Mother of the Heirs: Sermon on Galatians 4:26

A man stretches out his body across the cool grass in an open field in the countryside – and feels silly. He's been camping out there – minus the tent, minus the campfire, minus anything – for seven days now. His stomach should be grumbling – he's eaten nothing but wildflowers all week. It was an odd situation. But that's what you get when you arrange a rendezvous with an angel, he mused. The longer he stayed, the more his heart stirred, heaved. The man couldn't get the plight of his people out of his mind. He couldn't forget the massive hurt that had been done to the holy city Jerusalem – how pagans had charged in and destroyed the temple, toppled the altar, silenced their songs, polluted the holy things, burned the priests, abused the women, slew countless numbers and taken so many into captivity. Ezra wrestled with the the glory of the Law, the justice of God, and the fate of Jerusalem. He sat up and bowed his head in prayer.

Lifting up his eyes again, he saw he wasn't alone anymore. Turning to his right, he saw a woman standing there in the open. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. Clothes tattered and torn. Forehead smeared with ash. Hair all a mess. And she broke down crying. Putting his theological conundrums from his mind, Ezra asked her why she'd come out there, what was wrong, what was hurting; he wanted to know what he could do. And the woman sobbed him her story. She said she'd been married for a long time. But for the first thirty years, there was a problem. She couldn't have children. She waited every day to find herself with child, but nothing happened. And so every day, she prayed; hour by hour, she hammered heaven's door with cries. And then, thirty years from 'I do,' came 'It's a boy.' Her one and only son, a gift from God above. She raised her baby with all the care pent up for decades, and it was a lot of love. She changed him and burped him, took him by the hand and taught him, fed him, loved him, watched him grow into a man. She arranged his wedding to the loveliest girl. It was the proudest day of her life. And then, there in the wedding chamber, he collapsed. And he was no more. The loss, the grief, the pain only a bereaved mother could know – it wrecked her. And so, she told Ezra, she'd withdrawn to a lonely field to waste away.

Ezra begged her not to starve herself, pleaded with her to go back home and take up life again. And then, when he'd said his piece, there was a flash of light. And he didn't see a woman any more. Nor did he see a wide open field around him. Instead, where the woman had stood, now stood before him the gates of a vast city. Ezra was perplexed. When his angel finally arrived, he explained: the woman he'd met was Mother Jerusalem – empty of life for so long, 'til the temple stood in Solomon's day and the feasts and sacrifices began. She'd tended the children dwelling within her, around her, until the judgment fell. And on that day, Jerusalem had become the grieving mother.

That's a scene from a story – a story from a popular Jewish book written a few years after Revelation. We call it 4 Ezra. In the first century, the temple and city had been laid waste again by the Romans, so the author wished to comment with seven visions supposedly seen by Ezra in the wake of the first destruction by Babylonians. This was the middle one – the fourth of seven – his glimpse of Mother Jerusalem (4 Ezra 9:38—10:50).

That notion didn't pop out of nowhere. The Old Testament sometimes described Jerusalem, Zion, as being a mother. The psalmist sang, “Let the children of Zion rejoice in their King” (Psalm 149:2). Joel urged “the children of Zion” to sing and rejoice. Isaiah heard God say to Jerusalem that the nations would “bring your sons in their arms, and your daughters shall be carried on their shoulders. … I will save your children” (Isaiah 49:22-25). He spoke of Jerusalem and “all the sons she has borne,” “all the sons she has brought up” (Isaiah 51:18). The prophet sang that “as soon as Zion was in labor, she brought forth her children” (Isaiah 66:8). A later prophet, in the midst of destruction, lamented the death of “the precious sons of Zion” (Lamentations 4:2). And another psalm, in Greek translation, imagined people saying outright: “Zion is my mother” (Psalm 87:5). Later Jewish traditions took up the same theme. Jesus himself addressed the city's women as the “daughters of Jerusalem” (Luke 23:28). In the story of Ezra and the grieving mother, he refers to “Zion, the mother of us all” (4 Ezra 10:7) and says that “we are all sorrowing … we, the whole world, for our mother” (4 Ezra 10:9). And another Jewish book, written a few decades later, imagined a witness to the destruction asking God, “Have I therefore come into the world to see evil things of my mother?” (2 Baruch 3:1).

And so when another new band of missionaries traipsed into the mountain villages of Galatia, years after Paul had passed through and announced the good news, they surely knew those traditions. But these missionaries were not the kind Paul liked. They came from Jerusalem. Theirs was an ethnic faith. Paul called them 'Judaizers,' and declared their good news a fraud. They told the Gentile converts there that they needed more – more besides just faith in Jesus. And I can imagine the sort of thing they must have said, and I think it went something like this:

Oh, you foolish Gentiles, so narrowly snatched from your pagan ways! You are but sojourners among the people of God. To belong truly to God's people, to become members of God's family, means to be adopted into Abraham's seed – for no other family has God taken but the line of Abraham. To belong to God's people, really and truly and permanently, is to claim citizenship in Israel, the holy nation, our people. It is to take upon yourselves the covenant made through Moses at Sinai, when he received the Law; it is to be circumcised as true Jews, as the people of God, and to keep this Torah which Jesus kept. To belong truly to God's people is to look to the city of the temple of God as your capital, as your holy place, as your mother; it is to be a son or daughter of Jerusalem, from whence we have come to teach you the right way. This renegade Paul may have told you you're heirs of God and co-heirs with his Christ – but we tell you, you are yet outside the inheritance 'til you add this one thing more: that you have Jerusalem, holy Jerusalem, for your mother.

Probably something like that is what the Judaizers had been saying to the people. And when he hears that the Galatian Christians are falling for it, he writes a sharp, furious letter – we have it to this day. And he – Paul, who spent half his life in Jerusalem, was trained in Jerusalem by one of Jerusalem's greatest and holiest scholars and became a Pharisee par excellence – he retorts that these Judaizers have it backwards. They forget there are two branches to Abraham's family tree. One line involved Abraham's dalliance with the fertile Hagar, a slave woman. It was Abraham trying to accomplish his desires with his own ingenuity and his own prowess, putting his own flesh to use. He thought he could help God along by adding his own efforts. The fruit was Ishmael, who moved to the deserts of Arabia and inherited nothing. And that's the branch of the family the Judaizers will really put you in – the branch that's all about what happens in the desert (like the giving of the law), the branch that's born through mistrust and fleshly abuse and human engineering. All the Judaizers can turn people into are Ishmaels – disinherited children of a slave mother (Galatians 4:22-24).

The other line involved Abraham's marriage with his barren wife Sarah, a seemingly hopeless case. Fruitfulness came when Abraham stopped trying to pour his fuel into God's tank and just trusted in a promise. The fruit of the union was Isaac, father of Israel. But Paul says he stands for Paul's gospel. Isaac stands for freedom and a faith that just trusts a promise and knows God will make it work. That's how the Galatian believers were born again – as Isaacs in the freedom of God's promise, and so that makes them heirs (Galatians 4:28-31).

Just the same, Paul says, there are two cities. One, the Judaizers call their mother: “the present Jerusalem,” the one with GPS coordinates in the Middle East. The capital of first-century national Israel, the direction Jews turned when they prayed, the center of their teaching. The Judaizers forget her history and are blind to her future. Jesus warned the present Jerusalem would soon be the past Jerusalem – judged, overthrown, fractured, exposed; and even now, she languishes in slavery – she's on the verge of bereavement (Galatians 4:25).

The other city is a different Jerusalem – “the Jerusalem above” (Galatians 4:26). Paul isn't alone – there was a Jewish tradition of seeing the earthly city as modeled after a heavenly reality. The book with Ezra's visions has a prophecy of a day when “the city which now is not seen shall appear” (4 Ezra 7:26). A later rabbi described heaven as having a level “in which are Jerusalem and the temple, and an altar is set up, at which Michael the great prince stands and offers sacrifice” as the heavenly worship in a heavenly Jerusalem (b. Ḥag. 12b). One Jewish book offers the blessing, “May God guide you with his light to the city above, Jerusalem!” (4 Baruch 5:35).

It's in the New Testament, too. The author of Hebrews says that Old Testament things like the tabernacle and so on were “a copy and shadow of the heavenly things; for when Moses was about to erect the tent, he was instructed by God, saying, 'See that you make everything according to the pattern that was shown you on the mountain'” (Hebrews 8:5). The earthly shadows, he says, were just “copies of the true things” (Hebrews 9:24). He hints that the patriarchs all along were “looking forward to the city that has foundations, whose designer and builder is God” (Hebrews 11:10). And then he announces, “You have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem” (Hebrews 12:22).

Such a heavenly reality, the true metropolis built where God stores his future blessings, isn't subject to the flaws of its earthly imitation. She isn't under oppression, and she isn't rendered obsolete by the march of salvation history. Actually, she's where the arrow is flying! That's where the Bible ends up. In the last book, John sees “the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband” (Revelation 21:1). Paul insists she “is free.” What's more, Paul adds, she “is our mother” (Galatians 4:26). We have a Mother Jerusalem, but she's a different Zion than the one the Judaizers heeded and hailed. She can't be partitioned, can't be conquered. For all her seeming earthly irrelevance in the Judaizers' eyes, Paul promises: “The children of the desolate one will be more than those of the one who has a husband” (Galatians 4:27, quoting Isaiah 54:1) – the sons and daughters who call the heavenly Jerusalem 'mother' will suddenly outstrip those who look to an earthbound city that rises and falls with the vicissitudes of history.

But what is she – this 'mother' Paul tells us about? What heavenly reality stands behind Paul's words? This week, I read over three dozen interpretations over thousands of years. The earliest Christians don't say much that's clear. One of John's disciples suggests she's the Christian faith itself; then his disciple stresses she's the model for the earthly city. But as Christians started working systematically through whole books of the Bible, a different idea took shape: the notion that when Paul speaks of this “Jerusalem above,” he's talking about the Church. In the third century, Cyprian of Carthage circulates a saying: A person “can't have God for his Father who doesn't have the Church for his Mother.” So the earliest commentaries all identify the “Jerusalem above,” this “mother,” as “Mother Church,” as “the church which is assembled from the nations and is the mother of the saints.” And even today, pick up the Catechism of the Catholic Church, read the dogmatic constitution Lumen Gentium, hear them call their institution “Holy Mother Church.” Listen to Pope Francis preach, and he'll tell you, “The Church is our mother in faith, in supernatural life.”

I admit, I've always been uncomfortable with that image of 'Mother Church.' I've seen it used - I think abused - to badger Christians who don't see eye to eye with Rome. In the heat of the Reformation five hundred years ago, I would've expected the Reformers to run away as fast as they could from that understanding of Paul. I was astonished to find this week how wrong I was. Martin Luther said outright, “The heavenly Jerusalem above is the church. … Jerusalem, our free mother, is the church, the bride of Christ who gives birth to us all,” who “teaches us, cherishes us, and carries us in her womb, her bosom, her arms.” John Calvin saw it the same way: “With this church, we deny we have any disagreement. Nay, rather, as we revere her as our mother, so we desire to remain in her bosom. … There is no other way of entrance into life, unless we are conceived by her, born of her, nourished at her breast, and continually preserved under her care. Outside her bosom, there can be no hope of remission of sins or any salvation. … Anyone who refuses to be a child of the church, desires in vain to have God for his Father.” And from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century, I found almost perfect unanimity among the heirs of the Protestant Reformation. So I guess I have to get over my discomfort, and so do the rest of us.

It's no stretch to somehow identify the “Jerusalem above,” this mysterious heavenly reality, somehow with the church. After all, an angel showed John the heaven-sent New Jerusalem as “the Bride, the wife of the Lamb” (Revelation 21:9-10), and Paul says that the mystery of marriage points to “Christ and the Church” (Ephesians 5:32). So let's bite the bullet and call the Church our 'Mother.' The Church conceives us, for our Father makes her pregnant with “imperishable seed,” which is “the living and abiding word of God” (1 Peter 1:23). The Church gives birth to us. The prophet spoke of Zion being “in labor” and “bringing forth children” (Isaiah 66:8). Jesus said, “Unless one is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God” (John 3:5). Paul calls this birth a “washing of regeneration and renewal of the Holy Spirit” (Titus 3:5).

And then the Church nurses and feeds us. The prophet calls us to “rejoice with Jerusalem, and be glad for her, all you who love her..., that you may nurse and be satisfied from her consoling breast; that you may drink deeply with delight from her glorious abundance” (Isaiah 66:10-11). Peter writes, “Like newborn infants, long for the pure spiritual milk, that by it you may grow up into salvation” (1 Peter 2:2). And that milk, Paul and Apollos tell us, involves the basic teachings of the gospel (Hebrews 5:12; 1 Corinthians 3:2). And then, after moving us from milk to solid food, the Church lovingly disciplines and disciples us, aiming to train and raise us from childhood into “mature manhood, the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ” (Ephesians 4:13).

So if the Church is our Mother, what do we owe her? On a day like today, Mother's Day, we know we each owe our own individual mothers; and for those of you who are mothers, your children know they owe you. At least, they should! It's why we celebrate the day. What does a mother deserve? I can see at least five things.

First, a mother deserves gratitude. Any good mother, any decent mother, has contributed to her children's lives in profound ways. She not infrequently went through the labor and pain of giving birth to them. She held them close at their most vulnerable. She nursed them from her own substance. She heard their cries and answered. She suffered for their well-being. She invested her time and love into their upbringing, into a relationship with them. She offered them gifts. From before her children were even born, she was serving them, investing in them – and she didn't stop 'til they were grown and could stand on her own, and even then, she still loves them, still knows them as her children, still finds ways to care for them and provide for them and give them gifts and blessings. So of course they owe her gratitude. Of course they owe her thanks for all these gifts and blessings she gives them. Of course they owe her a right and good use of her gifts, rather than to squander them.

And if the Church is our Mother, doesn't that mean we owe her gratitude? St. Augustine extolled “the womb of Mother Church: see how she groans and is in travail to bring you forth and guide you on into the light of faith!” Shouldn't we be grateful for that? Shouldn't we be grateful for all the milk she nursed us with, all the solid food the Church fed us with, all the love and care that the Church – considered in its heavenly perfection – offered us and offers us still as we hopefully grow up well? Yet how often we complain and grumble against her! How often we think of her, talk of her, as expendable, or even a detriment and a hindrance! But as the Church gives us gifts week in and week out, bankrolled by our Father's abundance, don't we owe it to her to have an attitude of gratitude, and to put those gifts to good use? As you thank your earthly mothers this morning (even if those earthly mothers currently call heaven home), are you thankful toward the mother called the Jerusalem Above?

And then, second, a mother deserves her child's time and presence. On Mother's Day, if it's at all possible, we want to spent time with our mothers. I know I'm eager for lunch with mine. I want to be present with her, spend time with her, cultivate a relationship with her, not just today on a special holiday but each week. As my mother, she deserves no less than that expression of love. A child owes a mother not to neglect her, not to stand her up, but to show her value through time spent with her – a precious opportunity to recognize while we can.

And if the Church is our Mother, doesn't that mean we owe her our time and presence? Doesn't that mean that, when she expects to see us, when she expects to get together with us, we should be there? Doesn't it mean we should want to cultivate a relationship with her, to be with her more often? And yet how often we seem to find the flimsiest excuses to neglect our Mother the Church! How often we neglect her! How often we avoid her! What a son it would be who, on Mother's Day, didn't give his mother the time of day. What a daughter it would be who, the rest of the year, treated her mother as an outsider. Today, or the rest of the year, does your Mother the Church have reason to complain, “You never write, you never call, you never visit”? Your Mother loves you – won't you think of your Mother and spend time with the Church?

But, of course, today is Mother's Day. I got my mom a modest little something, and I'm sure she's eager to see just what it is. Other people I know also went shopping to find gifts for their mothers. If your mother is still on earth with you, I hope you did, too. That's what dutiful children, grateful children, do. We give Mother's Day gifts, birthday gifts, Christmas gifts. We do favors for our moms. Yesterday, my mom asked if I could stop by today and maybe help her move a couple pieces of furniture inside. I made time to do it yesterday afternoon. As needs arise, we care for our mothers' needs, provide for them, knowing how many years they provided so drastically for us.

And if the Church is our Mother, doesn't she deserve the same? Doesn't she deserve our gifts, our provisions, our tangible expressions of love and filial care? Doesn't she deserve our favors, especially when she asks for something that's so simple and so within our power? And yet how much readier we are to hold back our wallets in getting gifts for our Mother the Church than we ever would think of being on Mother's Day when it comes to our earthly mothers! Not that she asks us to break the bank – our Mother, like our Father, enjoys it when her children are cheerful givers of gifts (cf. 2 Corinthians 9:7). And how much more reluctant are we to do favors when our Mother the Church asks than when Mama Cindy, Mama Linda, Mama Thelma, Mama Gladys, Mama Gloria, earthly mothers of any name, do the asking? If the Church is our Mother, what Mother's Day gift have you brought her? What will you bring for her birthday next Sunday on Pentecost? What will you say when she asks a favor of her son, her daughter? If God's your Father, she's your Mother – what will you do?

Fourth, a mother deserves to see unity among her children. Family strife hurts her. It hurts a mother when her children bicker, fight, divide. A mother wants to see her children getting along. She doesn't like it when arguments keep them from sharing the same dinner table in love. She wants to watch them cooperate together in good things. She wants her children to find ways to really enjoy each other's company, because she loves them all. I'm my mother's only child, but most of you come from larger families, and plenty of you mothers had more than one kid. You know what I mean. A mother loves all her children and wants them to get along. And she deserves to have that wish.

And if the Church is our Mother, doesn't she deserve the same? Doesn't family strife offend her when we bicker and fight and divide? Isn't it a grievous thing when her children refuse to sit down at the same table, to “partake one holy food”? Isn't it awful when her children refuse to cooperate in what's good, when her children reject each other's company? Isn't that an offense against her love, when we ignore her pleas, “Please, please, stop fighting”? Why are we so insistent on turning her other kids away? Why do we keep up the argument when she asks us to drop it, to embrace in forgiveness, to let the estrangement melt away into family unity? Isn't that what the Mother of God's Heirs deserves?

In addition to one more thing. Fifth, a mother deserves for her motherhood to be celebrated. That's what today is all about, isn't it? On Mother's Day, we celebrate our mothers' motherhood. And just the fact that she's a mother, just the fact that she's your mother, would be enough cause to celebrate. But for those of you from larger families, those of you who weren't last to come, do you remember what it was like when your mom had another child? When your mother has the joy of entering motherhood all over again, bringing another child to life, doesn't she want to celebrate? And wouldn't it make her glad if her older children got caught up in her celebration and excitement with her?

Well, the Church is our Mother. And Paul quoted the prophet's song: “Rejoice, O barren one who does not bear; break forth and cry aloud, you who aren't in labor! For the children of the desolate one will be more than those of the one who has a husband” (Galatians 4:27, quoting Isaiah 54:1). Our Mother above, our Mother Jerusalem, our Holy Mother Church, is more fertile than we can imagine. She's adding children to the family all the time. Our Mother's got motherhood like none other! And we're meant to get caught up in the excitement and celebrate her motherhood, celebrate her fertility, as the gift of the God who loves her. Do we celebrate the Church's motherhood today, bless her fertility today, give thanks for the onward expansion of her family today?

There is indeed a “Jerusalem above,” the holy and heavenly city somehow behind what we know as 'Church.' And she “is free, and she is our mother” (Galatians 4:26). Today, this Mother's Day, let's listen to the words of the prophet and do them: “You who remember the LORD, take no rest and give him no rest until he establishes Jerusalem” – that is, our Mother above – “and makes her a praise in the earth” (Isaiah 62:6)! Amen.