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| "The Annunciation" Koninck (Swedish 1655) |
The angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor
with God.” (Luke 1:30)
“Hail, Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.” Any Roman Catholic
(or former Roman Catholic) will be familiar with these words. They’re the first
words of the “Hail Mary” prayer, that oft-repeated orison which forms the bulk
of the Catholic Rosary. Praying to Jesus’ mom is an integral part of Catholic
spirituality. A former parish administrator—a good Catholic lady who went to
mass every morning before coming to work at the Lutheran church—once said to
me, “I don’t understand why you people don’t pray to Our Lady. She will help
you.” The theological answer to that questions (as every good Lutheran should
know) is not that venerating Mary is idolatry. Indeed, our confessions teach
that the lives of the saints are always to be held up as examples of
righteousness. We don’t pray to the saints because Luther figured the doctrine
of intercession of saints was unnecessary. God, in God’s boundless love and
grace, values each of us sinners just as much as God values the most pious and
heroic of the departed. In other words, we each have a direct line to the
Almighty, and no intermediaries are necessary.
(Of course, if you want to
pray to Mary, it certainly can’t hurt.)
Doctrine aside, Luther was always very touched by the story in our
gospel for Advent 4 (Luke 1: 26-38), and wrote very tenderly of Mary. In fact,
he even criticized the angel for accosting the young girl with a salutation
that sounded like the wording on a draft notice. He felt it was no wonder Mary
should be spooked when the serif greeted her with “Hail” or “Greetings.” Being a
dad himself, and having great respect for the mysteries and dangers of
childbirth, Luther had wished Gabriel had taken a softer and gentler approach
with this young lass who was, we assume, just barely starting her teen years.
Christian art has always tried to make the birth of our Lord look
pretty. Our Christmas cards depict a glowing Mary beaming over the manger with
a radiance which makes her look like she’s just had a spa treatment—instead of
having just survived the messy, sweaty, bloody, and excruciatingly painful
ordeal of childbirth. There’s no question about Mary being “much perplexed”
(v.29) and probably utterly terrified
by the prospect of having a baby. Back in my middle school teaching days it was
painfully common for me to see thirteen or fourteen-year-old girls get
pregnant. I used to go into emotional convulsions thinking about the awesome
responsibility of a child having a child. The physical dangers of childbirth
notwithstanding, I couldn’t imagine the terror these kids must’ve felt knowing
their whole futures were about to be irrevocably altered. Mary must’ve felt the
same way.
Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, the twelfth century abbot and Doctor of the
Church, wrote that three miracles were present in the Annunciation of Our Lord:
1) that God would condescend to become human, 2) that a virgin would conceive,
and 3) that Mary actually agreed to do this. Luther believed the third miracle
was the greatest of all. He reasoned that “nothing will be impossible with
God,” but a thirteen or fourteen-year-old girl agreeing to undergo pregnancy,
risk losing her fiancé, and possibly being stoned to death of adultery or, at
the very least, shunned from society was a pretty mind-blowing thing indeed.
So why did Mary agree? What sealed the deal? Gabriel certainly talked up
how cool it would be to have this particular baby. Mary would be the mom of the
Son of the Most High and the Messiah who would reign on David’s throne forever.
That would be pretty sweet. He also assured her she wouldn’t even have to have
sex in order to conceive. I imagine that
issue was probably weighing heavily on her young mind.
But the grabber was the news that her older cousin Elizabeth was also
having a miraculous baby. The only thing scarier than having to face an unknown
event is having to face it alone.
When Mary learned that a relative, another woman with whom she was comfortable,
was going to experience the same thing, she found the courage to say “yes.” I love that later on in Luke’s gospel
(vv.39-56) Mary went to see her cousin and stayed with her until Elizabeth’s
baby, John the Baptist, was born. There must’ve been something very special
that bonded these two women—neither of whom was supposed to be pregnant. There
was the whole astounding mystery and miracle of childbirth which none of my
gender will ever understand.
When my wife was expecting, she shared a room in the hospital maternity ward
with a lady named Hannah. Both women were having their first child, and they
bonded immediately. Even though Marilyn is a Catholic and Hannah is Jewish, the
expectant moms found they had much in common. Hannah gave birth to a little girl
eleven hours before my stepdaughter was born, but both women cheered and
encouraged each other through the experience. They have each been through
myriad changes in the years since they met, (Hannah lives much of the year in Florida)
but from the day of their daughters’ births to today, they remain the best of
friends.
Nothing glues us together like a shared experience. That’s the point of
the Incarnation. Jesus has come to share our experience so we will know and
believe that God understands our pain and fear, that our temptations and sins
will be conquered, and that we are never alone. Emmanuel. God is with us, and
there is no place we will go in this life where Jesus hasn’t already been.
We are called in our
lives in Christ to be imitators of our Savior. To be present for one another.
We are called to share our experiences, to encourage, to help, to teach, and to
love each other as Christ did for us. Perhaps we won’t all be heroes in the
courageous sense, but we can all be neighbors. And may we all pray for each other as fellow sinners—now, and at the hour of our death.
A blessed Christmas to
you, my friend.
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