With Mary I Can Identify

For years I was ambivalent about Mary the mother of Jesus.  I thought little to none about what her role in my faith was or what it should be. I'd like to say it was in some sort of well thought out reaction to my Roman Catholic upbringing. But that would be completely untrue--I just didn't think about it. 

During seminary I started thinking more about it--this time probably in response to questions I would get from my fellow classmates (most of whom were Presbyterian) about whether we "worshiped" Mary like the Romans do. I felt ill-equipped to answer that question partly because I'm not certain Roman catholics' would use the word worship about Mary, and I didn't think it was my place as an outsider to speak to their belief and partly because I knew that in the Episcopal church there were varying thoughts and I didn't want to speak for anyone else. So instead I got to have something else to think about (some might use the words "obsess about" and others "agonize about" I choose to remain positive and in denial about my tendencies....)

After I was ordained I was still trying to find a place for Mary in my life of faith. One day during a noon Eucharist, Canon Amy Coultas preached on Mary. Afterward, I asked her about her sermon and she shared her personal journey with Mary and how she got to where she was today. (Her story to tell, but if you know her ask--) What it did for me was give me an anchor, a starting point, a different lens, and over the past several years my devotion to Mary has exponentially increased. With Mary, I can identify....

I can feel the joy and fear Mary must have experienced when she learned she was expecting. I think

about how miraculous her pregnancy was and I wonder whether she enjoyed the pokes and prods and movement as I did when pregnant with my four.  I can imagine after Jesus' birth how she must have looked down on his face and been amazed this person came from her body and how she knew at that moment she would willingly sacrifice her body, her very life for this little person.

I wonder if during those first few months--through the sleepless nights she thought about his future. I wonder if she had dreams for him, dreams that one day she would learn were not to be.

I think about when Jesus was "lost" in the temple and how she must have panicked not knowing where her young son was.  I know the terror of those moments and the hours of feeling out of control, helpless when I didn't know where a child was and the dark thoughts and the hope swirl around, bumping into one another, vying for power and waiting to see who will be victorious in the coming reality. And I know the feeling of finding a child and not knowing whether to hug him/her to me and never let go or whether to shake the daylights out of them for scaring me to death.

I imagine as Jesus began his ministry answering his call how she must have been in awe of who this man had become when she still looked at him as her little boy. And I can imagine how she must have been full of pride and excitement for his future while at the same time wishing he'd stay a little closer to home--and really what's wrong with being a carpenter and staying right under her roof? 

I can feel the pride she must have felt as her son performed his first miracle at the wedding in Cana and when he preached in the temple, and I can feel the hurt and betrayal she might have felt when she came to where he was, wanting to speak to him and through his disciples, he seemed to be dismissing her-- moving away from her. She was no longer the center of his world--I can feel the pain that comes with that.

I wonder if she had sleepless nights wondering where he was. Was he warm? Was he fed? Did he have friends? Was he tired? And I wonder if she selfishly wished he would just come home and not have to do things his way? I wonder if she stayed awake trying to think of the words to say to convince him to stop walking this path he had chosen--she knew it was dangerous; she knew it might end in imprisonment or death, and I wonder if she struggled with letting go?  I wonder if she struggled with trusting God?

I am in awe of the strength she showed following her son to the cross and knowing there was nothing she could do. I wonder if with every step she took a memory of his childhood came flooding back? I wonder if she wanted to shout at those mocking him, "Stop it; stop it that's my little boy."? I can feel the powerlessness and pain she must have felt when she knew he was undergoing intense suffering for something he believed in and she couldn't stop it. 

I cannot, however, imagine what it must have felt like to remain standing at the foot of the cross watching the very life that she brought into this world slowly and painfully seep out breaking the promise she made to herself all those years ago.  I wonder if she felt bitter betrayal as those who supposedly loved her son, considered him a friend, and turned their backs on him out of fear or ambivalence. I can. And I can imagine how she must have felt loved and

supported as her sister and her friend--two women who had also probably known Jesus his entire life stayed with her regardless of the danger to themselves--regardless of the gossip, regardless of the ridicule, regardless of their own fears.

I have fallen in love with Mary. She is a woman of faith, strength, courage, and of love. She is a woman who loved her son, supported her son, until the end--and yet it's not the end. I have fallen in love with Mary because Jesus did rise from the dead and that reminds me over and over that, whether our children stay near to us or move away, whether they choose the path we chose or forge their own, whether they live the dreams we dreamed or search out their own, there is always hope, there is always life, there is always resurrection...

A special thank you to my friend who kept asking when I'd write this--it felt good to write; it feels better to be finished. 

(Below is the sermon that prompted her annoying reminders I needed to write....)

Good Friday Sermon