Madonna della Pietà, by Michelangelo (1498–1499)
I have taught in children’s ministry for over a decade now and I can say with confidence my least favorite lesson to teach is Genesis 22, Abraham and the (thwarted) sacrifice of Isaac. Explaining that God asked a father to sacrifice his child is not exactly the most comfortable topic, so I find myself rushing to the happy ending—but then God Himself provided the sacrifice, so it’s all okay and fine and points to Jesus!
I try to make Genesis 22 palatable by pointing out God wasn’t ever actually going to require the sacrifice; the story is simply a teaching moment and prophecy pointing ahead to what God will do for humanity, not what any human will do for God.
Except that’s not true.
The Son that God sacrificed in Isaac’s place was His only Son, but He wasn’t only His Son: Jesus was Mary’s, too. Abraham got a ram in a thicket, but Mary got her Lamb on a cross. What God did not require of Israel’s patriarch, He did take from the church’s matriarch. We could rush here to the resurrection, the happy ending, the part where all the sacrifices and tears are undone, and she got her son back.
Except we’re not there yet.
In a world broken and bleeding, where mothers still watch their children die, I find myself stuck on her grief. Mary knew the love of God in a unique way, but that did not keep her from pain.
Isaiah 53 says the one God would raise up to save Israel would be a man of sorrows, one who knew our grief. But this suffering servant is not the only Old Testament character that knew pain and lament: the people of God are frequently personified as a mother, sometimes called Daughter Zion, who is usually described in mourning. In Isaiah, she laments because she is barren, in Lamentations because her children have been taken away, and in Jeremiah because she mourns as for an only son. All this grief is a result of the unrighteousness of God’s people. The hope of Isaiah is that the coming servant of God will take on their suffering and turn their mourning to joy.
So when Mary said yes to Gabriel and welcomed her baby boy into a mother’s love, she may not have known it, but she signed up for a motherhood marked, at least for a time, by mourning. For if the Messiah came to suffer, what then would that mean for his mother?
Mary may not have known what was coming, but she must have known that it wouldn’t be easy. To begin with, being found pregnant outside of marriage is still punishable by death in some cultures to this day; Mary may have assumed she would be spared that fate, but she did not know what Joseph would choose to do, or what shadow of shame would follow her and her child. Before He was even born, Mary knew pain because of Jesus in the form of shame and scandal.
If Mary thought her biggest challenge would be getting through Joseph and social disgrace, she was quickly corrected. Shortly after Jesus was born Mary and Joseph brought him to the temple, where they met the prophet Simeon. Amid praising God for His salvation, Simeon prophesies adversity over both Jesus and Mary: first, that Jesus’ work would cause division within Israel, and also that a sword would pierce Mary’s heart. It is unlikely Mary knew what he meant at that moment, but for the rest of her life, she lived under a cloud of looming grief. She knows our anxieties; she has experienced our worst case scenario.
And when the time came for that sword to pierce His side and her heart, there was no ram in the thicket. There were no angels holding back a father’s hand, but rather the Father holding back the angels, allowing the son He shared with Mary to be taken from her and given to the world.
Rightly, then, do we call her Mother of Sorrows. She knows the pain of searing loss, the torment of watching others torment her child. What grief did she not know? What pain did she not feel? The peace her baby boy grants to us is a peace that was taken from her.
And yet.
Sitting with Mary in her grief has given me a different perspective as I gaze upon the many nativity scenes adorning our house right now. The tender care and joy in her face plastered everywhere conceals the resolve required of her. It is almost painful to look at her serenity in that moment caught in time, knowing that her joy swaddling this baby boy will give way to grief wrapping his lifeless body.
But sitting with Mary in her grief allows us to rise with her in her joy as her mourning is turned to dancing. For Mary, the good news of great joy is more, though not less, than a baby being born: it is that same baby, having been lost, being returned to his mother. It is getting to the end of the dark night and learning that all your suffering has turned into labor pains—productive and purposeful—and your grief has given way to life beyond what you could have imagined. Mary knows already what we still long for: the happy ending turned beginning.
I imagine her smile, when we see it, will be less serene and more knowing. For Mary knows our pain and our sorrow, but she also knows, one day, it will be undone.
Soundtrack: Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silent by Fernando Ortega
Links and Things
I have always found something intensely spiritual about Christmas Eve, as if the veil between heaven and earth grows thin ( more on that here). The nearer we draw to that spiritual moment, I find myself drawn to deeper and darker things—not darker in the sense of morbid, but darker in the sense of deeply cognizant of the brokenness of the world. I suppose I find hope to shine all the brighter in the darkness.
Malcolm Guite has been a trustworthy guide, and listening to him is even better than reading: Trinity Forum Interview with Malcolm Guite. I haven’t finished listening (I catch things in small pieces here and there), but I like Trinity Forum, Rabbit Room, and Malcolm Guite a lot.
This may seem out of left field, but this song has been on repeat in my head for months and I find it (very) unexpectedly Advent-like: East Side of Sorrow by Zach Bryan.
Much more expected, but this is my go-to Christmas + heavy song (how to describe?): Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silent by Fernando Ortega
An old moment in time...
…and a reminder of what the Nativity perhaps actually looked and felt like.
Thanks for reading,
Caroline
It was good to finally sit down to read this, listen to the music you shared and read the links. It might be a new year, but never too late. Thank you for your thoughts 🙏