Mary, Did You Know?

Full disclosure: I have a higher opinion of Mary than most Protestants.  And so, it is with a bit of trepidation that I entered into this piece.  I have things to say, but first, let’s let Mary’s words speak (or sing) to us:  

Luke 1:46-55, New Revised Standard Version: Mary’s Song of Praise

“⁴⁶ And Mary said,

‘My soul magnifies the Lord,
⁴⁷     and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
⁴⁸ for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
    Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
⁴⁹ for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
    and holy is his name.
⁵⁰ 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 powerful from their thrones,
    and lifted up the lowly;
⁵³ he has filled the hungry with good things,
    and sent the rich away empty.
⁵⁴ He has helped his servant Israel,
    in remembrance of his mercy,
⁵⁵ according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
    to Abraham and to his descendants forever.’”

This Advent season, I have noticed an extraordinarily high number of complains rising against the classic (sort of) Christmas song, “Mary, Did You Know,” penned by Mark Lowry (lyrics) and Buddy Green (music) and originally released by Michael English on his self-titled album in 1991.  I don’t know if almost 30 years is enough to make something a classic, but I digress.  The question seems to be, did Mark and Michael mansplain Mary, and, if so, what should we do about it?  After taking a careful look at the lyrics (which I probably could have quoted, but I wanted to cover all the bases), I decided it’s about a 50/50 wash.  Yeah, Mary knew some of that stuff, and she didn’t know some of it, and maybe the question was rhetorical.  At any rate, I don’t think the song was intentionally degrading, and I’m probably going to go ahead and keep it in the rotation (but maybe the Pentatonix version).  I’m thankful for the controversy, though, because it caused me to think deeply about Mary… her knowledge… her faith… and her heart.  And that’s really what this post is about.

I love the Magnificat.  I love to read it.  I love to preach it.  Honestly, I just love that it exists.  I love young, faith-filled, faithful Mary, who consents to carry the incarnate, embodied child of God in her uterus.  So, when the songwriter asks, Mary, did you know “when you kiss your little baby, you kiss the face of God,” I think the answer is abundantly clear…  yes, yes, and yes.  

But if we were to ask, Mary, did you know this kid was going to disappear in the temple at age 12, I think the answer shifts.  Y’all cannot tell me that she foreknew Jesus would be briefly misplaced, and, frankly, I’m not going to buy it if you suggest she wasn’t panicked and maybe a little bit pissed.  If you have ever lost a child on a trip, you know full well how the reunion goes.  You are a blubbering mess, tears streaming down your face, because you are certain your kid has been abducted and you will never see him again, and you are certain you are the worst parent who has ever lived.  But then when you do see that little face, all the relief and emotions come out in a tight hug and a lecture about how he had better never, not ever, disappear from at least your peripheral vision, really… ever… again!  And it doesn’t actually end when your children become adults.  It’s the reason for the requested text at the end of the night.  Please… please just push a few buttons, so I know you’re alive and I can get some sleep.  Because the panic of not being able to physically see them doesn’t fade. 

When the songwriter asks, “Mary did you know that your baby boy would save our sons and daughters,” I think the answer, with the understanding that Mary certainly knew the Messiah was kicking her just beneath the ribs, is abundantly clear… yes, yes, and yes.

But if we were to ask, Mary, did you know the savior of the world was going to have an attitude… at age thirty… when you asked him to replace some water with some wine, I think she might have balked.  Seriously?  For real?  What do you do with this kid, who’s like, “Mom… that’s really not what I’m supposed to be doing right now… at least not quite yet.”  I like that Jesus relents.  I like that his first miracle takes place, not because he planned it that way, but because his Mama asked him to do something, and even though he didn’t really feel like it, he acquiesced.  It’s one for the books!  Mary, did you know about the miraculous healings and all the ways in which they would take place?  Maybe not… but she sure knew she taught that kid to set the table.  And then he did…  over, and over, and over again… 

It gets a little trickier after that, because like many of the Jewish people awaiting Messiah, Mary most certainly did not know what it meant for her child to be the lamb. 

Recently, I’ve re-read and re-watched some movies and stories and found myself in different characters than usual, so perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised when Matthew 12:46-50 hit me a little different the other day:

“⁴⁶ While Jesus was still talking to the crowd, his mother and brothers stood outside, wanting to speak to him. ⁴⁷ Someone told him, ‘Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to speak to you.’ ⁴⁸ He replied to him, ‘Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?’ ⁴⁹ Pointing to his disciples, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers. ⁵⁰ For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.’”

It's usually one of those “Yay Jesus” moments or one of those “Yay disciples” moments, but as I read this, most recently, it cut deep as I thought about Mary.  Who is my mother?  Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my… mother?  Incredulous.  For, who might that be more than Mary, herself?  Point taken, family is indeed more than just flesh and blood (maybe Jesus even represents this very best), but I cannot get around this paragraph.  I’d like to say I cannot even imagine how Mary felt when those words stung like barbs.  As she stood outside waiting for an audience of her firstborn child and being met with his silence, I have to wonder if her hand brushed over the stretch marks… if she shifted uncomfortably, because she never took off those last ten pounds and nobody remembered what she looked like before they were a permanent part of her… if she thought back to the ridicule of those early days, when she’d just begun to show and her explanation was unbelievable (literally)…  if she peed herself a little bit, or if she just cried.  Mothers tend to have a lot of bodily fluids that just flow whether they want them to or not.  I am dissatisfied that Jesus does not answer her call here, but it’s not the end of the story…

I wonder if Mary thought back to this moment when she was standing at the cross and Jesus publicly recognized her as his mother and provided for her by exclaiming that his dearest friend, the disciple whom he loved, was now her son.  I think the temptation here is to jump ahead too quickly, proclaiming closure, proclaiming repaired relationship.  Maybe it reaches back to Jesus’ words about making things right at the altar before you offer your gift.  I don’t really know.  What I do know is that there is no way any of that even mattered to Mary in that moment.  I know she would have traded places with Jesus in less than half a heartbeat, given the opportunity.  Given the chance, she would deliver him again… and again… and again, even if she knew “this child that you delivered [would] soon deliver you.”  I know this, because I am definitely not nearly as fabulous a mother or follower of God as Mary was, and I would spill my own blood over and over again, an unimaginable number of times, before ever accepting the abuse of any of my children as a simple fact I was wise enough to know and acknowledge.  And so, I have to push back on the idea that Mary knew… at least like that.  I don’t think she knew.  And it’s OK to admit that knowing isn’t the end-all solution to everything. 

There’s actually a whole lot of grace in recognizing that most of what we do, we do with limited knowledge.  At our best, we do what we think is right, given minimal details and perspective.  At our very best, we wake up and do it again, adjusting for all the things we got wrong.  And then again.  And then again.

Mary, did you know that being a mother was going to break you in every single way?  Spoiler:  Again, I’m going with no.  Mary, if you knew, would you still say yes?  I can’t actually answer for Mary, but I think so, because I would.

L.

Prosperity Makes Me Uncomfortable

Deuteronomy 30:1-9 was part of the daily office, today.  I read it and thought to myself, “There is nothing here that I can blog.  This makes me feel uncomfortable.”

I struggle with the concept of turning to God (or turning back to God) in an attempt to gain stuff.  I know that’s not actually the point of this passage of Scripture, but I can see how it might be easily manipulated to look that way.  Follow God… be prosperous and numerous and wealthy, and even watch as curses are poured down on your enemies!

I can’t rally.

But there was this little gem, buried in the middle of it all…

“The Lord your God will circumcise your hearts and the hearts of your descendants, so that you may love him with all your heart and with all your soul, and live” (v. 6).

I’m pretty sure circumcision of the heart is painful.  If we take the word at face value, we find ourselves talking about the cutting away of a layer that protects, that might even hide our vulnerability.  It’s bloody and messy.  It hurts and exposes. 

And this is what leads to love and life?

Well, OK…

I mean, that’s all I really want anyway… which makes me think it might qualify as prosperous…

 
L.

This Nasty, White, Educated Woman Stands with the Oppressed

This morning, I arrived home just after midnight.  My children and I had watched the election returns on my laptop, while driving, over the previous four hours.  After getting the youngest two off to bed, we all continued to wait for the final blow.

As I sat there with my kind, respectful sons who know that the things they whisper in the locker room had better also be things they can shout in the sanctuary, I uttered something between a wish and a prayer, “Please don’t let Michigan turn red.  Please don’t let it project next.  Please, not our state.”  As I sat there with my strong, intelligent teenage daughter who spent part of this election process learning new slang terms for the parts of her body that men should never touch without permission, “Please, do not allow her to see the state in which her mother voted green project as the one that lands this man in the White House.  Please.”  I wanted my ballot back.  It was sickening.

Well, as anyone who was still awake at that hour knows, there was still some time before the results were final.  Snuggled up next to these incredible people, I fell asleep.  It had been a long day.  I woke to the sound of incredulity.  I didn’t even realize that Michigan had, indeed, turned blue until later in the morning.  It is the first time I can ever remember breathing a sigh of relief over the fact that my vote made no difference, after all.  (As an edit… already…  I see that it may have turned back to “undecided” as of tonight, but it still doesn’t matter.)

I stayed largely unplugged, today.  That’s saying something, because it is no easy task (but this is a post for another time).  I simply decided my day would be far more productive if I prayed for people whose lives I could legitimately impact and spent some time offering empathy and comfort to those who were miserable.  I did send as many heart stickers as possible to my dear, sweet, hurting friends who have specific reasons for increased anxiety over this election outcome.  And this, of course, got me thinking about the horrific media coverage last night, regarding demographics.

I don’t ever recall hearing so much about the black male vote… and the white suburban female vote… and the Muslim millennial vote… and the college graduate Hispanic vote… and the Asian evangelical with more than two tattoos but less that fourteen piercings vote…  OK, I made the last one up, but my point is the newscasters seemed to feel as if it was necessary to divide people down into every possible category, and the truth is I think we have enough division and discrimination without pointing it out in this way.  Please don’t misunderstand.  I’m not saying we should ignore diversity.  I think we should celebrate it wildly!  But this was not celebratory, and the telling words were terms like “them” as opposed to “us.”  

As I thought this through, the following phrase came to mind: This nasty, white, educated woman stands with the oppressed. 

And friends, don’t worry.  There are many of us, and we are strong.  This is love.  Love will never be dictated, eliminated, or regulated.  They will know us by our love.  It can’t be stopped.  Love on…

L.

Love is Expensive

I have an awful lot of thoughts about marriage running through my mind lately.  I'm not sure what it is about this calendar year, but I have so many friends who are getting married!  It actually seems kind of weird, to be honest.  I'm 36 years old.  Didn't we already do this phase of life?  On the other end of it, I have spent more time walking with friends through the tragedies of being widowed, divorced, and processing annulment than I ever imagined I would experience at this stage, as well.  Some of these sad stories are merging into new, happier endings (and beginnings), and I feel as if I'm bumbling my way through most of it, just hoping I'm saying the right things and loving well.  I often feel way out of my wheelhouse.  I often feel unprepared.  I didn't realize this kind of stuff was going to be cyclical.

My house is ridiculously small by American standards for a family of seven (stay with me...  I promise I didn't just have a random squirrel moment in the middle of a post...  it will come together in a minute...)  As I was getting my youngest child to sleep last night (yes, she's six... yes, I still lie down with her almost every single night... no, I didn't do this for this long with the other four... yes, I'm having trouble letting go of the "last baby" stuff...), I received a message from my neighbor who offered us a free piano several weeks ago (OK...  it might have been a couple of months...  I really don't remember).  As soon as her face popped up on my screen, I said to myself, "Crap!  The piano!"  She asked if we still wanted it, and because music is a priority in our home and our piano is literally falling apart (as a side note, literally means it is actually happening), I confirmed that we do, indeed, want the piano and that I would clear a space for it, somewhere, by tonight.

My six year old mostly fell asleep, and I stumbled through the darkening house muttering about how seven people sharing less than 1,000 square feet of space should not have two pianos in the living room...  Sometimes I am ungrateful.

As I was spending some time scrolling through Facebook (which has been a luxury this summer with my crazy travel schedule), I just so happened to run across a post about a house that a friend of mine has recently listed for sale.  It is beautiful (really, really beautiful), huge (over 5,000 sq. ft.), more expensive than anything I will ever imagine living in (I could insert the price, but just... no), safe neighborhood, jetted tub, intercom (let me reiterate... intercom).

I was getting a little bit jealous.

I know I'm not the only one, either, because the comments were great.  One, in particular, stood out to me.  It was written by a stranger, from what I could gather a pretty young guy getting ready to enter into marriage himself, hoping to one day live in such a place.  My friend's reply (shared by permission) was, "Only if it's filled with love, honesty and integrity."

That's when the weight of her whole story hit me afresh, and I remembered why the house is on the market.  The house is not expensive.  It's just money.  It's just stuff.  Love is expensive.  And unrequited love, over a lifetime, just costs too much.

My heart hurts, and it's not because it doesn't fit in this cracker jack box of a dwelling.  It's because it does.  Somehow.

Another recent share that hit my newsfeed came from a sweet, idealistic, unmarried friend of mine who is in her early 20s.  She was appalled that so many people warn young adults about the difficulties of marriage, and she was sharing a post by what must have been a marriage expert (the author claims, in her piece, to have been married for ten months).  The title... "Marriage isn't Hard".  Well, friends, marriage also isn't easy!  In fact, it is so difficult that the divorce rate in the United States hangs out around 50% consistently.  Half of all people who enter into marriage find it hard enough that they also exit.  And interestingly, it is often the people who have legitimate reasons to leave who hang on the longest, hoping, praying, desperately trying to make it work.  And it is work.

The Catholic Church plainly labels marriage a vocational sacrament.  It is a call to holiness and service to another human being for the rest of your life, and it requires grace... sometimes a lot of grace... definitely more grace than any of us possess on our own.

Before I go too much further, I want to make it clear that there are reasons to dissolve a marriage.  Sometimes it doesn't work, because one or both spouses have no intent of faithfully keeping covenant with one another and express this through adultery or abuse.  Most of the time, it's not healthy to keep hanging on to that, although I have seen some miraculous exceptions.  But really, they're the exception. 

Apart from these things, though, I think a lot of what makes marriage work comes down to our willingness to set aside what we want for the sake of what we need, and what we need is almost always described in terms of character as opposed to terms of materials.

Let me try to wrap this up.

In a subsequent message, my friend with the incredible house wrote to me, "We could live in a castle and be horribly unloved. I'd rather live in a small tiny house and have love, honesty, and integrity."

The truth is, my husband left the house at 3:00, this morning.  He drove 3 1/2 hours to work, and even though he has to be there again, dark and early on Monday, he also drove home when he was finished, apparently because he wants to be with me tonight.  Friends, there are days when I honestly don't know why.  Today is like that.  I spent hours moving furniture around.  I am disheveled and maybe just a touch hangry.  And I totally smell.  But we have a piano to move into this tiny house...

 
L.

Persist

Psalm 118:29, "Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever" (NIV).

Actually, the phrase, "His love endures forever," is repeated over and over again throughout Psalm 118 and Psalm 136.  Sometimes it doesn't even make a whole lot of sense.  "To him who struck down kings and killed babies...  give thanks...  his love endures forever..." (intense paraphrase, mine). 

What, exactly, is it to endure?  And do we want this?

A quick Google search will tell you that it is to "suffer something painful or difficult patiently... to remain in existence... to last..."

Honestly, I'm having some difficulty connecting this kind of thinking with love.

What, exactly, does it mean when love endures?

I have long since given up a perception of love that entails mushy, gushy feelings, flowers, and violin music.  I can even wrap my mind around a suffering, patient kind of love that tolerates pain.  At least there's some passion in that.  But to equate enduring love with simply remaining in existence is challenging for me, even when that's all I've got.  There has to be something more than mere survival, right?

Well, the lectionary continued to drag me through some rather demanding passages, today (especially as a "first born"), and the truth is if I wrote everything I'm really thinking right now I would lose all of my readers and most of my friends, but perhaps there is a tiny ray of light at the end of the tunnel, just barely peeking through where I almost can't see it.    

I Corinthians 15:58, "Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain" (NIV).

I feel less than firm and deeply moved (not in a good way), and maybe enduring is all I can do right now.  The other day I heard someone say, "No one is going to give you something for nothing."  I completely agree with this sentiment, but all I could think was, "I feel as if I keep getting nothing for everything."      

But I think this is just part of the middle of my story.

Point well taken.  Must... remain... in existence...

L.