A long time back, I read the story of a twelve year old boy who was born without an immune system, and it has stayed with me ever since. Because even the most ordinary germs could kill him, he spent his entire life inside a sterile plastic bubble. There were no hugs, no handshakes, no human touch at all.
Before he underwent a bonemarrow transplant that might finally allow him to live outside that bubble, someone asked him what he most wanted to do if the operation succeeded. His answer was simple but incredibly powerful:
“I want to walk barefoot on grass and touch my mother’s hand.”
Small things can mean so much. A touch, a hand held, a moment of tenderness. Today’s readings remind us how powerful such care can be, and how love, for all its beauty, can also bring deep pain. And on Mothering Sunday, those emotions sit very close to the surface. For some, today is a day of uncomplicated joy. For others, it is a day that stirs grief, longing, or complicated memories.
Our readings this morning (Exodus 2:1–10 and Luke 2:33–35) hold both love and pain together.
The story from Exodus tells of the birth of Moses. The passage itself doesn’t explain why his mother had to hide him, but the background is stark. The Hebrew people were growing in number, and Pharaoh, fearful of rebellion, ordered that every newborn Hebrew boy be killed.
Into that terrifying world Moses was born. His mother hid him for three months, doing everything she could to protect him. When she could hide him no longer, she made a desperate, hope filled decision: she placed him in a basket among the reeds of the riverbank, trusting – praying - that someone would find him and show compassion.
And someone did. Pharaoh’s daughter noticed the basket, sent her maid to fetch it, and when she saw the crying baby, she was moved with pity. She arranged for him to be cared for and through Miriam’s quick thinking, Moses’ own mother was brought in to nurse him.
Moses’ life, of course, became one of the most significant in the whole of Scripture. From those fragile beginnings, he became the leader of God’s people, the one through whom the law was given, the one whose name echoes throughout the Old and New Testaments.
But none of that would have happened without the care of people who could easily have walked away. His mother certainly, but also the midwives who defied Pharaoh’s orders, his sister Miriam who watched over him, and Pharaoh’s daughter who risked her father’s wrath to save a Hebrew child.
The qualities of a mother were not limited to Moses’ biological mother. They were shared by a whole network of people who acted with courage, compassion and love. And that is something we see again and again in life: mothering is not confined to biology. It is a calling, a way of loving, a way of caring that many people embody.
In our Gospel reading, we meet another mother, Mary, bringing her infant son to the Temple. Simeon, filled with the Spirit, blesses the family and then speaks words that must have pierced Mary’s heart even then. He tells her that her child will be opposed, that he will be the cause of the falling and rising of many, and that a sword will pierce her own soul too.
It is a warning, but a loving one. Simeon recognises that Jesus is God’s promised Saviour, and he knows that the path ahead will be costly. Mary’s calling as the mother of Jesus will bring joy beyond measure - but also pain beyond words.
And so today, on Mothering Sunday, we give thanks for mothers everywhere, but we also reflect on the qualities that make mothering so important: compassion, courage, tenderness, sacrifice, patience, and the willingness to love even when love hurts. These are qualities Jesus calls every one of us to display whether we are mothers or not, whether we are male or female, young or old.
The little boy in the bubble longed to touch his mother’s hand. He had never done it before, but he knew instinctively that her touch would give him strength. Strength to face the world. Strength to love in return. Strength simply from knowing he was loved.
And the truth is, we all need that strength. We all need to know that we are loved. We all need a hand to hold.
God waits for each one of us to place our hand in his—to trust him a little more, to let him carry some of the weight we insist on carrying alone. Yet so often we hesitate. We tell ourselves we can manage. We imagine that God’s love is only for the big things, or that our concerns are too trivial, or that we are not important enough to trouble him.
But the heart of our faith is this: Jesus stretched out his arms on the cross as an invitation. An invitation to come to him. To rest in him. To know that his love is for us is deep, personal, unconditional...
And when we come to him, we discover a love that strengthens us, heals us, and sends us out to love others with the same compassion we have received.
Moses’ mother showed love by letting him go and trusting God. Pharaoh’s daughter showed love by seeing not a Hebrew enemy but a child in need. Mary showed love by staying with Jesus through every moment of his life from his birth to his ministry to the foot of the cross.
And today, countless mothers, and countless people who mother in other ways, do the same. They live for their children. They give without counting the cost. They carry joys and worries, hopes and heartbreaks, often unnoticed, often unthanked.
This is also the calling of the Church. We are invited to share in God’s mothering love, to care for God’s people, all of them, whether they belong to the Church or not. To support one another. To rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep. To be a family not just in name but in practice.
And yes, that will sometimes bring pain. Families are messy. Churches are messy. Loving people is messy. But we do it because God first loved us, and because his arms are always open to welcome us home.
Let me finish with something obvious but important on this Mothering Sunday.
We are all children of our own mothers, whether we knew them or not, whether they are alive today or not. And we are all children of God - God who loves us totally and unconditionally - not for what we do, but for who we are. God who knows our stories, our joys, our wounds, our complicated relationships, our longing to belong. God who understands whether today is easy or painful, joyful or difficult.
So today, let us thank him for his unbreakable and unending love, and that our identity is secure in being his children. And let us allow him to minister his grace to us, whatever this day brings, whatever memories it stirs, whatever hopes or hurts we carry.
Let us place ourselves once more into his care. Amen.
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