I hear a lot of homilies
and read a lot of reflections
that focus on Mary’s obedience.
Her receptivity.
Her quietness.
Her “Yes.”
Most of these homilies,
of course,
are preached by men.
And there is no denying the fact
that Mary was indeed
Obedient.
Reflective.
Receptive.
A woman who said, “Yes.”
But in our zeal to honor her--
In our desire to set her
Apart
from other women –
the model of obedience and sanctity--
Do we run the risk of overlooking
her raw courage?
Risk turning her bold faith
into sentiment?
Risk deconstructing her authentic humanity
and transforming it into something
abstract and remote?
And I wonder…
When we place a golden diadem
on her head;
When we clothe her
in silk and brocade;
When we picture Mary the Queen,
her hands demurely folded,
eyes cast modestly down--
do we risk losing sight of her resolve?
Her heroic embrace of the unknown?
Maybe not.
Maybe those beautiful accessories
of royal power and privilege
are appropriate.
Maybe they lead us
to deeper devotion and faith.
But I wonder…
I wonder if sometimes,
especially during Advent and Christmas,
we reduce her determination
to docility
and freeze her vibrant womanhood
into the static beauty of a Christmas card,
suitable for framing
or for tucking safely away
in the pages of a family Bible.
What if, this year,
we took the statue of Mary
off the shelf
and stood beside her?
What if, this year,
we set aside her jeweled crown
and took her hand,
calloused from work
and brown
from the hot Mediterranean sun?
Where would she lead us?
What if, this year,
we see her,
not as a medieval noblewoman,
graciously receiving a heavenly messenger
in a walled garden,
but as Mary,
a young Jewish woman
from the provincial backwaters,
who was thrust,
ready or not,
into life’s most extraordinary story?
When little more than a girl,
Mary was asked to look beyond her fears,
beyond her plans
for a safe and traditional life,
and freely accept hardship,
ambiguity,
the possibility of disgrace,
in order to embrace
the most surprising
and remarkable call from God.
An impossible messenger
brought an impossible message--
the stunning,
life-overturning,
universe-exploding,
heart-stopping,
knee-buckling,
stomach-churning
News
that she would become the God Bearer—
that she,
Mary of Nazareth,
would carry her own savior within her,
and bear his light into the world.
Her response to this impossible message
is anything but docile.
Anything but silent.
Anything but meek.
She didn’t fully understand,
but she said yes, anyway.
She knew this call
might lead her into danger,
but she said yes, anyway.
She knew that her fiancé
might cast her out,
but she said yes, anyway.
She knew that her plans for the future
were smashed,
transformed into something unpredictable,
risky,
glorious,
wild…
and she said yes,
anyway.
She said yes,
and then lifted her voice
in a song of justice and joy,
preaching a powerful Word
of mercy and hope.
Mary preached a vision of the God
who throws rulers from their thrones,
who scatters the proud and arrogant,
who sends the wealthy away,
empty and alone.
She preached of a God
who stands with the oppressed,
the disenfranchised,
the forgotten,
the hungry,
the poor.
She preached of salvation
and justice,
boldly claiming the promises
God made to Abraham and his descendants
for herself
and for us.
Her impossible message
led her into unexpected motherhood
and a quick flight into exile.
It led to a lifetime of letting go
and learning both the heavy price
and the rich blessing of discipleship.
Her impossible message
eventually led her to the foot of the Cross
and into the fire of Pentecost
and she said “Yes” to it all
because she knew that nothing,
nothing--
no matter how impossible--
was ever impossible for God.
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