Mary, beyond statue and stereotype (Part 3 of 3)
Finally, here’s the last of the series.
Quick review
In the last two posts, I’ve been following Mary’s loooong trek to Elizabeth after the angel appeared. I ended Part 2 wondering why Mary sang her Magnificat.
Why Mary sang
We forget that her story isn’t actually so strange.
She was a single young woman, carrying a child of an unknown father. Alone, vulnerable. But a tad worse than today’s single moms: she lived in a society that stoned women like her to death.
Imagine her fear. And with that fear, an aching desire to be understood.
So when Elizabeth welcomed her with such enthusiasm:
”Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb!
Imagine the wave of relief that washed over her.
Elizabeth wasn’t someone who was stingy with words. She continues her hearty welcome in the following paragraph:
And why is this granted me, that the mother of my Lord should come to me? For behold, when the voice of your greeting came to my ears, the babe in my womb leaped for joy. And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her from the Lord.” (Lk. 1:41–46)
This was Elizabeth’s old-fashioned way of saying: I’m so excited to see you that even my baby moved/ kicked/ jumped when I heard your voice.
The leaping fetus is actually the less unusual part for me. The stranger tidbit was Elizabeth calling Mary ‘blessed among women’ because of the child in her womb. This and the title, “the mother of her Lord (God)”.
It’s strange because how can a woman possibly know that the child of another woman is also the God who made the universe? She must have been looking at Mary with “eyes” that went deeper than just cousinly affection.
Two thousand years later, we now know that Elizabeth was right. Two thousand years after Mary’s long trek, countless men and women have done some pretty impressive things because of that child in her womb. Just think of Teresa of Calcutta and Pope Francis, our refreshingly unconventional Jesuit pope. Then, there are thousands, if not millions, of Christian martyrs, from ancient Rome to twenty first century Iraq. Strange thing is, Elizabeth saw this child’s “greatness” even before all that happened.
So, her words not only soothed Mary’s heart. They did something to her soul, to Mary’s lonely belief. It’s hard to believe in something you can’t fully see, and people around you also can’t see.
So when another person believes beside you…
When a friend takes the risk of embracing what seems irrational and takes the leap of faith with you…
Believing becomes both easier and warmer. As with much of life, believing together is so much better than just believing alone. Why this is the case reminds me of walking through a dark tunnel. Faith is, in many ways, like a dark tunnel. You can’t really see where you’re going and that can be scary. Having a friend walk with you through it always helps take away some of the horror.
Elizabeth did that for her cousin. Her welcome tells of how she wanted to walk through that dark tunnel with Mary. More than just a mother, Mary also found in Elizabeth someone to lighten the burden of walking through the obscure tunnel of faith. Something like what Samwise did for Frodo. Elizabeth was Mary’s Samwise.
Mary’s deep gratitude for Elizabeth’s courage to walk with her, as well as the cathartic relief Mary felt, needed to find words. Mary’s gratitude and catharsis became her song:
”My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has regarded the low estate of his handmaiden.For behold, henceforth all generations will call me blessed;
for he who is mighty has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.(Lk 1:47–50)
“All generations will call me blessed”?
The Magnificat is pretty conventional up until Mary proclaims: “all generations will call me blessed”. That sounds at least a little self-absorbed, I think. I’ve always wondered whether there was an attention-seeking diva sneakily hiding beneath Mary’s reserved exterior.
Then again, “blessed” is not a synonym for “glamorous” or “beautiful” or “captivating”. To be ‘blessed’ is to recognize that I am not the magician, nor the main event. The magic I experience comes from someone else.
The limelight wasn’t hers. Her torch pointed upward, elsewhere. ‘Blessed’ did not happen because of her power. ‘Blessed’ happened because the God of the universe decided to do something really unusual. He wrapped his bigness in a really tiny package — an infant born in a stable — and hid in her womb.
Her song celebrates this strange God who chooses humility over majesty. “Blessed” is an invitation to notice him, to look for him, because he likes to hide.
That’s why her audacious line is immediately followed by:
“for he who is mighty has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.”
Then, she continues to shift attention away from her story. The section that follows sings of others who went through what she went through. Small insignificant people who also were redeemed and lifted up. At times, in shocking ways:
He has cast down the mighty from their thrones,
and has lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent away empty.He has come to the help of his servant Israel
for he remembered his promise of mercy,
the promise he made to our fathers,
to Abraham and his children forever
This portion of the song tell us that she didn’t really see her specialness as entirely unique.
She knew her blessedness was shared. It described not only her, but others too.
Her invitation
This latter part of the song also suggests that “blessed” need not just be about believers of old. Its message calls to you and me. And I would argue, it sings even to those who don’t believe in organized religion.
For we all could use a little magic.
Her song invites us to taste the magic of believing in a humble-hidden God. She invites us to surrender our smallness to His power, because she did the same. She surrendered and watched how it changed not only her, but the entire world.
The child she held and cradled was so extraordinary that even non-believers took notice. H.G. Wells was one such man. He admitted:
I am an historian, I am not a believer, but I must confess as an historian that this penniless preacher from Nazareth is irrevocably the very center of history. Jesus Christ is easily the most dominant figure in all history.
The child Mary held and cradled also shows that believing isn’t just about the invisible. Believing is not only an immaterial act. It has the power to turn heaven into flesh. Believing is actually a creative power.
That’s why it can throw down people from thrones, and lift up the humble. Belief can fill the hungry. Throw down, lift up, feed — verbs that describe concrete actions, real events that can redirect the flow of history.
Faith isn’t just about what happens on the inside. Faith re-shapes and transforms in concrete, seeable ways.
This is the magic Mary’s song invites us to surrender to. It’s a power that isn’t so boisterous. It’s more like a gentle breeze than a thunderstorm. Yet, in its gentleness, its subtlety, its hiddenness, one finds an energy so creative, that history can’t help but pay attention because its changed too many things and too many selves. Because of it, too many have been willing to risk everything, even their very lives.
