I was tempted to begin by writing “Poor, Mary,” out of compassion for her being mischaracterized and sanitized for a couple thousand years. But then I’d risk perpetuating the very misrepresentation that is prevalent throughout history and to which I am hoping to draw our attention and call into question: the depiction of Mary, the mother of Jesus, as the meek, mild, demure, stiffly neat, fresh-faced and baby-blued innocent she appears to be in so much art, not to mention on yearly Christmas cards or the holy cards of my youth (“I’ll trade you my Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Boog Powell, and Choo Choo Coleman for your black and white Mary Pickford Mary and the one where the Blessed Virgin is surfing on the clouds”).
There are some who no doubt would find even joking about Mary in bad taste, if not blasphemous. But I suspect, and humbly submit that the actual Mary of Nazareth, wife of Joseph and mother of Jesus, friend of neighbors, sympathizer and model for those near the bottom of the social stratification who daily struggle to make ends meet and maintain their dignity in the face of injustice would consider the cosmeticized versions of her that for centuries have been painted, peddled, and pushed far more comical, misleading, and at times troubling. In the early 1980’s, Catholic biblical scholar John McKenzie wrote: “Faith in the Mary of traditional Christian devotion is faith in something which is not true.”
This is not to say that from an art history or social historical perspective the various portrayals of Mary these past two thousand years do not make for a fascinating study. They do. But they reveal and suggest far more about the artistic style and religious ethos of the particular time and place in which they were created than they do about the historical person, Mary of Nazareth.
What scholars have learned not only from biblical and theological studies but from cultural historical, archaeological, economic, political, and sociological research about the place and time Mary of Nazareth was living, paint a far different picture of this woman than do the portraits of her throughout art history.
To start with, her name in Aramaic was most likely Maryam or Miriam. She was a first century Palestinian Jewish woman living in Galilee, the mountainous and northernmost region of ancient Palestine. As was the custom, she was betrothed when she was thirteen or fourteen. And, of course, after the annunciation, she no doubt suffered raised eyebrows and gossip about infidelity among some who knew or recognized her. She was almost certainly a dark-complexioned, dark-haired, brown-eyed woman of strong physical bearing (given her daily tasks) who bore little resemblance to today’s pink-faced, rosy-cheeked, bony blonde waifs who walk the New York runways. Let’s remember, Gabriel was a messenger carrying a telegram with a divine request—the divine request—not a talent scout for America’s Next Top Model.
Whatever her actual physical appearance, the scriptural references alone—favored one, blessed among women, handmaid of the Lord, full of grace, destined to be called “blessed” by future generations—suggest her resplendence came from a beauty, nobility, strength of character, courage, and wisdom that radiated from within where over the years she had grown accustomed to pondering the gravity and grace, joy and sorrow of that day when she said Yes and stepped into her vocation, raison d’etre, and place in history. It is fair to say, especially considering the precarious and tense circumstances of living as a first century Jewish woman in a region under Roman occupation, not to mention the ineffable honor and steep cost of that original call and response, that no weightier and more convicted Yes was ever spoken than the one contained within the “Fiat” of Miriam of Nazareth to Gabriel—“Let it be as you have said.”
From the peasant class, she and her family occupied a place in the lower, though not lowest, socioeconomic class. More than likely, they subsisted on the day labor of her husband and son who were tekton (a Greek term often translated in English versions of the bible as carpenter but which more likely given the landscape of that region referred to a craftsman, builder, or handyman working primarily with stone and at times wood, while Mary maintained the residence, perhaps earned some money from at home craftswork, walked each day with her women friends to a communal cistern or well or stream and back with heavy buckets of water, gathered firewood, got, bought, traded, grew, prepared, and cooked their food. No prissy prima donna or Victorian Madonna, her physique no doubt would have indicated the strength and stamina required to do the daily work of a peasant woman not to mention required to journey on foot or donkey four or five days to Bethlehem while pregnant.
That she would later be recognized and revered as the Mater Dei (Latin, mother of God) or Theotokos (Greek, God-bearer), did not spare her from the daily responsibilities and routine physical tasks of a first century Galilean woman, wife, and mother. Unlike the antiseptic images of Mary through the ages in which she looks like she was kept under wraps of cellophane her entire life or was a model for twenty-first century facial products, the real Mary was used to having dirt under her nails, callouses on her feet, sweat on her brow not condensation on her halo, knew how to gut and clean a fish, turn a runner stone, handle a hoe, bank a fire, and with her husband and son do some small farming.
As contrary as this portrait of Mary is to the delicate, unblemished, preternatural, and hagiographic caricatures of Mary perpetuated over the centuries, the most contrarian thing about Miriam of Nazareth as revealed in the scriptures is seen and heard in the Magnficat of Luke 1: 46-55. From this familiar but generally ignored and unparsed passage of scripture, we are given another title and role that rightly can be ascribed to Mary, namely, prophet. By comparison, this dimension of Mary of Nazareth has been given relatively little attention. It is reasonable to suspect that this is due to the fact that in order to maintain the increasingly exalted, romanticized, and unworldy portrait of Mary that became common throughout history in art and piety, this bolder, prophetic, advocative character of Mary had to be deemphasized, if not denied or ignored altogether.
In the Magnificat, as recorded in the gospel of Luke, we are afforded the opportunity to hear Mary’s full-hearted song of praise to God for bestowing favor on her, doing great things for her, choosing her who dwells near the bottom of the dominant culture for this unprecedented labor of love, and for sealing a place of honor for her in the minds and hearts of all generations to come. We also are able to participate in her inaugural moment of speaking truth to power. If the male assemblers and shapers of the biblical canon in concert with the Holy Spirit wanted to portray Mary in the way that much art and piety does, they would never have allowed this peak experience and extended moment in Mary’s life to be immortalized forever in sacred scripture. A serious study and reflection of this passage alone breaks the mold of the plethora of plaster-of-Paris dashboard likenesses and un-lifelike portrayals of the Mary in history. It also should quiet those who identify as Christians, especially those who claim a devotion to Mary, who insist that pastoral leaders should not mix politics and religion. Familiar with the Torah, the Prophets, and the Psalms from hours over the years spent in synagogue, she well understood the role of the prophet in history who was doing exigesis of daily existence from a divine perspective.1 She knew the character and heart of the prophet who was a divine herald speaking out on behalf of the poor, marginalized, exploited, downtrodden, and those deemed untouchables and disposable but who were and are dear to the heart of God. It was in that spirit and in that lineage that she proclaimed the Magnificat which is not merely a song of praise but a blistering criticism of the injustices by which so many were bound.
In full prophetic mode, Mary does not merely praise God for blessing her, but also announces that God, in fact, is partial let alone political. The One who alone is non-derivatively holy, she proclaims and reminds has, does, and will shower with mercy those who stand before God in awe. The Holy One has, does, and will say “Skedaddle” to those who are full of themselves, bring down those in power who do not use it for the good of others. She warns, the Holy One holds a preferential option and special care for the victim, the hungry poor, those deemed the bottom of the barrel, and the faithful, but looks unfavorably upon those who are materially wealthy or greedy while being character-poor, spiritually impoverished, and in the end kin to no one or nothing but what fills their coffers or garage. In her proclamation, she aligns herself with the God of pathos, and consequently with those who are most vulnerable in the world and upon whom God’s favor rests.
What made and makes Mary special, rare, worthy of veneration, is not that she was superhuman and nothing like us, but rather that she was like us, an earthen vessel, a seemingly nonsensical choice and illogical candidate to birth into our world in human form the living reminder of God’s extravagant love for us. What makes her venerable is that despite being like us, despite not having the expected resume for the assignment of Theotokos, she said Yes. In her humility, she knew the absurdity and ridiculousness of it all. Nonetheless, she said Yes, surrendering everything, including her bewilderment and doubt and fear of what her neighbors let alone Joseph would think, and risked letting go into a radical trust that changed all of history.
It is in relating to how Mary is like us that we can more deeply appreciate the import of the historical Mary who exhibited not only humility and faith, but also strength, compassion, and wisdom, and now stands not far off as an extraterrestial demigod, but rather as a model, an inspiration, a prophetic evoker calling us not merely or primarily to offer veneration but rather to transpose the full expression of her human and earthly life into our lives. As the late thirteenth early fourteenth century German mystic Meister Eckhart put it, “What good is our devotion to Mary if we believe she gave birth to the Christ some two thousand years ago, but fail to make the connection and find ways in our lives to bring forth the presence, action, and love of Christ here and now?
*Note. When I was about halfway through writing this essay I discovered an article by Catholic theologian Elizabeth Johnson by the same title “Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.” Since I have been using this phrase for years, and because it fits what it is I want readers to understand and grapple with, I have left it with a nod to Sr. Johnson. For a poignant, thought-provoking, inspiring, and readable book about Miryam of Nazareth see Elizabeth Johnson’s book Truly Our Sister: A Theology of Mary in the Communion of Saints.
1 Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Prophets, p. xxvii.
SEE BELOW Mary’s song from Luke 1: 46-55 and a lively musical rendition of it called The Canticle of the Turning.
THE MAGNIFICAT
My soul magnifies the Lord,
47 and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
48 for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant.
For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
49 for he who is mighty has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.
50 And his mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.
51 He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts;
52 he has brought down the mighty from their thrones
and exalted those of humble estate;
53 he has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent away empty.
54 He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
55 as he spoke to our fathers,
to Abraham and to his offspring forever.”
Luke 1: 46 – 55. English Standard Version (ESV)
My soul cries out with a joyful shout
that the God of my heart is great,
And my spirit sings of the wondrous things
that you bring to the one who waits.
You fixed your sight on the servant’s plight,
and my weakness you did not spurn,
So from east to west shall my name be blest.
Could the world be about to turn?
Refrain:
My heart shall sing of the day you bring.
Let the fires of your justice burn.
Wipe away all tears,
For the dawn draws near,
And the world is about to turn.
Though I am small, my God, my all,
you work great things in me.
And your mercy will last from the depths of the past
to the end of the age to be.
Your very name puts the proud to shame,
and those who would for you yearn,
You will show your might, put the strong to flight,
for the world is about to turn. (Refrain)
From the halls of power to the fortress tower,
not a stone will be left on stone.
Let the king beware for your justice tears
every tyrant from his throne.
The hungry poor shall weep no more,
for the food they can never earn;
These are tables spread, ev’ry mouth be fed,
for the world is about to turn. (Refrain)
Though the nations rage from age to age,
we remember who holds us fast:
God’s mercy must deliver us
from the conqueror’s crushing grasp.
This saving word that our forbears heard
is the promise that holds us bound,
‘Til the spear and rod be crushed by God,
who is turning the world around. (Refrain)
Paraphrase of Luke 1:46-58 (Magnificat)
Words: Rory Cooney (1990)
Music: STAR OF THE COUNTY DOWN (Irish Traditional Folk Song)