On this special feast, I want to say a few things about Mary herself and then about the song she sings in today’s gospel.
She was a teenage Jewish girl from a fourth world country, a country under occupation by a foreign power. From what we know, she had dark skin and dark brown eyes and dark hair.
Some English translations say she was a handmaiden, which sounds nice, but the Greek word is doulos, which means slave or servant. She was a servant girl from a fourth world occupied country.
And her name was Mary, a Hebrew name with two meanings. The first meaning is bitterness. Like many of her fellow Jewish women from Miriam on down, Mary knew the bitterness that her own people experienced under the slavery and oppression of foreign nations, from Egypt to Babylon to Rome. Like them she struggled to keep hope alive in her people.
The second meaning of the name Mary is rebellion. Not the Mary meek and mild of Christmas cards, she is the one who rebels against anything that crushes the human spirit.
The story tells us that she was both a virgin and a mother, and over the centuries there have been many misguided efforts to see this in biological terms, leaving theologians and scientists with the impossible task of explaining how the mother of Jesus could also be a virgin. But if it is possible to set aside the biological conundrum and to think of this in symbolic terms, then maybe the image of Mary as both virgin and mother can teach us something, something about ourselves, something about life.
On the one hand, symbolically speaking, as a virgin, she stands apart, detached from the world, her own person, with a clear sense of herself, her own likes and dislikes, her own preferences and dreams and goals. This is the symbol of the virgin.
On the other hand, as a mother Mary is deeply connected not only to her child but also to her family and people, to the world. This is the symbol of Mary as mother, one who is deeply connected to others.
And it is in this creative tension between being virgin and being mother, between being her own unique person even as she gives herself completely to others, that she lives her life, not leaning too far to one side or the other, holding both poles in a creative tension as all of us must do.
Because we too must be both virgins and mothers in the symbolic sense--honoring and maintaining our own individual uniqueness, at the same time as we give ourselves to others.
If you lean too far in simply preserving and enhancing your own self, you become isolated, never take the risk of loving others, becoming closed in on yourself.
On the other hand, if you give yourself for others without honoring who you are, the unique person God has made you with all your limitations and gifts, without the proper self-care, then you can burn out, lose your zest, lose your joy.
The art is in holding both poles in a creative tension, being symbolically both virgins and mothers.
And in today's gospel, this Jewish servant girl named Mary, a virgin who is about to become both virgin and mother, sings a song, which begins with the words “My soul makes the Lord mighty” We should take those words at face value: that God becomes bigger, magnified, by this woman's unique soul. The unique shape of her own life over time will make God more God than before.
And what is that shape of her life? The words of her song suggest that she is not like the one that was mistakenly portrayed centuries later as though she had a romantic connection with God, like that between lovers or spouses.
No, her personal communion with God connects with social change. Her longing for God points to social transformation, a revolutionary restructuring of society that turns the values of this world upside down.
He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
Her words anticipate the crazy upside down program that Jesus will later proclaim: That the first shall be last and the last first. If you want to be great, then you must become a servant. If you want to save your life, you must lay it down. Blessed are the poor, but woe to those who are rich.
A turning of the world as we know it upside down. A revolutionary message this song of Mary.
But notice that this great work of social transformation that she sings about is first and foremost God’s work. It is about God’s amazing work that Mary is singing.
God has shown strength with his arm;
God has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
God has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
God has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
Having glimpsed what God has already been up to in the world, Mary aligns herself with that great work, working shoulder to shoulder with God to restore the dignity of those who have been crushed and broken.
It is what we try to do here at St. John’s. We try to look at the world around us with prayerful and discerning hearts, trying to catch a glimpse of what God is already doing. And then we go out to join God in that great work, whether it is bringing water to Nicaraguan villages, or working for immigration reform, or volunteering at the Julian Pantry, or doing all the various ministries we each do through the week.
By approaching our work this way, we don’t have to worry about cleaning up the world, imposing our will on recalcitrant situations. No need to fight for our way, our social and political agenda, and leaving havoc in our wake. We can chill, not take ourselves too seriously.
Because our own work is not about us. It begins with discernment, with prayerful attentiveness to the movement of God in the world around us, and we then humbly join God in that great effort, each of us in our own unique way.
A familiar prayer often attributed to Archbishop Oscar Romero shows this kind of discernment, the perspective of Mary’s song, so let me close with this.
It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view.
The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts, it is even beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God's work. Nothing we do is complete, which is a way of saying that the Kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the Church's mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.
This is what we are about.
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.
This enables us to do something, and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord's grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not our own.
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