2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16 The Magnificat Romans 16:25-27 Luke 1: 26-38
Back in July, while I was in England, my dad asked my family ‘if you were a contestant on mastermind, what would your specialist subject be?’. And we thought long and hard about our answer. His was episodes of the dare-I-say dated crime drama Columbo, and the races of one specific horse of the 1970s. But mine would be the life and works of the Blessed Virgin Mary. And, if I can peel your thoughts away from what your mastermind specialist subject would be, let’s consider Jesus’ mum.
In place of our psalm today we read those glorious words of Mary’s song of social justice, the Magnificat. My favourite Magnificat-fact is until as recently as 1986 it was against the law in at least two countries for it to be recited, in public. In Guatemala and India, the government banned this passage because they recognised its power and they feared that if the poor or oppressed heard it, there might be an uprising, a revolution. Mary’s prophetic view of this world is not just a system that is a bit better than the old one. It is a brand-new creation, and it makes the old order unrecognisable.
This wide-eyed girl said a defiant yes to a new world order and agreed to fulfil her part in it and I want to do the same. I want to be that radical, that defiant, that obedient. But do you know what I only just realised this week?
As much as I love Mary, as much as her words are indelibly inked on my skin, as much as her YES has got me into all kinds of holy trouble and led me to this, I’ve often kept her as that teenage mum. Apart from an occasional moment or two, she’s mostly been singing the Magnificat or birthing in the stable. But this week, I read this poem and it has woken something up in me so I wanted to share with you these words from the writer Katie Baker.
I am the Mary of your Christmas cards.
I listen calmly while the angel brings me news that will shake my life beyond all measure.
I accept what has been ordained for me.
I am young and dressed in blue.
I am the Mary of your Christmas cards.
Despite travelling almost 100 miles on a donkey across a desert and giving birth in a stable, I am still immaculately clean and tidy, cradling my infant son, unperturbed by my surroundings.
I am still young and dressed in blue.
I am the Mary of your Christmas cards, welcoming shepherds from the nearby fields and strangers from afar; a person who treats such events as if they happened every day, calmly pondering on them in my heart.
I am still young and dressed in blue
But is this really me?
Do you have any picture of me beyond that of Christmas cards?
Where is your picture of me in the temple, as Simeon tells me how a sword would pierce my soul?
The angel brought greetings and told me not to be afraid, so I am calm on your Christmas cards; but do you never see the terror in my eyes as I hear Simeon’s haunting words and I do fear what is to come?
Maybe you do have a picture of me 12 years later – but have I aged in your eyes?
Am I calm and serene, frantically searching for my son, lost on return from the temple?
He was calm – but not I.
I was frantic.
Do you have a picture of me 30 years after your first picture of me?
Am I still dressed in blue?
Are there lines on my face?
Is my hair now grey?
Do you see me at the wedding feast, recognising deep within that his time was coming and he would soon be no longer mine?
Do you see me hurt by his rejection when he declared that all the world was his mother and his brother and his sister.
I knew that he had a greater purpose – but do not imagine that there was no pain for me in this. How I aged in those three years.
But am I still young in your picture?
Was I not grey-haired as I stood at the foot of the cross?
Do you know what it takes to watch your son being crucified?
Some parents still do.
As they pierced his side, my soul, too, was pierced.
Do you have a picture of me – in tears, distraught at the anguish of my son?
Or am I still the Mary of your Christmas cards?
They laid him in a tomb – it seemed so final – it seemed I had lost him for ever.
Where was the angel now to tell me not to be afraid?
My fellow countrywomen kept vigil; I was not alone in mourning.
But you who know what happened next, do you let me grieve for the end I thought he’d reached?
You know the end – you know the triumph of his resurrection, the Kingdom without end – and knowing this affects your picture of me.
I remain always young and dressed in blue, calm and serene, humble and willing – never allowed to show fear, hurt, anger, pain and grief.
For many I remain the Mary of Christmas cards.
If I am to be called blessed, please remember all I stand for.
As you receive your cards this Christmas, please look at me and remember that this is just the beginning.
Isn’t that wonderful?
The Mary of my knowledge was wild eyed, brave hearted, defiant and rebellious – a real revolutionary – but I had kept her young. By doing that I had denied Blessed Mary of burying her child. She knew that pain. And when he ascended he left again. I denied her of that too. She is so much more than we might have space for in our minds.
So before we dash headlong into Christmas Eve, before we celebrate her in carols and candlelight let’s just pause and consider the lifelong love of this earthly Mother, chosen for great things, and fully human.
And may we be inspired by that wild teen to whisper our own yes to God’s call, for the rest of our lives, not just for this snapshot, or this chapter. May our own yes be as bold as Mary’s and as lifelong. And might it even be as wild. Amen.
Holy Adventures 