As the month of May arrives, and as it often happens year after year, we find ourselves remembering, honoring, and celebrating motherhood and the figure that embodies it.
One of the clearest, most powerful, and most used images of motherhood in Scripture is found in Mary. Not only as a symbol of devotion, but as a woman who said yes to something that placed her in a very real and vulnerable position. In a context where pregnancy outside of marriage could lead to public shame and even serious consequences, as reflected in Deuteronomy 22:23–24, Mary’s story cannot be reduced to a simple act of obedience. Even within the Gospel narrative, Joseph is described as considering quietly separating from her (Matthew 1:19), which already reveals the tension surrounding her situation. And yet, she remains. She carries this calling forward, beyond from certainty, from trust. She walks alongside Jesus, her son, throughout his life and ministry, and when many others step away, she is still there at the cross (John 19:25), standing near him in a place of grief, danger, and loss.
In that same way, the Scripture also offers another image of motherhood that is both striking and revealing. In the well-known account of the judgment of Solomon (1 Kings 3:16–28), two women come before the king, each claiming to be the mother of the same child. With no clear evidence to resolve the dispute, Solomon proposes that the child be, literally, divided. What follows is, more than a test of logic, a revelation of compassion. The true mother is the one who, rather than see her child harmed, is willing to let him go.
In that moment, motherhood is not described as possession, but as a willingness to relinquish one’s own claim in order to preserve life.
However, this is not the only way the Bible speaks about motherhood. I find it very interesting that the Scriptures do not idealize it. At all.
Actually, the Bible holds space for a wide range of experiences, including those that are difficult to name.
For instance, in 2 Kings 6:24–30, during a time of siege and extreme famine, we encounter one of the most unsettling stories in the biblical text. Two women, pushed beyond what any human being should endure, reach an agreement to give up their children in order to survive. One of them follows through.
This is not a story that invites quick judgment. It is a story that reflects what happens when life is reduced to survival, when systems collapse, and when human beings are driven to the edge of desperation.
The other woman, however, after her own need has been met, refuses to honor the agreement, choosing to preserve herself while withholding from the other. The text does not simplify either of them. It does not present them as heroes or villains, but as human beings caught in a reality that should have never existed.
In Genesis 27, we encounter Rebekah, whose love for one son leads her to participate in deception against the other. Her preference for Jacob over Esau shapes her actions, and the consequences are not minor. The family is fractured, trust is broken, and the effects of that moment extend far beyond a single decision. Here, motherhood is uneven, partial, and entangled with fear and control.
And these are not isolated stories. The biblical witness consistently refuses to reduce motherhood to a single image, allowing us to see both care and harm, devotion and failure, presence and absence.
Throughout my ministry, I have had the privilege of walking with people from many different places. Some speak of their mothers with deep gratitude and love. Others, often in the quiet space of pastoral conversation, begin to name experiences of pain, distance, and even the impossibility of maintaining a relationship. I have met people who find comfort in speaking of God as Mother, and others for whom that language is difficult because of their own history. In the same way, there are those who struggle with the image of God as Father for similar reasons. These experiences are real, and they shape how we approach both faith and community.
What, then, do we do with all of this?
Perhaps we begin by allowing Scripture to remain as honest as it already is, without forcing it into a single narrative that does not hold the weight of real life. And then, we should turn to Christ.
In Jesus, we encounter one who does not step away from human complexity, but instead enters into it fully. One who sees without reducing, who understands without dismissing, and who remains present even in those places where relationships cannot be repaired in the ways we might hope. He weeps with those who weep, and he draws near to those who carry wounds that are not easily resolved. His presence is not dependent on whether a story is whole, but precisely on the fact that it is not.
There is grace for those who have known the gift of nurturing love as there is also grace for those who have known its absence. There is grace for those who have tried to be good mothers and have struggled under the weight of life, and for those who carry regret over what they could not give. And there is grace for those who continue to live with the consequences of relationships that could not be restored.
In Christ, no story is outside the reach of compassion. No life is beyond the possibility of being accompanied, and perhaps that is where we begin this season.
Not with a single image of what motherhood should be, but with a God who meets us in all the places where it has been lived.
Warmly,
Rev. David Gaitan
