On our Sabbatical last year Dennis and I spent four days in Florence, Italy. One of those days was spent touring the Uffizi. The Uffizi was originally built as a palace for Cosimo I de’ Medici. It took 21 years to build, 1560 to 1581. Over the years it became a storage space for many of the art treasures collected by the Medici Family. After the decline of the Medici’s their treasures remained in Florence and the Uffizi became one of the first modern museums. It has been open to visitors since the 16th Century.

It took us most of a day to cover just one floor and what we saw was room after room of Madonna’s. The Art ranged from the early Medieval times through the Renaissance, and progressed from flat gilded icons to richly colored expressive portraits of Mother and Child gaining, over the centuries, perspective and proportion - if not realism. Mother Mary is arrayed in silks and satins, and, in later years, dressed like Renaissance nobility. None of the hundreds of paintings depicted the humble beginnings which we sing about each Christmas. And even though the Art was exquisite, by the end of the day I had seen “Too Many Madonnas,” but what struck me as most odd was with two exceptions, none of them were smiling.

I was brought up in a predominately Protestant milieu. Mary was rarely seen except at Christmas time sitting in the manger cradling her son, Jesus. Jesus was the center of attention, or perhaps, God the Father. But, Mary had a bit part, once she had delivered the goods she faded from the scene.

Not so in the Catholic Church. Mary is of primary importance. She is the Queen of Heaven, sometimes appearing to even outrank her son. One of my favorite paintings in the Uffizi (and I wish I could remember the Artist) was of Jesus raising his Mother to sit at his right hand, crowning her Queen of Heaven, and all the Saints and Apostles are whispering and grumbling among themselves, obviously scandalized that Jesus would choose a woman over them!

As the Catholic Church; spread throughout the Roman Empire, it came into contact with many pagan religious practices, and in order to win over the people of these new lands, the Church absorbed many of the rituals, festivals and objects of worship it encountered, giving them new names and shifting their meaning to fit with the expanding story of Christianity. Mary became the new incarnation of the Great Goddess. Mother of God. Many of the paintings and sculptures of Mary include symbols associated with the Great Goddesses such as Isis, Demeter, Diana . . . “Theologians established a parallel between Christ's Passion and the Virgin's compassion: while he suffered physically on the cross, she was crucified in spirit.” She was also raised from the dead, and according to some, placed higher even than the angels in heaven, although care was taken to note that she was fully human and not Divine. Mary is to be venerated, not worshiped.

Nonetheless, around the world prayers wing their way to Mary: “and by Thy maternal mediation before Him. As Thou dost have invincible might, free us from all misfortunes and sorrowful circumstances who cry aloud: Rejoice, O Virgin Theotokos,(Mother of God) full of Grace, Joy of all who sorrow!"

“Joy of all who sorrow,” which brings me back to all those sad faces staring out at me from the Uffizi walls. Why would a woman who has just given birth to the Savior of the world be so sad? All the angels are singing. Why isn’t she?

The story goes, that she knows what is going to happen, and as Steve Ewart commented in conversation the other night, It doesn’t matter if your child is going to save the world, the knowledge of his suffering is the cause of suffering. It does not matter if your son or daughter is a hero, if she gives her life to save her platoon, or he gives his life to rescue a room full of children, their pain and their loss is your own.

In the words of Sofia Lyon Fahs, “Fathers and mothers – sitting beside their children’s cribs / Feel glory in the sight of new life beginning / They ask, “Where and how will this new life end? / Or will it ever end?”

The most moving work of art that I saw during our travels was the La Pietá in St Peter’s Basilica. It is a sculpture by Michael Angelo, of Mary as a young woman, sitting as she does in all those other paintings and sculptures only instead of the Newborn Baby Jesus in her lap she hold’s the Crucified Christ. I cannot look at her without crying, and I am not alone. Her toe has been worn away by all the people touching or kissing it through the ages. She now sits behind plexiglass, because someone tried to destroy her in a fit or pique or madness a few years ago. I wonder what pain was too great for him to handle that he had to strike out and try to destroy that which reminded him of his agony?

I know that some of you in this room have lost a child, to accident, or illness, the ravages of time, or violence even, and I cannot think of anything more devastating. I wonder where have you found the strength to absorb that grief without becoming bitter and cold? Does it help to know that others have also suffered and therefore understand? Does it help to know that you are not alone?

This poem by Rev. Joanne Papanek Orlando, read at a funeral for a 14 month old, came across my desk, just yesterday:

Beloved Child.

You must have found life

Worth living.

You grinned:

Dirty faced,

Nearly toothless,

Round eyed.

You waved:

Hand stubbornly raised,

In hello

Or good-bye.

You cuddled:

Wrapping

Close,

Holding tight.

You must have found life

Worth living.

With all reason to hate,

You loved.

With all reason to scream,

You grinned.

With all reason to ignore,

You waved.

With all reason to reject,

You cuddled.

You must have found life

Worth living.

Without you,

aching with grief,

The worth of life

Is hard to grasp,

Seeming to slide beyond our fingers.

You must have found life

Worth living.

Remembering

Your smile,

Inside the hollow anguish

Of our grief,

Let us, too,

Find life

Worth living.

Our strength comes from many places: from those we love, from those we know, from those who act as models or give us hope that there is still a future.

I have often wondered how my parents felt waiting in hospital coffee shops or at the foot of my bed on the many occasions during my early years when nobody knew if I was going to make it. Their’s was a much more difficult role than mine. I was just moving along from minute to minute, living in the now with little thought for the future, but they had plans and dreams and emotional investments of which I was still unaware. Even in my teen years when I too had plans for the future, I was living minute to minute focused on the next breath, but as the old carol says: “Above the deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by . . . The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.” The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight . . .

I think hope has a lot to do with it, our salvation, our survival, our courage to be, no matter what lies ahead. Hope for the future and – when we are surrounded with loss – memory. I believe that hope and memory and love and relationship are what sustain us.

When I was in seminary someone gave me the book, The Listener by Taylor Caldwell. In the book a quiet man at the end of his life builds a temple-like space in the middle of a garden park. The building is simple, and tasteful. It consists of two rooms and a curtained alcove. And above the door is inscribed, “The Man Who Listens” One person after another is drawn to that space where they pour out their anger, their terror, their sadness, and their confusion. There is never any answer from the alcove, but there is always a feeling of presence and when each person has laid out his or her deepest feelings, always sure that no one could possibly understand, they rush forward to pull back the curtain and discover a stature of the crucified Jesus leaning forward listening with a look of compassion on his face, and the person recognizes that because of Jesus’s suffering and frustration, his courage, loneliness and humanness, he does understand. And they leave understanding themselves. As I re-read the book this week, I had to say it is not nearly as well written as I remember and its solutions are facile, but what intrigued me – which is the reason I re-read it this week, was that for all these years I remembered the “Man who listens” to be Mary, not Jesus, but Mary.

The message I carried away, was that we all need to be heard and at the most lightless moments of our lives, when all about us has gone dark, that is when we most need to be heard by someone whose humanness and compassion are so deep that we know she understands. What we need at that moment, is understanding not optimism, maybe not even hope, but understanding and unconditional love.

Mary is the archetypal symbol of that motherly love which has had eternity to recognize the depth of the human condition. Her sadness is her knowledge of the travails that life holds for all of us. She is one who listens.

She is however, not the only one who listens. Our lives are filled with those we love and those who love us. Our lives are bounded on all sides by relationships, some superficial and others deep. And among those we know and love and care about are those who listen. None of us escapes life unscarred, even though we often try to hide it, and it is that scarring process that prepares us to listen and understand and to be heard by others and to be understood.

Christmas is a time for parents and children, of imperfect families, and great expectations. It can also be a time of loneliness and dashed hopes. It is a time to watch out for one another and to extend the hand of friendship. For the next few weeks we will live in the light of a star with archetypes of promise and hope. But as one of our hymns tells us , “Joy and woe are woven fine.”

Somewhere, beyond the Christmas Tree, we may see a tiny manger containing a Madonna and Child – the child is all promise for a bright future and we sing songs of hope and joy. The Mother is not smiling she is listening and gathering her courage as do all mothers (and fathers) to face a less than perfect world.

Reading: author unknown

This is for all the mothers who froze their behinds on metal bleachers at football games Friday night instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see me?" they could say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the world," and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's here."

This is for all the mothers of Kosovo who fled in the night and can't find their children. This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.

For all the mothers of the victims of the Colorado (and California) shootings, and the mothers of the murderers. For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely.

For all the mothers who run car-pools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON'T.

What makes a good Mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips?

The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time? Or is it heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time? The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at two a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby? The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, a baby dying?

So this is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn't. This is for reading "Goodnight, Moon" twice a night for a year. And then reading it again. "Just one more time." This is for all the mothers Who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair and stomp their feet like a tired 2-year old who wants ice cream before dinner.

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead. For all the mothers who bite their lips sometimes until they bleed when their 14 year olds dye their hair green. Who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won't stop. This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot. This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own off spring are at home.

This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children's graves. This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can't find the words to reach them. This is for all the mothers who sent their sons to school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away.

This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go. For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, mothers without. This is for you all.

Resources:

Department of Medieval Art and The Cloisters. "The Cult of the Virgin Mary in the Middle Ages". In Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2000–. http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/virg/hd_virg.htm (October 2001)

Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

(Redirected from Mary, the mother of Jesus)

The Listener, by Taylor Caldwell