I didn't grow up in a tradition that emphasized or revered Mary much at all. I feel as though I recoiled whenever Mary was mentioned or lauded--maybe by fear of her obstructing my view of God? I'm not sure. But, truth be told, I think many evangelicals, and Protestants more broadly, can relate: we pay very little attention to this great woman of faith, in order to distance ourselves from the veneration of Mary as a saint. And hear me loud and clear as you begin reading this post: I don't worship Mary, nor do I equate her sacrifice to that of God and the crucifixion.
But, I have to say, in recent years, I've grown quite fond of Mary. As I study her in Scripture, I feel as though the great mystery of the incarnation is all the more amazing to me. The thought of a young woman in 1st century Palestine becoming the mother of God is astounding. And, more broadly, the thought of the God of the universe inhabiting her and being born as a small, delicate baby is one of the most compelling and incredible parts of Christianity to me.
I'm inspired by Mary's faith-filled and humble worship, displayed in the Magnificat. In this jubilant song found in the Gospel of Luke, the knowledge of the Hebrew Scriptures she displays is striking. I pray I, too, would sing these words of courage and faith as she did:
My soul glorifies the Lord
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for He has been mindful
of the humble state of his servant.
Beautiful.
The Annunciation, by Henry Ossawa Tanner, 1898, Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia
There are a myriad of paintings depicting the Annunciation out there, but I particularly love Henry Ossawa Tanner's, which I've inserted above. It's quite unconventional. Unlike most artists who've portrayed the moment the angel Gabriel announces to Mary that she will bear the Son of God, Tanner did not adorn Mary with a halo, nor any holy attributes. (As a side note, I am mildly...or not-so-mildly...offended whenever I see pictures wherein Mary is adorned with a halo while the baby Jesus she is holding is not. But that's another story.) In this painting, Mary just looks like a teenager in a Middle Eastern home, wearing peasant clothing. The angel appears as a shaft of light.
I love the painting for its simplicity, and for Mary's clear humanity. Here, her surroundings are simple, in dusty hues. They remind me that the mother of Jesus hailed from a humble background. How incredible to think one of the greatest tasks ever given to a human would be granted to a woman at the margins, like her.
In so many other paintings of this same scene, Mary nearly appears like a prop, decorated as an angel or royal. Often, she is expressionless--as if the divine fate set before her was plainly stated to her, and she docilely acquiesces.
Not so here. Notice her clasped hands, her tilted head, and the quizzical glance and trouble on her face. In Tanner's painting, I see a young woman reflecting, and slowly discerning, what is being asked of her. She's thoughtful and questioning, decidedly not passive.
When I take a moment to wonder what she could possibly be thinking, it conjures up many complicated--and somewhat jarring--thoughts.
---
A dear friend of mine, who does not share my Christian beliefs, once shared that her greatest repulsion about the Christian message was the idea of Christ's conception.
"Why do Christians just accept that their God essentially raped a young woman, forcing her to conceive His Son?"
This jolted me. Disturbed, I wondered, Had I missed this all along?
I mean, Mary is comparatively powerless before God. Did she actually consent to all of this?
As I've thought about it more over the years, and studied the biblical Mary, I see the choice and agency she had. In Luke's gospel, chapter 1: 26-38, the angel explains the immaculate conception to Mary in the future tense--not in the present nor past tense. The Holy Spirit indeed did not come upon Mary, nor did the power of the Most High overshadow her until she made an essential assertion:
"...let it be to me according to your word."
Author Karen Swallow Prior, in her insightful article "'Let It Be: Mary's Radical Declaration of Consent," puts it plainly:
"As it turns out, the Annunciation offers an invitation to Mary to give a very modern turn to a very pre-modern event: verbal consent."
Only after these words were spoken by Mary was the Christ-child conceived. And the doctrine of informed consent is at play here too: Mary questions, and the angel gives details. When she says "let it be," Mary was willingly, knowingly and bravely accepting her role as the woman who would bear the Messiah.
This is a remarkable thing given the context: the Ancient Near East isn't exactly known for its high esteem of women, nor their bodies. And Prior astutely points out that the angel's explanation of the Spirit's "overshadowing" of Mary is "...the same word used to describe what happens to the disciples years later at Christ's transfiguration."
When I look at Tanner's painting, I do see fear in the eyes of Mary. If we heard Mary describe her encounter with the angel, I can only imagine she’d share of her overwhelm and fright in the moment. How could she not feel just that?
But I also see tenacity and understanding in that glance. Tanner deftly portrays what the Gospel of Luke suggests: a quiet and bold strength. In this image--and in Scripture--is no unwitting girl who blindly accepts the angel's words. I love the thought: this saintly woman was truly a fierce and capable one.
In Tanner's interpretation, Mary isn't wearing the blue cloak most Italian Renaissance painters usually clothe her in, and which contemporaries now associate to her. Rather, she is clad in a seemingly weathered striped robe, reminiscent of Jewish prayer shawl (named 'tallit'). I like to think it a nod to her prayerful spirit. A blue robe does lay, bunched, beside her. I wonder if this is what Tanner sought to communicate: when she rises and leaves that room, she will willingly clothe herself in the blue robe, having fully assumed a new identity--that of Mother of the Savior of the world.
I don't know about you, but I feel that Mary has so much to teach me.
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I recently discovered Denise Levertov's poem, Annunciation (see the full text below.)
And I think she gets to the very heart of all of this by revisiting the Annunciation.
'We know the scene,' she says--the room, the lectern, the lily, the girl, the angel. But Levertov's approach to the scene is utterly different. She presents the part of the story we've long overlooked. Her poem helps me see the Annunciation and Mary afresh.
She points out that the Mary we speak of is oft reduced to 'meek obedience' rather than courage, compassion, intelligence. Mary fully grasped the 'astounding ministry she was offered'--to bear this blessed child, Eternity in her womb. She grasped this baby was the source of salvation to all.
I love this line describing the task set before Mary, perhaps one of my favorite descriptions of the incarnation. Just consider its brevity and deft power:
'Then bring to birth,
push out into air, a Man-child
needing, like any other,
milk and love –
but who was God.'
It really is unbelievable, isn't it?
And here comes the greater focus of Levertov's poem: the decision Mary had to make. She writes,
'...she was free to accept or to refuse, choice
integral to humanness.'
And then, such powerful words: 'God waited.'
What a thought. Levertov really does make a compelling case that God-bearing was and is a choice. A choice that required Mary's consent. And now, ours as well.
Because we, too, must respond to holy Annunciations of our own.
I'm grateful for the Almighty's compassion, described poignantly in this concept of a God who waits for our acceptance or refusal. When we turn away from these destinies, He is kind and gracious. But Levertov does point out that something, ultimately, is lost when we refuse.
'Ordinary lives continue.
God does not smite them.
But the gates close, the pathway vanishes.'
Oh, I pray the pathway wouldn't vanish in me! I pray I, too, would consent to God's plan with 'unparalleled courage.' As Levertov points out, with Mary's words "let it be" came light and transformation--and everything changed.
'The room filled with its light/ the lily glowed in it/and the iridescent wings.'
I pray I would emulate Mary in her intelligent recognition of the hand of God, and His promises. I pray I would, like her, choose to partake in His Work on Earth. I pray that I, too, would be a God-bearer, accepting Christ into my very core and bearing Him in this weary world in need of a Savior.
Happy Advent, friends.
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Annunciation
by Denise Levertov
We know the scene: the room, variously furnished,
almost always a lectern, a book; always
the tall lily.
Arrived on solemn grandeur of great wings,
the angelic ambassador, standing or hovering,
whom she acknowledges, a guest.
But we are told of meek obedience. No one mentions
courage.
The engendering Spirit
did not enter her without consent.
God waited.
She was free
to accept or to refuse, choice
integral to humanness.
____________________________
Aren’t there annunciations
of one sort or another
in most lives?
Some unwillingly
undertake great destinies,
enact them in sullen pride,
uncomprehending.
More often
those moments
when roads of light and storm
open from darkness in a man or woman,
are turned away from
in dread, in a wave of weakness, in despair
and with relief.
Ordinary lives continue.
God does not smite them.
But the gates close, the pathway vanishes.
______________________________
She had been a child who played, ate, slept
like any other child – but unlike others,
wept only for pity, laughed
in joy not triumph.
Compassion and intelligence
fused in her, indivisible.
Called to a destiny more momentous
than any in all of Time,
she did not quail,
only asked
a simple, ‘How can this be?’
and gravely, courteously,
took to heart the angel’s reply,
perceiving instantly
the astounding ministry she was offered:
to bear in her womb
Infinite weight and lightness; to carry
in hidden, finite inwardness,
nine months of Eternity; to contain
in slender vase of being,
the sum of power –
in narrow flesh,
the sum of light.
Then bring to birth,
push out into air, a Man-child
needing, like any other,
milk and love –
but who was God.
This was the moment no one speaks of,
when she could still refuse.
A breath unbreathed,
Spirit,
suspended,
waiting.
______________________________
She did not cry, ‘I cannot. I am not worthy,’
Nor, ‘I have not the strength.’
She did not submit with gritted teeth,
raging, coerced.
Bravest of all humans,
consent illumined her.
The room filled with its light,
the lily glowed in it,
and the iridescent wings.
Consent,
courage unparalleled,
opened her utterly.
Annunciation, work by unknown artist, c. 1420, Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya, Barcelona
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