On the Feast of the Ascension this year, while walking the French pilgrimage route of Saint James of Compostella in southwestern France, we stopped in a small chapel. Getting there involved a two-mile detour, which was an act of dedication because the day was about 90º out, hot enough to melt the pavement underfoot.
This chapel was the highlight of the day for me. I wrote that night in my journal:
The Chapel of Caubin, heavily restored in 1966, is beautiful nonetheless. Its foundation goes back to 1154. It was a hospital in the Maltese order. It had a prior and seven monks in 1569 when [General] Montgomery killed them. The order regained Caubin in 1592 but lost it again in the French revolution.
The chapel is a simple Romanesque church with white stucco inside. Oddly, it has a flamboyant Gothic tomb (gîsant) on the right side of the nave, a recumbent knight, sword at his side. The knight’s name is Arnau Guillaume d’Andoins, died in 1301. Next to the tomb appears a Madonna looking more as though the statue came from la Côte d’Ivoire (Ivory Coast). I especially enjoyed the chapel because it wasn’t all gunked up with a lot of 19th-20th century schlock but was instead empty. We stayed half an hour there.
That Madonna in her simplicity made me think of Saint Mary’s back at home. The statue seemed almost an echo of the one that stands in the right corner of our church, overseeing the altar, columbarium, and votive candles. I always like to think that the church furnishings lie under Mary’s protecting gaze.
There is something lovely about being a member of a church called Saint Mary’s for she is a universal icon that one finds everywhere. But more than the comfort that the person of Mary brings to me, is the power of her words that always shake me to my roots and make me question how well I am doing as a follower of Jesus. If I pray the Magnificat, verse by verse, and imagine myself in Mary’s place, how do these verse resonate within my heart?
My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord,
my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour; *
for you have looked with favor on your lowly servant.
How well do I proclaim God’s greatness? Even in those moments of uncertainty, when it seems that God is asking me to do something impossible, when life seems to be asking too much of me, is my spirit able to rejoice honestly, openly, truly, thankfully in God my saviour?
From this day all generations will call me blessed: *
the Almighty has done great things for me,
and holy is your Name.
How well am I able to acknowledge the great things that God has done for me, and praise God’s holy name? When things seem to be too much, am I still able to praise God? (I always think of the story of a homeless woman in Boston, who still prays every morning: Thank you, God, because I woke up this morning.)
You have mercy on those who fear you *
in every generation.
Do I recognise the mercy God has had upon me? How God has forgiven me the wrongs I have done, the wrongs I still do, and the pardon extended to me that will always be there even before I ask? Can I recognise that that same mercy is extended to others, even those with whom I am still not in right relationship? Can I give thanks that God’s mercy is there for all?
You have shown the strength of your arm, *
you have scattered the proud in their conceit.
How honest am I in acknowledging that I, too, am one of the proud? When do I need to be taken down a peg or two? When do I need to be knocked off my high horse of self-righteousness? When do I acknowledge that, in the words of James Wendon Johnson, my arm is too short to box with God?
You have cast down the mighty from their thrones, *
and have lifted up the lowly.
When have I been one of the mighty cast down from my throne and when have I been one of the lowly that God has lifted up out of graciousness and compassion? Am I able to see that I can be both on a throne and lowly? Regardless my status, can I trust in God’s mercy and guidance and grow from the place in which I am and the place where I might end up?
You have filled the hungry with good things, *
and the rich you have sent away empty.
How have I, as a Christian, helped fill the hungry with God things? How have I helped bring about the great reversal of which Mary spoke, the turning-upside-down of the status quo so that reconciliation and restoration might come about? How have I, in Jesus’ name, worked toward the elimination of suffering, and the advancement of peace, toward the creation of a world where the lamb shall lie down with the lion?
You have come to the help of your servant Israel, *
for you have remembered your promise of mercy,
The promise you made to our forebears, *
to Abraham and his children for ever.
Will I, with every breath I have, as long as I shall live, remember God’s promises and do my best to convey to others the good news of salvation?
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While we have all of a few hours to linger in the fourth week of Advent, and therefore little time to rest with Mary’s song of praise, I encourage you to pray the Magnificat (canticle 3 and 15, found in Morning Prayer) throughout the course of the year, examining your own heart in light of these prescient words.
My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord;
my spirit rejoices in God my saviour….
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