The Virgin Mary, Mikhail Nesteroz

As a Protestant, my view of Mary was a relatively sanitized one for much of my life. First, I saw her as the wholly submissive teen who offered up her life with Behold I am the servant of the Lord; may it be done unto me according to your word.  I imagined that she uttered these words with her head bowed, her hands clasped in prayer, and her heart in peaceful consent. Second, I saw her as the flushed, bright-eyed mother–the pain and mess of childbirth altogether gone– the Madonna who gazed wondrously into the eyes of the swaddled son of God. Certainly, I regarded Mary as an essential character in the Christmas story, but for years, sadly I had consigned her to the role of a flat, two-dimensional character. Mary got a supporting role, and she looked really good playing it.

A month ago, I spent three mostly silent days at an Ignatian retreat during which I lived, worshipped, read, and prayed as one of few Protestants among a group of about 60 Catholic women. One day as I heard their unison voices pray the traditional prayer to the Blessed Virgin, the Hail Mary, I joined them. And as I prayed these words, I began to find it difficult to regard Mary as the pretty blue-robed woman who often got thoughtlessly shoved into the corner of my nativity set. I began to think about Mary as a woman of genuine dimension. I began to see her as so much more than a supporting character.

Consider the Magnificat (Luke 1: 46-55) And Mary said,

“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant.
For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for he who is mighty has done great things for me,
 and holy is his name.
And his mercy is for those who fear him
 from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts;
he has brought down the mighty from their thrones
 and exalted those of humble estate;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
as he spoke to our fathers,
to Abraham and to his offspring forever.”

In a recent Washington Post article, “‘Magnificat’ in the Bible is revolutionary. Some evangelicals silence her,” D. L. Mayfield writes that the Magnificat is “the longest set of words spoken by a woman in the New Testament (and a poor, young, unmarried pregnant woman at that!).” She cites Dietrich Bonhoeffer who claimed that this prayer is “the most passionate, the wildest, one might even say the most revolutionary hymn ever sung.” And although many have found strength and solace in these words, there are countries such as India, Guatemala, and Argentina that have regarded the Magnificat as so dangerous and revolutionary that they have banned it from being recited publicly or in liturgy.

Mary’s words are soul-turning words, world-turning words. For as Mary magnifies the Lord, she sings not only of his holiness but of his might, how he brings the proud and the powerful to their knees and how he sends the rich away with nothing. She sings of how God, in his mercy, exalts and provides for the humble and hungry. And as she sings, she cradles the baby in her arms who has come to turn the world on its head.

The artist Ben Wildflower understands the power of this canticle. “She’s a young woman singing a song about toppling rulers from their thrones. She’s a radical who exists within the confines of institutionalized religion,” he said. His block print features a Mary who is more warrior than Madonna:

In Rory Cooney’s song “Canticle for the Turning” (1990), the chorus heralds the power of Mary’s words:

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.

Mary’s prophetic words lived, died, and were raised in Jesus. They turned and are turning the world with each heart that receives him. There have been–and will continue to be–dark days that threaten to defeat us, to convince us that the time for turning has passed and that the path ahead is tragically, singularly straight. For a time, we may walk, unyielding, our heads to the ground, our hearts wrapped in stone. We may forget that we have a Father who has blessed us and promised that he will not forget or forsake us. We may forget Mary’s song and in forgetting, lose our way.

But as we prepare to celebrate the birth of Christ tomorrow, we can turn our hearts today. Any day is a good day for turning, but today would be especially good, I think. On the eve of our Savior’s birth, we can remember the courage of his mother, Mary, and turn from fear and hopelessness. We can sing the words of the most passionate, the wildest, the most revolutionary hymn ever. We can turn our hearts toward home.