The Visitation, 1973, Jesus Mafa
The Song of Mary, the Magnificat, is embedded in Luke’s story of the birth of Jesus. In the very long first chapter of Luke, Mary is visited by the Angel Gabriel, in her small hometown of Nazareth, far from the religious and political hub, Jerusalem. The angel tells Mary that she will become the mother of Jesus, who will be called the Son of God. The seed of that promise is already planted in Mary’s womb. Even though Mary is not yet married, the angel tells Mary that with God all things are possible. By way of proof, the angel says that Mary’s cousin, Elizabeth, who is aged well beyond the time of childbearing is also pregnant with a son.
Once Mary has recovered from her shock, she accepts the responsibility that Gabriel has brought to her. She agrees to carry, birth and raise the infant Jesus. She gets up and travels to her cousin, Elizabeth’s house in a village in the hills. She needs to confirm the angel’s story and perhaps she needs a place to hide – as an unmarried young woman - while the child grows in her womb.
Here are the verses from Luke’s gospel immediately preceding Mary’s song:
Luke 1:39-45 (NRSV)
39 In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country,
40 where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth.
41 When Elizabeth heard Mary's greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit
42 and exclaimed with a loud cry, "Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.
43 And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me?
44 For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy.
45 And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord."
Mary hears Elizabeth’s affirmation of the significance of her pregnancy and she feels Elizabeth’s arms around her, Elizabeth’s round pregnant belly making contact with Mary’s smaller abdomen. According to Luke, Elizabeth’s baby, John, leaps for joy as he recognizes the still-embryonic Jesus, the seed, inside Mary. Joy is infectious. John’s leap for joy spills into Elizabeth, who is filled with the Holy Spirit. In turn, Elizabeth’s joyful outburst prompts Mary – now assured that the angel’s message was true – to burst into joyful song.
When was the last time you experienced pure, unadulterated joy?
A flawless, breathtaking ski run … the conditions perfect, snow just crisp enough, the sun at just the right spot in the sky? Or perhaps in a concert, the music lifting you up out of your seat, your body swaying, your arms lifted?
Perhaps a walk with a loved one, or alone, on a pure winter day, craning your neck to admire the flocking birds above calling to you? Or the day you held a newborn welcomed to your family, your child, a grandchild, niece of nephew? The tiny fingers wrapped around yours, you gazed into the new to the world face, taking in each detail. Pure joy.
Mary anticipates that with the birth of her child, God will scatter the proud, bring down the powerful from their thrones, lift up the lowly and fill the hungry with good things, all while sending the rich away empty.
Mary lives in a world in which she, a poor unmarried young woman, is in a lowly position. The actions of the proud and powerful dictate the circumstances of her life. As her pregnancy progresses, she will be required to make the dangerous journey to Bethlehem, simply because the occupier requires it. She will give birth in a stable because poor travelers will be overcrowded in that outlying Jerusalem neighborhood. She will be separated from the traditional support system of her family because of the Roman Empire’s whims.
No wonder Mary rejoices at the possibility of the reversal of this situation. And yet, I wonder, does she not have the least sense of foreboding? Isn’t her joy tinged with just a little fear? Doesn’t the enormity of what she is going to do cause her to shudder just a little?
For Mary, in this moment at least, the answer is “no.” But I suspect for any of us the answer to all of the above would be a firm “yes.” Unadulterated joy is rare these days, except in the very young. In her book “Daring Greatly”, Brené Brown says, “in a culture of scarcity, joy can seem like a setup.” Do you feel, sometimes, that things seem to be going too well. You are feeling so happy that there must be a catch? So often, when we feel joy we also fear that disaster is coming, perhaps in the shape of a terror attack, a terrible car accident, or other tragic event. [1]
What Brown describes as “foreboding joy” comes from the fear that we cannot trust when things are going too well. She says that many of us use foreboding joy as a shield to protect ourselves from becoming too vulnerable. In her research she learned that people describe themselves as most vulnerable when they watch over their sleeping children; acknowledge how much they love their partner; love their job; spend time with their parents; get engaged; go into remission; or fall in love. All of these things seem like reasons for joy, and yet, they make us feel so vulnerable, vulnerable to pain and the possibility of loss.
For myself, motherhood brought my vulnerability to the surface. The blessing of the most beautiful children I could have imagined could have brought about pure joy. But the vulnerability was almost unbearable. I put off bathing our first child, fearful that I would scald him or drown him. The responsibility of driving our children in the car on icy days panicked me.
Like many moms, I felt an irresistible need to mitigate the joy of my children. I’d scold them (and their dad) when I thought that they were getting too rambunctious and silly, using the excuse that an accident might happen. I so regret the part I played in teaching my children to distrust joy. My protection of them was really a kind of self-protection. “Mark my words, there’ll be tears before bedtime” was a family motto I’d learned years before from my grandmother, my aunt and my own mom. We did not like to admit that we feared they would be our own tears.
Joy and vulnerability are deeply connected. To feel pure joy, we must be willing to be vulnerable. No wonder we see pure joy in Mary. She must be one of the most vulnerable young women in human history!
The root of Mary’s joy is in the reversal she anticipates for the world. The reversal that will put these things right. This reversal will be birthed by the Christ whom she bears in her womb. Her joy is in the role she will play in this in-breaking of God into the suffering of the world. Her role, in this moment is simply to gestate that hidden seed of Christ’s coming.
Here is an invitation to lean into Advent joy, that includes becoming vulnerable enough to delight in our closest relationships. Yet it also includes embracing joy in the role that God has for us in the coming of Christ to the world. This week, as we seek Advent joy, let’s imagine that third pink candle shedding its light on the hidden ways, the seeds, in which God enters the world and the role that we will play in gestating those seeds.
Today let’s meditate on Pierce Petti’s song, Miriam:
[1] Brené Brown, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead, (Penguin Random House, New York, 2014)