Jeremiah 31:7-4; Ephesians 1:3-14; John 1:1-18; Psalm 147
December 26, 2021
Tatiana Friesen
The Holy Family
Mary knew from the beginning that what she was agreeing to would be difficult. She was an unmarried woman when she found out that she was pregnant. There was no way she could she have known that Joseph would follow through with marrying her and allowing her access to the physical and economic security that marriage entailed. And even that took divine intervention; Joseph’s first instinct, as a “decent guy,” was to dismiss her quietly: a more compassionate response to her situation than was culturally normal, but still insufficient for her and her child’s wellbeing. And then, after she had given birth to Jesus (in circumstances that were not easy), she received guests from far away who brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh: items appropriate for embalming a dead body, not welcoming a newborn baby.
Next, if we follow the chronology in the book of Matthew, her tiny family is forced to flee the soldiers of Herod as they murder the babies of Bethlehem in the name of his power-hungry paranoia. They escape, hide out in Egypt until the coast is clear, and then return to Judea to rebuild their lives.
If we stick to the narrative as told by Luke, we don’t have the flight to Egypt, but we do have a story from the circumcision of Jesus as an eight-day-old baby. Simeon sings his song of praise that he has lived to see the Messiah, and then tells Mary: “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” Mary is told again and again how hard her job will be to parent this child. But I wonder how this sense grew in her, in all her pondering. I’m not a parent, but I am a teacher of children. And I am an artist. Those experiences have taught me about projects taking way more energy as they go on. The original commitment is only the tip of the iceberg. As much as we love a person or an occupation, it’s only with time that we fully appreciate what they require of us.
One year, when Mary’s firstborn son was twelve years old, they walked for two-to-five days from Nazareth to Jerusalem, where annual ritual sacrifices were made as part of the festival of Passover. (Side note: that festival celebrates the deliverance of the Israelites, specifically their firstborn children, from death when they were an oppressed minority living in Egypt. I wonder how Mary felt about that festival?) Her family completed their participation and began the return journey to Nazareth. They were traveling in a large group and it took a full day for them to realize that Jesus was not with them. I mentioned to a friend that I was doing a homily on this passage, and her daughter was there and my friend said to her “can you imagine? You lose track of your kid, but your kid is God?”
There’s a piece of music that speculates on this moment, or the long three days that it took for Mary to find her son-slash-God: The Blessed Virgin's Expostulation. The text is by Irish poet Nahum Tate and it was set by Henry Purcell in the late 17th century. Another friend of mine was learning this piece when we were both grad students, and I have this memory of our teacher commenting on it. He said two things: this is really like what they call a “mad” scene in opera, with extremely dramatic music to set dramatic words and some existentialist questioning of the protagonist’s sense of reality; and also, this piece is about more than losing a child. It’s about a crisis of faith.
Tell me, some pitying angel tell, quickly say,
Where does my soul's sweet darling stay?
In tigers, or more cruel Herod's way?
O! rather let his little footsteps press
Unregarded through the wilderness,
Where milder “savages” resort:
The desert's safer than a tyrant's court.
Why, fairest object of my love,
Why dost thou from my longing eyes remove?
Was it a waking dream that did foretell
Thy wondrous birth? no vision from above?
Where's Gabriel now that visited my cell?
I call Gabriel, he comes not; flatt'ring hopes, farewell.
Me Judah's daughters once caress'd,
Call'd me of mothers the most bless'd;
Now fatal change of mothers most distress'd.
How shall my soul its motions guide,
How shall I stem various tide,
Whilst faith and doubt my lab'ring thoughts divide?
For whilst of thy dear sight beguil'd,
I trust the God, but oh!
I fear the child.
I highly recommend listening to this music. Let me know if you want recording recommendations.
“I trust the God, but oh! I fear the child.” What a line. Not “I fear for the child,” but “I fear the child.” How often do we get used to the concept of God as someone we can trust, perhaps someone settled and predictable? Kids are not settled. Kids are not predictable. Kids are often a better barometer of how things are going in their larger context, because they tend to be more honest than adults. And this is how our trustable God becomes present with us: as, yes, a weak and humble child, but also an unsettled and unpredictable and honest kid.
Mary and Joseph eventually find Jesus and give him heck for running off. (The story says it takes them three days, and I wonder if that’s a case of dramatic foreshadowing. Three days missing, but safe in the Temple; three days dead and buried, but soon to rise.) He says to them, “what’s the big deal? Isn’t it obvious that I would be here, in my Father’s house, totally showing up the priests with my surprisingly well-developed sense of Scripture?” Which wasn’t obvious to them in the moment. But Mary keeps thinking about the whole episode, and with what we know of the rest of Jesus’ life, she had plenty of chances to remember it and make connections. And Jesus increased in wisdom and in years, and in divine and human favor.