“If you do not have the Church as your mother, you cannot have God as your Father.” [1]

It was the annual church potluck on Mother’s Day. Behind the church, in that beautiful backyard, one of the beloved matriarchs of the parish gathered the children together and called out, “Who wants to play a game?” The children were instantly excited. Children always light up when someone says it is time to play. She explained the game. The children lined up across the yard while the “mother” stood at the far end near the doors of the fellowship hall. One by one, each child had to raise a hand and ask, “Mother, may I take three steps?” or “Mother, may I take four giant steps?” Then it was up to the mother to decide.

Sometimes she granted exactly what was requested. Sometimes she modified it. “No, you may not take ten giant steps, but you may take two frog hops instead.” The goal, of course, was to reach the mother first.
As the game was beginning, a teenager who had wandered into the church grounds stood awkwardly off to the side. Father Benedict noticed him and walked over. “Hello,” the priest said warmly. “I’m Father Benedict.” “My name is Daniel,” the boy replied. “Well, Daniel, I’m glad you came today. We’re about to witness a rather lively sport.” Daniel looked unimpressed. “I don’t really get this game.” “Come sit with me,” Father Benedict said.
The two sat down on a nearby bench and watched the children begin. Hands shot into the air. “Mother, may I take three steps?” “Yes, you may.” “Mother, may I take ten steps?” “No, but you may take two frog hops.” The children laughed and obeyed happily. Daniel shook his head. “I still don’t get it. The whole thing seems unfair. She can let whichever child she wants get ahead first.” Father Benedict smiled. “Watch a little longer.”
Just then, one impatient child decided not to ask permission at all. He made a sudden dash toward the finish line. Immediately the mother stopped him. “No. Back to the beginning.” The child groaned in disappointment. Because he had not asked, he lost his turn entirely. Daniel folded his arms. “So what exactly are you teaching children in church? That the polite ones get rewarded? That some children are favorites?” Father Benedict turned toward him and quietly said: “If you do not have the Church as your mother, you cannot have God as your Father.” Daniel looked startled. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Explain that to me.” In the background, the children continued asking permission for every movement forward. Father Benedict said, “Today in the Gospel from the fourteenth chapter of St. John, Jesus tells his disciples: ‘If you love me, you will keep my commandments.’” Daniel nodded slowly. “So yes,” the priest continued, “in some ways, these children are learning obedience. But more importantly, they are learning trust.” He paused.
“In life, God gives us many opportunities to move forward. We ask for things constantly. Sometimes we receive exactly what we ask for. Sometimes God modifies the request. Sometimes we try to rush ahead or cut corners and God slows us down.” The children continued advancing across the yard. “The mother is not exercising tyranny over the children,” Father Benedict said. “She is teaching patience, trust, kindness, and attentiveness along the journey.” Then finally, one little child reached her first, threw his arms around her, and shouted with joy. Father Benedict pointed gently. “You see? Jesus promises us that if we follow him faithfully, in the end we will reach him too.”

We are living in the season of Easter, the season of resurrection. The disciples themselves were learning how to take those uncertain steps. They kept asking, “Lord, what comes next? Where does this road lead?” And Jesus was preparing them for the birth of the Church. In the Acts of the Apostles today, we heard about Saul, the man who tried to rush ahead and force his own understanding upon God. He was cutting corners. He believed he was doing the right thing. Then Christ stopped him in his tracks on the road to Damascus. A blinding light interrupted his entire life and set him back. It was as though God said, “No, Saul. Back up. You are asking the wrong questions.” And Saul became Paul. A new creation. He realized he had been following commands that were not truly from God. He had zeal, but not yet wisdom. Strength, but not yet surrender.
Later, as Paul traveled throughout the Greek world, he came to Athens and stood among the statues of many gods. There he proclaimed the true God, the One in whom, as Paul declared: “In Him we live and move and have our being.”[2] That is what the Church tries to teach us still. Like a loving mother hearing the endless questions of her children, the Church guides us toward what is good, holy, and life-giving. Sometimes God gives different commands to different people. One child is told to slow down. Another is encouraged to move faster. One receives “yes.” Another receives “not yet.” And from the child’s perspective, it can feel unfair.

But every loving mother knows that children do not all require the same guidance. Mothers come in many forms, with many personalities and strategies. Children often cry out, “That’s favoritism!” And mothers almost always answer, “I love you all the same.” A child may not understand why one path is harder than another. But a mother sees what the child cannot yet see. And so does God.

A mother cannot rush the growth of a child before the proper time. By wisdom and patience, she allows life to unfold gradually. That is part of the beauty of the Gospel. Jesus says, “If you know me, you know the Father.”[3] And he promises to send the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, who will dwell within us. The Church becomes the place where that divine love continues to nourish, guide, protect, correct, and sustain God’s children. Perhaps that is why mothers hold such a special place in the heart of God. They embody something of the sacrificial love of Christ himself. Children may think the goal is simply reaching the finish line first, but mothers know the deeper lesson is the journey itself: learning trust, forgiveness, patience, perseverance, and love.

That is why St. Cyprian, eighteen hundred years ago in Carthage, Africa, famously said: “If you do not have the Church as your mother, you cannot have God as your Father.” We come to know the Father through the Son, and the Son pours his life into the Church through the Holy Spirit. And so the Church continues the motherly work of grace.

Interestingly, the game “Mother, May I?” became popular during the Victorian era because people believed children needed to relearn courtesy, discipline, and respect. Before that, children more often asked, “Mother, can I?” But there is a great difference between “Can I?” and “May I?” One asks merely about ability. The other asks for relationship. For permission. For trust. For guidance. And perhaps that is the real work of the Church, to teach us not merely what we can do, but what we may do as beloved children of God.

So today, I hope you leave with renewed gratitude for your earthly mothers. But I also hope you recognize that every faithful mother participates in something much larger: the motherly love of the Church herself. When you come here, I pray you feel that same love.

The Church loves you dearly.

But like the children in the game, we must still learn to ask:
“Mother, may I?”

[1] St. Cyprian, “On the Unity of the Catholic Church”, 251AD
[2] Acts 17:22-31
[3] John 14:15-21