Over in a corner of the chapel at the Convent of Saint Helena stands a small statue of Mary, the same way we have our statue of Mary. The statue resides next to a stand of votive candles — candles that are always lit either by the sisters or by visitors. I have always been fascinated by this statue: her upraised arms, the expression on her face, her thick neck. And perhaps what has always attracted my attention is the thick band of material that wraps itself around her arms and chest. I do not know any stories about this statue — about its creator, or how it came to be, or who it is meant to represent.
On the lectionary sheet is yet another image of Mary. This statue comes from Bosnia [above]. Once again, I don’t know its origins or where it resides. But this Mary is a more somber Mary, her head bent down, the swooping line of her back and veil emphasing this position of humility and sorrow.
Yet, as I think of Mary, whom I think these statues represents (but not necessarily only Mary — it can represent all women), I begin to think particularly of how that band of material around her chest in the first statue and arms is so apropos. That band of material seems to be both the joy and the pain that come with the annunciation of the birth of Jesus: the ‘my heart will break’ sort, a joy or sorrow that is so intense that our chests constrict.
What of Mary? Mary has been thought of for too long as a passive vessel in whom God placed Jesus, simply the one who carried Jesus. Eastern Orthodoxy refers to her as the God bearer, the Theotokos. Later, historically, she becomes an icon of veneration as in ‘Hail Mary full of grace, blessed are you among all women….’ She becomes the intermediary for penitent humanity who begs her to have mercy ‘now and at the time of our death.’
Anglicans have always been a little squeamish about the emphasis placed on Mary. We speak of the ‘virgin birth’ but prefer not to get too far into a discussion about the ‘how’s and ‘wherefore’s. The Immaculate Consumption and the Assumption, so important in Roman theology, are not significant in our tradition. And for those few parishes named after Mary, we sit in an awkward place with a band of inhibition, even of apologies for our Marian devotion about our chests, just as the statue.
There is a place for Mary in our theology, however. Mary is a powerful, complex figure for us — actually a radical figure — and if we look at images of her throughout the four gospels, we see how she walks alongside Jesus in his ministry, and is one of the few who keeps vigil at the foot of the cross. Her prophetic words of the Magnificat — powerful because they speak of a time when the world as we know it is turned upside-down, powerful because they prefigure the significance of the cross — inspire us.
Mary’s powerful words stand in contrast with the archetypal image of her humility. Archbishop Oscar Romero, whose feast day was yesterday, wrote of her message that can be cast both in an understanding of humility as well as the words of the Magnificat:
A humble person is one who, like the humble Mary, says, ‘The Powerful One has done great things in me.’ Each of us has an individual greatness. God would not be our author if we were something worthless. You and I and all of us are worth very much, because we are creatures of God, and God has prodigally given his wonderful gifts to every person. And so the church values human beings and contends for their rights, for their freedom, for their dignity. That is an authentic church endeavor. While human rights are violated, while there are arbitrary arrests, while there are tortures, the church considers itself persecuted, it feels troubled, because the church values human beings and cannot tolerate that an image of God be trampled by persons that become brutalized by trampling on others. The church wants to make that image beautiful.
Just as the personage of Mary is complex, so is our celebrating the Annunciation smack in the middle of Lent. Hearing words so closely associated with the third Sunday of Advent is bound to cause us some cognitive dissonance. Yet how comforting it is to hear these words as we get closer and closer to Jerusalem and the cross.
On this fifth Sunday of Lent, I filter the words of the annunciation and the Magnificat through the story of the passion. Echoing in my head at the same time that Mary expresses her faith in the wonders of what God is about to do for humanity through her, is the nagging phrase that lingers: ‘A sword will pierce her heart, too.’ And, indeed, one will. When we remember some of the references to Mary in the Stations of the Cross, we find that Mary’s heart is, indeed, bound.
At the Fourth Station, where Jesus meets his afflicted mother, the biblical text reads:To what can I liken you, to what can I compare you, O daughter of Jerusalem? What likeness can I use to comfort you, O virgin daughter of Zion? For vast as the sea is your ruin. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. The Lord will be your everlasting light, and your days of mourning shall be ended.
Later, at the Thirteenth Station as the body of Jesus is placed in the arms of his mother, we hear from the Book of Ruth.
Is it nothing to you, all you who pass by? Look and see if there is any sorrow like my sorrow. My eyes are spent with weeping; my soul is in tumult; my bile is poured out on the ground because of the destruction of my people. ‘Call me no longer Naomi, call me Mara, for the Almighty has dealt bitterly with me.’
It seems fitting for us to hear these words alongside those of the Annunciation. They are, indeed, that paradoxical band wrapped around our chests that constricts both Mary’s and our hearts. We sorrow yet, at the same time, we are called to exult in God’s everlasting mercy for us as shown by the cross.
We move closer to that cross, given that next Sunday is already Palm/Passion Sunday. Even that day is a paradox in its all too rapid celebration of the Christ, before it plunges into the sorrows of the passion. So much of our faith consists of those harsh juxtapositions.
As we remember the Annunciation, alongside our journey to Jerusalem, let our hearts proclaim, always, the greatness of our Saviour. And then, may we move beyond mere words to living out the words of the Magnificat to create a church and society where we value everyone’s worth and dignity.
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