Mary, Mother of Our Lord
August 16, 2020
Pr. Craig Mueller
It started during World War I. Flags outside homes. Each blue star represented a family member in the service. The greatest fear of a mother—then or now—was to get a knock on the door, notifying them that their child had been killed in action. The blue star would be replaced by a gold star. Since then, the mothers of sons or daughters who have died while on military duty are called Gold Star Mothers.
For mothers—and fathers, as well—a knock on the door can bring the bitter, heartbreaking news that a child was killed by a shooting, a car accident, a suicide.
We imagine Mary holding her dead son’s body, depicted in Michelangelo’s pieta and other renderings. Mary’s life—like ours—was full of contradictions. She pondered Gabriel’s greeting that would change her life. She pondered a birth that brought joyful angels and shepherds. She pondered Simeon’s prophesy that a sword would pierce her soul. And then she watched her son executed.
What does the word Mary mean? The Hebrew word mara means bitter, and also suggests strength. Moses’ sister, Miriam, is a Mary, derived from the word mara. In addition to Mary, Mother of Jesus, we have Mary Magdalene, Mary of Bethany, the Marys at the cross, and the Marys at the resurrection. So many Marys in the Bible! What’s going on?
During the time of Jesus, Mary was a common name among lower classes of people. Boaz Johnson wrote a book called The Marys of the Bible: the Original #Me Too Movement. He states that the Egyptians during the time of Moses, and the Romans during the time of Jesus raped girls as a tool of war and subjugation. Poor girls were called Mary, meaning bitter. As if parents mourned the birth of a girl, knowing her life would be bitter. Throughout history and still today, women are abused: trafficking, rape, harassment.
In Mary’s song, the Magnificat, praise to God flows from bitterness. Lowly Mary—her own reputation tarnished by an unwed pregnancy—sings of a mighty God who lifts up the lowly and fills the hungry with good things. God’s tender care is for all humanity. All lives matter, of course. But this mercy, this favor is especially for those at the bottom of life’s heap: the little ones, the poor, the wretched of the earth. Those heartbroken and grieving. Those unfairly treated. Those whose lives do not begin on equal footing with others. Those marked by the bitter and harsh realities of an unfair world.
So black lives matter to God. People of color, indigenous people, sexual minorities matter. Those who are homeless, incarcerated matter. Those who are exiles and immigrants. Those living with sickness and mental illness. All those left behind, all those ignored, all those rejected matter. And all of us, who turn away our eyes from the suffering of others, who turn our eyes from our own deep need, our own deep human vulnerability. All matter to the Holy One.
On August 15, the feast of Mary, the world looks to strong Mary . . . to Mary, woman of justice . . . to Mary, the one who sings of God’s mercy . . . to Mary, whose life is one of openness and praise.
For generations, the faithful have turned to Mary as a source of compassion and comfort. Finding in her—even without knowing it—a connection to the archetype of the Divine Mother. Icons portray as Mary as the Comforter, or the Sorrowful Mother. Or in recent times, Our Lady of Ferguson.
Following the Asian tsunami in 2004 in which over 200,000 people died, folk singer Eliza Gilkyson, wanted to write a mass, perhaps with a Latin text. She researched female deities of many religious and cultural traditions, but she kept coming back to Mary. She used lower case for mary, to signify the universal female comforter. Later, her Requiem song was turned into a moving choral anthem, which we will hear in a moment. In our time of bitter loss, grief and uncertainty, we resonate with these words: “O Mary, come and carry us in your embrace that our sorrows may be faced.”
Mary bears for us divine comfort, mercy and grace. She births the One who is Lord and Savior. Through our connection to her, we proclaim a God who is not only Father, Creator, and Mighty One, but a God who is Mother. A fierce mother God who will do anything to defend her children. A mothering God who suffers with us when a knock on the door, or a phone call or a news story, brings bitter, soul-piercing reality that breaks our hearts.
Mary sings a revolutionary song: God lifts up the lowly. But there is more. Mary sings not of us remembering God, but of God remembering us. God comes to our help, remembering the promise of mercy to our forebears.
For the past eight weeks we have heard stories from Genesis, of our spiritual fathers and mothers in faith: Abraham and Sarah; Isaac and Rebekah; Jacob and Rachel; Joseph and his brothers. Then and now, God promises to be faithful. Even and perhaps most keenly, when we are most fickle. When bitterness overwhelms us, like a tsunami. When we set our sights too low. When we focus on our own ego and security, rather than on the lowly of the earth, not to mention the creation itself.
Even when bitter sorrow pierces our hearts, Mary teaches us to sing the sweet praise of a tender God of mercy. A compassionate One who holds us close, even through our loss, even through our tears.