The Savior’s mother is indisputably one of history’s most famous figures. And yet we Catholics believe we can have a personal relationship with her. We women especially feel close to her in our own mothering.
For women of a certain age — and that includes me — there’s a history of evolution in our feelings about Mary. We grew up with her statue by our bedside. At my house, we said a rosary every night.
And then there was the whole apparition culture of my childhood. If we grew up Latino, we loved Our Lady of Guadalupe. To an Anglo, Fatima was the ticket. Now, if we haven’t been to Medjugorje, we are close to someone who has.
But apparitions are never meant to be a litmus test of our faith. A search for the deepest meaning takes us to Scripture — and to our tradition. And in both we find truth and questions about Mary.
Scripture actually tells us very little about the mother of Christ. So it’s easy to see why, when a deepening study of Scripture and the historical Christ became so important to Catholics in the last half of the 20th century, people became confused about Mary and uncomfortable with some Marion devotions that seemed not to represent the dark-haired Jewish girl that Mary was.
When you consider the political turmoil and uncertainty of the time during which Mary gave birth, it raises questions about Christ’s life, his brutal execution and his own mother’s views of her world.
During Christmas, I found myself praying the Magnificat (Lk 1:46-56) over and over, and thinking of the political climate of Mary’s life and times. The Magnificat is, of course, an echo of Hannah’s canticle in 1 Samuel 2:1-10.
I listen to Mary’s words: “He has ... dispersed the arrogant of mind and heart. He has thrown down the rulers from their thrones but lifted up the lowly. The hungry he has filled with good things; the rich he has sent away empty.”
Those are radical sentiments. Those are words of rebellion against the arrogant, the rulers, the rich. They fill me with admiration — and more questions — about this woman who after two millennia still beckons and intrigues.
My childhood image was of a meek, subservient woman. My adult image of Mary is of a woman at whose knee was raised a man who confronted power, who challenged every hypocrite, who welcomed every sinner.
Christ had her DNA, and in his heart he carried her every message.
It’s a testament to Mary that our devotion and fascination return in every generation and touch our hearts anew. After all, she herself predicted that, because of her son, “from now on will all ages call me blessed.”
