About 15 years ago there was a woman driving home from work in Chicago and, driving through an underpass, she saw a vision of the virgin Mary on the wall. And thus was born Our Lady of the Underpass, a place of pilgrimage, where the faithful bring flowers and candles to a little altar they have set up. In the underpass.
Have you ever driven in Chicago? The thought of supplicants kneeling before the shrine while traffic whizzes by, inches away from their bodies – terrifying.
Yet, it’s a reminder that the image of Mary is extremely powerful for the church, particularly the Roman Catholic church. She is venerated because she was chosen by God to bear God’s son in her body. She is called, in Greek, Theotokos, which means God-bearer. She is holiest among women because she was chosen to be the vessel of God’s work of salvation in the world.
In the Catholic Church Mary is called the Queen of Heaven. She is believed to have been conceived without sin – the immaculate conception – which is what made her a perfect vessel for God. She is said, at the end of her life, to have been assumed, body and soul, into heaven. Meaning that she did not die.
None of these things are part of protestant doctrine, though. There are no biblical texts that support the ideas of Mary’s immaculate conception or assumption into heaven. Protestants say Mary was a human being, like all other human beings. She was not without sin, as none of us are without sin. Mary was an ordinary human being.
Yet Mary was special because she was chosen by God in this particular way. But also because Mary said yes. And I think it quite likely that this was a singular quality.
I wonder how many times the angel Gabriel visited some promising candidate, opened his mouth to say, “Do not be afraid,” only to be cut off by shrieks, and the young woman fleeing in terror? How many times might Gabriel have visited a young woman, made his pitch, and get only hedging replies, like “I’m going to have to ask my parents?”
How many times might Gabriel have approached a young woman and heard a flat-out no? Not interested. Too busy.
Mary is Mary, Theotokos, because she said yes. According to Luke, her response was, “Let it be with me, according to your word.”
Mary was more than just a passive vessel, more than a womb. Mary had agency. And her first act of agency was to say yes.
After she said yes, Mary took a trip. She needed to get her head around all of this. She was about to become a mother under some unusual circumstances. She would soon become an object of public scrutiny and judgment. Mary had a lot to think about, much to ponder in her heart.
Going to her cousin Elizabeth was probably a way to take care of herself. Mary was counting on finding there a safe place to begin to absorb her new worldview and adapt for her new life ahead. And that is just what she did find with Elizabeth.
Elizabeth did not judge her. Elizabeth did not question her. Elizabeth looked at Mary standing in the door and did something very significant: she broke out in song.
Songs in the Bible are important parts of the text. They are not diversions in any sense of the word – the song is usually the main point. Songs tell the story about God’s powerful deeds; it is the song that carries the message down through the ages.
It is often a woman who sings these songs. Think of Miriam, the prophet, who sang praises to God who led her people to freedom…Deborah, the judge, who sang of God’s power that gave them victory over their enemy…think of Jephthah’s daughter, she sang when her father returned home from victorious battle. Think of Hannah, who praised God who gave her a son; Judith, who defeated the powerful enemy of Israel. Each woman sings in praise of God.
Each woman sang about the victory over a powerful enemy – an enemy that enslaved them or threatened their very existence. Armies of Egypt, Canaan, Assyria. For Hannah the enemy was infertility that crushed her spirit. In each case, a woman sang out praises to God who delivered her and her people, giving them an unlikely victory.
And when she sings, she sings with her whole body – she dances, she shakes her tambourine, beats her drum; the baby in her womb leaps and dances with her. She sings with her heart, her voice, her body.
Elizabeth sings when she sees Mary; her whole body carries the song – a song that comes through her by the power of the Holy Spirit. She sings in praise of God: You are blessed, Mary; you have been blessed, you are being blessed by the Lord God almighty.
And in that instant, through Elizabeth’s song, Mary receives the care and support she needs. She is affirmed, she is recognized, as one who has been blessed by God. That thing you said yes to, Mary, this is good. If you harbored any doubts, Mary, if you are afraid, know that this thing is good. You are blessed, and blessed is she who believes.
And Mary then breaks out in a song of her own. A song of praise and witness to God’s mighty power and grace. In the songs women sing in the Bible, they recount God’s powerful deeds, but in Mary’s song we hear not only of the amazing things God has done in the past, in her song we hear a powerful promise: God shows mercy to everyone, from one generation to the next. He has shown strength with his arm, he has scattered those with arrogant thoughts and proud inclinations. He has pulled 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-handed.
Mary is singing for herself and for all of us, for all generations, to tell the world the good news about God. She sings about God’s righteousness. She sings of how God delivers the oppressed and the enslaved, the ones who are being crushed by powerful forces.
During our months of quarantine early in the pandemic, when we livestreamed evening prayer each day; Mary’s song was a part of our prayer – each day.
Every Christmas morning in our house, after all the shiny wrapping paper has been torn away, after all the gifts have been admired, we sit down at the table and make Mary’s song our prayer. Because it is Mary’s song that shines forth the glory of God. It is powerful in its promise.
But maybe not for everyone.
I have heard that when they first began translating the Bible into the common languages, in the Reformation period, they did not translate Mary’s song. It would be too offensive to kings – to read “he has brought down the powerful from their thrones!” The prudent translators thought it better to leave it in Latin and hope the kings didn’t understand it.
I have also read that in the 1970’s, the government of Argentina banned the public recitation of Mary’s song, the Magnificat. This seemed necessary to them because of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, those mothers who put their bodies on the line to protest a government that made their children disappear. The Mothers of the Plaza had made Mary’s song their manifesto.
In the 1980’s, the Guatemala government did the same thing – for the same reason.
I have heard that when the British ruled in the East Indies, they removed the Magnificat from its place in evening prayer. We don’t have to wonder why. Wherever powerful ones oppress the powerless, Mary sings for the oppressed.
When families flee war or persecution at home, seeking refuge at our borders, Mary sings for the refugees.
When congress chooses to give the military budget 25 billion dollars more than what was requested, while at the same time they let the child tax credit expire because it costs too much, a credit that has lifted millions of children out of poverty, Mary sings for the children and their parents.
Mary was never a passive vessel. Mary said yes to the angel and stepped into a life of unimaginable dimensions. She made room in her body for love to be born. Mary sang a song with her body that her son would grow up to live. He would carry this song in his own body; he would preach and teach this song. And die for this song.
Mary might not have been immaculately conceived. She might not be the queen of heaven. But Mary is worthy of our love and devotion. Mary made a house for the holy, a room for love.
A love that is stronger than all the forces of the world.
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Photo: Salt Stain Mary, by Daniel X. O’Neil
