church in the UK. I arrived and sat in the same pew as the week before, behind Jill, Eddie and Norah. Eddie and Norah were in the kitchen, getting ready for the fellowship time after the service, so I chatted with Jill until they arrived.

The first hymn was wonderful, the words were by Brian Wren. The second and third verses were particularly lovely:

I come with Christians near and far                                                                                    to find, as all are fed,                                                                                                   man’s true community of love                                                                                             in Christ’s communion bread.

As Christ breaks bread for men to share,                                                                      each proud division ends.                                                                                               The love that made us, makes us one,                                                                            and strangers now are friends.

The sermon was something that spoke to me, about welcoming the foreigner, the stranger. It’s something that I think about every week in Tokyo when others might visit us, and what I think about when I visit other churches. Later, at the Peace, someone said to me, you should teach us how to say it in Japanese! I told her how to say it, and she turned to the next person and said it to them. Somewhat perplexed, the recipient of the greeting said, what does that mean? I explained and added, the foreigner in the sermon? That’s me. Eddie heard me and said, you’re no stranger.

After the service I followed Eddie and Nora into the kitchen and helped with the tea and coffee and then the washing up afterwards. It was good to feel part of the regular rhythm of church life. When we had finished in the kitchen, it was time to say goodbye to everyone until December. Reverend Andy blessed me for my journey, we all hugged, and I left. For now.

I’m looking forward to seeing everyone at Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.

Eckington church altar

August 16th, S. S. Peter & Paul, Eckington

S. S. Peter & Paul noticeboardYesterday I went to the parish church, since the village church, St. John the Evangelist, had a family service with no Eucharist. As usual, I received a warm welcome back.

It was a beautiful sunny day, the sky was a clear blue, and as I arrived and took the photo at the top of this blogpost Reverend Andy came over to put a new notice on the noticeboard. The church has taken all the names from the war memorial and is remembering each local man on the anniversary of his death, and there will be one of these services this week, remembering a man who died exactly one hundred years ago. It’s a wonderful thing they’re doing.

As the bellringers started I stood outside and listened to the bells, it’s always such a treat. Reverend Andy told me about the changes made to the belltower. Apparently they can silence the bells and practise without anyone outside the belltower hearing anything. The church recently spent quite a lot of money having work done on the belltower; I believe it’s called repurposing. Anyway, a new floor was put in one storey up, and that became the new bell loft, and the space below became the area for refreshments and fellowship after services, with a small kitchen attached. At the same time, the wall between the bell loft and the sanctuary was replaced with glass, so from inside the church it’s possible to watch the bells being rung.

After a wander round the church and some time listening to the bells, I went inside the church and had a chat with a few people, before sitting in the pew behind Eddie and Norah, faithful members of the church who have always been really kind to me.

At the beginning of the service, Reverend Andy welcomed people, adding ‘ohayo’ in Japanese, which he had asked me just a few minutes before. The service was quite different from the one at St. John’s the week before. For a start, there was an organist playing the organ, and quite a lot of the liturgy was sung. Of course, the building itself is completely different; it’s almost one thousand years old in parts, with stone floors, while St. John’s is a repurposed space, carpeted, and with more light. The two lessons were read from the lectern Bible, and the Gospel was read with more ceremony. Then Reverend Andy climbed up to the pulpit and preached from there.

I am reluctant to make sweeping statements about a priest’s preaching after listening to only two sermons, but I must say that I liked this week’s sermon much more than last week’s. In contrast to last week’s sermon on Ephesians (‘If Christ does it then crack on and do it yourself’) this week’s meditation on Solomon asking for wisdom, and what kind of gift we might ask of God, and what he might want to give us, I felt gave us all a lot more to think about.

The Eucharist was very moving for me. Of course it’s always the highpoint of the service, but sometimes it seems even more profound than usual and this was one of those times. The congregation is quite far away from the altar, so the walk up to the altar rail is further than usual in a parish church, and somehow that makes it feel more humbling to approach it.

Eckington church

After the service I stayed for a little while, and talked to Hazel and Don, two of the bell ringers. They told me about their holidays in the United States, visiting and ringing different church bells. Don told me that Eckington church is a bellringing teaching centre, and offered to teach me next summer. Apparently six weeks is enough to learn the basics. I’m rather tempted to do it. Eddie told me that he and Norah are on kitchen duty next Sunday, so for my last Sunday in the UK for a while I’ll be there again, and I’ll help out in the kitchen with them afterwards.

Eckington church is a wonderfully welcoming place. The congregation is middle-aged and elderly but faithful. People are warm and willing to have meaningful conversations in a way that I have not always found in other churches. I talked to Jill about her travels and life in Asia, and with Jean about the stained glass windows and how a church can be welcoming. Reverend Andy took time to talk to me even though he needed to get ready for the service, and afterwards spent time with others without seeming rushed, even though he had to go to St. John’s for their service at eleven o’clock. I had a brief conversation with my old headmaster, and was invited into the life of the church to learn bellringing and to help with kitchen duties. I am only there on a few Sundays a year but always feel at home, and am grateful to them all.

Eckington stained glass