Annunciation

 

Throughout the history of Christianity there have been countless heresies asserting that Jesus only looked human, but really wasn’t.  He couldn’t possibly have felt the pain of the crucifixion, and he surely didn’t suffer the messy human woes we deal with on a daily basis.  Indeed, it is hard to believe in the true humanity of Christ. Being human means dealing with blood and vomit.  Being human means stubbing your toe, losing your balance, and blushing in embarrassment.  Being human means knowing loneliness, and also the joy of companionship.  Being human means so much, that is difficult to ascribe to one who is also God.

 

Today, we celebrate the Feast of the Annunciation. In the Gospel we hear of the Angel Gabriel approaching a young woman in the backwoods of Israel, the village of Nazareth.  We know she’s probably all of 14 at the time.  And the angel brings her amazing news, she will bear within her body a child.  Not just any child, a fully human child, true, but one who is also divine.  Emmanuel, the one her oppressed people have been waiting for, the fleshly sign that their God is truly with them.            

Sometimes when I reflect on Mary, I fear I am in danger of not believing in her humanity.  It’s easier to think of our holy mother as pure and removed from all of the messy things that make us human.  I haven’t seen any statues of Mary where she’s holding the infant Jesus and you can see the remnants of spit-up on her shoulder.    It’s hard to imagine Mary in the throes of transition labor.  It’s hard to imagine Mary throwing-up in the bushes from morning sickness.  It’s hard to imagine her experiencing all the vomit and blood of motherhood. 

           

But she did. 

          

Every woman who has born a living being within her own body has felt to some extent the emotions Mary must have experienced:  joy, sheer panic, fear, and endless questions about what this means for her life and the lives of those around her.  There is an awesome responsibility in bearing a child.  The angel was right in cautioning Mary in the beginning, “Do not be afraid.”  Even though your body, your life, your capability to love and cope will be stretched seemingly beyond their limits, do not be afraid.   Don’t fear as you experience the power of child birth, or on the many sleepless nights when your infant will cry and do what you might, you won’t be able to comfort him.  Don’t weary as you wipe innumerable tears, and change countless diapers.  Don’t fear even when you sometimes think you can’t go on.  Do not be afraid.  The Creator, the Divine Mother of all, is with you.

           

In the sanctuary of the Cathedral there is a beautiful wooden statue of Mary cradling the infant Jesus.  Growing-up I would often stare at this statue when the homily lost my attention and make a silent prayer:  “God, I want to be like that.”  On Mary’s face is a peaceful look of contentment and joy in this beautiful child who is hers to care for.  It is a true picture of motherly bliss.  But it is only one image of motherhood.  Where’s our statue of Mary with sleep-heavy eyes, trying to comfort a troubled infant who is suffering from an ear infection? 

Why not keep our Mary on a pedestal at all times in clean, white, spit-up free robes?  Why should we challenge our understanding of Mary with an acceptance of her humanity?  I think it is because when I realize that the Mother of God not only felt joy in holding her sleeping child in her arms, but that she also rocked him on nights of illness, and she answered his incessant “why” questions at the age of three, then I understand that when I do these very same, very human tasks, I too am caring for the body of Christ.  In these days of motherhood, when the endless physical tasks of caring for small children leave me little time for quiet prayer and contemplation, I can let my mothering become my prayer and worship of God.

We can imagine Mary birthing Jesus, nursing him, caring for him in illness, and finally holding him in her arms when he was taken down from the cross. We can imagine her saying with all of her strong motherly love, “This is my body, given up for you.

Motherhood, fatherhood, and the business of living is often a messy undertaking.  But we can remember through all of the vomit and blood of pregnancy and childbirth, and every time we soothe a hurt child, or spend a sleepless night caring for an aging parent or an ailing neighbor, that in all of its humanness, our sacrifice is one of giving our body for the other, who is ultimately Christ.