Mothers
HERE in America, we seem to be confused with the word hoe. A hoe is a garden tool, but women are queens and should never to be confused as a garden tool. This simple lesson was driven into my heart by an unforgettable scenario with a church mother. In fact, God blessed me to be born to an amazing mother who loved my siblings and me unconditionally, and I’m blessed to have been nurtured by some amazing church mothers as well. Three particularly stand out in my mind. There was Mother Morgan, a towering figure of a woman who could shake the church rafters when she prayed. And then there was Mother Freeman. Gentle, soft-spoken with a Mona Lisa smile beaming amid the backdrop of pure ebony loveliness—it was she who handed me two books written by Theodore Epps as a gift while prophesying, “I see that the Lord is going to use you mightily.” One book covered the flesh verses the Spirit masterfully, and the other covered the Tabernacle of Moses. Devouring them thoroughly sparked an unquenchable thirst for Biblical knowledge and, by the way, I have ministered on the Tabernacle of Moses worldwide. And then there was Mother Mable. It was she who bought a drum set for little Dwight, our Overseer’s seven-year-old son, who was forever tapping on anything he could find while in church. Today, he is an accomplished musician, playing several instruments. Church mothers are investors with the uncanny ability to discern hidden potential in others. They view the world generationally.
As a deacon and a church van driver, I was dropping off my last rider, Mother Mable, home from church one Sunday. A group of churches hosted a famous evangelist that weekend, and I asked her how the meeting was. “I went Friday night, and I'll never go back,” she snapped. “He said some absolutely disgusting things. She was a whore, a filthy whore,” she mumbled softly, with her hand covering her mouth as though she struggled to get the words out. “I’ll never go back,” she whispered. Stopping at a light, I turned to my right, only to catch the harrowing look on her face. With distant, listless eyes, she appeared suspended somewhere between a vortex of pain and trauma. As she grew eerily silent, I received a message that transformed my ministry and life.
Throughout the ages, women have received terribly unfair sentences in society. Men can father children out of wedlock, abandon both mother and child and get a pass. For many, recreational sex is a rite of passage, something applauded and held in admiration by male peers; however, let a woman behave the same way, and she will be called every derogatory name under the sun, from a garden tool to a female dog in heat. Unfortunately, the woman who was chosen by God to bring all creation into the world after Adam is pummeled with a litany of offensive, berating names. I write this with sorrow deep within my heart.
Mothers are natural teachers. Even in their silence, they are instructing us. This is what I learned from Mother Mable that Sunday afternoon. I repented of my own offenses toward women and decided that I would not use such language again, especially in the pulpit.
Upon entering the pastorate and later elevated into the apostolic ministry years later, I attended a meeting featuring an international Greek and Hebrew scholar who jokingly used derogatory words for women throughout his text—stirring laughter from many—but I could see Mother Mable’s piercing eyes. Though perturbed, I shrugged it off until the Holy Spirit quickened me. The Lord let me know that I was not only an apostle to my church but to the body of Christ. I was to rebuke and call it down. I did just that in private after service as we ate at Red Lobster. Much like Nathan did with King David, I used wisdom in my approach so as not to miss the opportunity to gain and keep a friend.
“Brother, I love your writing,” I said. “You write so much better than you preach. Your use of the “h” word was not only excessive but also offensive. I would never have you in my pulpit with that.” Seeking to justify himself, he said that he called men whores as well and that many had thanked him after service; nevertheless, I stood my ground while shaking my head in staunch disapproval. His demeanor changed dramatically at the rebuke, and he left in a huff. Whatever the condition of our relationship was after this brief encounter, it didn’t matter. The word still stood firm. He was dead wrong. With Hollywood, magazines, blogs, podcasts, radio, television, and rap music relentlessly denigrating women, we cannot carry this same degrading language into the pulpit. The church should know better, do better, and speak better than the world.
If one desires to function in the glory realm, he or she must ask God to flush out their potty mouth. This is essential. God has never wasted words, and neither should we. Our words are to root out, throw down, and destroy that which is evil, and to build and plant that which is good. Isaiah prophesied great warnings against Judah until he saw a vision of God enthroned in chapter six. He suddenly realized the uncleanness of his lips. After confessing his condition, he was divinely purged and advanced to another level of prophetic revelation.
May we too have our lips touched with the hot coals from the heavenly altar. Clean lips release clean words from a pure heart. Such a heart becomes a reservoir for the glory. May we learn the difference between a hoe and a queen. May David’s prayer be ours. “Let the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, my redeemer” (Psalm 19:14).
Taken from “13 Ways to the Glory.” Available in ebook, paperback, hardback and audio books. To order your copy click on the link:https://www.amazon.com/13-ways-glory-toni-pugh-ebook/dp/B09P8V6XHS
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Originally Posted - May 15, 2023
