by Anna Wilson
It’s fitting that we should be reflecting on the Magnificat in this
first week of Advent. For me, this time of year seems to bring
with it a sharpening of the shadows, longing, and grief that is
entwined in our stories, and I have found it comforting to
spend time pondering the themes of hope, love, and justice
found in Mary’s song.
And Mary said,
“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. For
behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is
his name. And his mercy is for those who fear him from generation to
generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the
proud in the thoughts of their hearts;
he has brought down the mighty from their thrones and
exalted those of humble estate;
he has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has
sent away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his
mercy, as he spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and to his offspring
forever.” – Luke 1:46-55
“Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign,” records
Isaiah. “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and
shall call his name Immanuel.” (Is. 7:14) Hundreds of years
have passed over this prophecy as it settles into cultural
legend, perhaps a silent curiosity among generations of
Jewish women: “Could it be her? Could it be me?” You can
imagine that a prophecy like this handed down over centuries
would gather to itself a good deal of mystique and
specialization. It’s an extraordinary proclamation and surely,
one would think, so auspicious a sign would be highly visible,
and couldn’t be brought to bear in anyone ordinary. At the
very least, it would come to pass in the kingly line and be
marked by the accompanying heft of that distinction.
But here is how it unfolds: by the first century, the house and
lineage of David spreads wide, but many of its branches have
fallen low in the world. Mary, named for the prophet Miriam,
springs from such a branch. No high social standing, no
wealth, perhaps illiterate, calling home a place referred to as
“Galilee of the Gentiles” by those better-sired in society:
Mary’s singular hope for a decent life is to remain sexually
pure, marry young, and produce offspring to continue her
husband’s line.
And to the armpit of Israel, to this young woman fragile of
position, the Ancient of Days sends His messenger. He
honors her, dignifies her, and also pronounces a thing that will
cost her the one slim hope her future rests on. A baby, outside
of marriage; and the Son of God? Can this be a true thing? If
it is, will anyone believe such a thing from a young,
uneducated, unimportant girl from Galilee? And on top of this,
can she dare to hand over the thin but solid hope of the future
already in her hands for something unproven, mysterious, and
too great to understand or see?
It’s a weighty, crucible moment. But something great is
happening in Mary. Her heart quickens as God draws near,
and her faith catches, holds, treasures this thing that her mind
cannot quite understand. She accepts the Word and
relinquishes the lonely assurance—the more precious for
being solitary—that remains to her lowly station. Her vibrant
faith sees and proclaims God’s loyal love for His people, and
she plants herself in the belief that this love will protect,
shelter, satisfy, and guide her. This divine loyal
love—“hesed”—becomes an overarching theme in Mary’s
song. “My spirit rejoices in God my Savior,” she proclaims.
“His mercy is for those who fear him, from generation to
generation,” and while he exerts his unmatched power against
the wicked, “He has helped his servant Israel, in
remembrance of his mercy, as he spoke to our fathers, to
Abraham and to his offspring forever.”
This is no impersonal god righting the mechanical balance of
existence. This God lifts the veil and calls individuals he loves
into a life humanly confounding and filled with miracles both
earth-shattering and subtle. But to follow in that Way,
unexpected sacrifices fill the path. It’s all too easy, when we’re
brought low by suffering, opposition, and adverse
circumstances, to actually hold onto those things tightly.
Perhaps we are bitter at the existence of such suffering or
oppression, desperately determined to keep things from
getting worse, or simply fixated on the very right and well-
deserved justice that never seems to come. I’ve been caught
in all three of these loops. But it’s difficult—perhaps even
impossible—to accept God’s approach and Presence while
clinging to these things, which are really just weighty vapors.
Mary knows this, and to make room for this angelically-
heralded Presence, she puts into her God’s hands her
lowliness to do with what he will, and she moves into
grounded joy that all things will be well.
Now, I love the justice, rightness, beauty, and wholeness
prophesied in Mary’s song. Surely God will do these things
and bring his power to bear on all the manifold Wrong in the
world. But sometimes it’s maddening to me to see such great
promise, to taste such wholeness and sweetness in
communion with God’s Spirit and then turn to find what
darkness, injustice, isolation, loss, and wickedness still thrive
in the world. It’s not hard to find heart-stopping examples of it,
in our lives and families and in the world around us. As the
years stretch and evil goes unanswered in personal and
corporate injustices—sometimes it seems like everywhere
you look—it’s easy to wonder, are these promises from Mary’s
song, which echo the other prophets throughout Scripture,
just a distant hope, one we have to just grit our teeth to make
it to?
Scripture is filled with this cry: evil thrives and the righteous
waste away. Lord, we believe you’ll make all things right one
day, but how long, and what about now?
Psalm 74 is a song that describes the earth in ruins: God’s
people are laid waste, the prophets are silent, the wicked
exert their power and thrive. “We do not see our signs; there
is no longer any prophet, and there is none among us who
knows how long. How long, O God, is the foe to scoff? Is the
enemy to revile your name forever? Why do you hold back
your hand, your right hand? Take it from the fold of your
garment and destroy them!” (Ps. 74:9-11) Sound relatable?
Sometimes it feels like an undeniable, overwhelming reality.
But then tucked in the middle of this lament, this berating of
God, are these words: “Yet God my King is from old, working
salvation in the midst of the earth.” (v. 12) God entered our
world bodily in medius res, right in the middle of things. And
this verse gives me a picture of him continuing his
transformational work right in the mucky middle of things,
every day, here, now. What does that look like? It looks a little
like the Ancient of Days coming to Mary-at-the-bottom-of-the-
heap, taking her lowliness, and transforming it to blessedness
that continues undiminished from generation to generation.
As I thought of this, a number of quiet characters surfaced for
me, people to whom life seemed to hand nothing but broken
pieces. But by some wonderful, topsy-turvy, powerful
Imagination, those broken pieces became the vehicles to
glory, beauty, and love.
I thought of the Samaritan woman at the well and her life of
tattered misery. One moment of terrifying vulnerability, and
she is in his hands; and in that moment, the Fashioner of
earth’s foundations makes her a fore-running witness of the
good news revealed only by divine Word, the mystery into
which angels long to look.
I thought of the unhealable woman, illness and desperation
driving her to the hem of Jesus’ robe. How into the
unbearable crack in her soul, the Flinger of Stars pours the
time-stopping message: daughter, you are seen, you are
known, you are loved, and you are made whole.
I thought of the ten lepers Jesus healed between Samaria and
Galilee; how nine of them went on their way without a thought
to return except for the Samaritan. How as he fell at his
Healer’s feet, this outcast of outcasts found he belonged with
the Ruler of Heaven.
I thought of the women at the foot of the cross, witnesses to
the death of their chosen Lord. Were they no threat to the
Romans? Not worth noticing because they were women and
Jews? Then that neglect and poverty of position became
faithfulness and nearness to Christ whom they loved.
With all these examples I’m trying to draw attention to the
internal transformational work that God did in their midst and
does among us today.
We live with personal and general instances of suffering, loss,
abuse, oppression, disadvantage, sickness, and deprivation.
But somehow God has a way of transforming those ruts made
by suffering into the paths that lead to him.
Somehow my own experience of trauma continues to be both
an ongoing source of grief and pain but also the road that has
led me to the holiest and most intimate experiences of God.
This is how I’ve seen him “lift the lowly,” as Mary prophesies,
not by expunging the bad (yet!) but by infusing himself into the
cracks and broken places, forming foundations and
constructions such as evil could never dream of or behold.
The Love that accomplishes this transforms whatever we
bring. And it’s the love that shelters us while we wait for all the
things that are not right to be made so.
Here is a prayer that seemed fitting for us, one that Mary likely
heard, perhaps came to know well.
So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of
wisdom.
Return, O LORD! How long? Have pity on your servants!
Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love, that we
may rejoice and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us, and
for as many years as we have seen evil.
Let your work be shown to your servants, and your glorious
power to their children.
Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us, and establish
the work of our hands upon us; yes, establish the work of our
hands!
Ps. 90:12-17
I am grateful for Mary’s example of faith, for her soul-
expanding love response to God’s call. She leads the way
and exemplifies how reception of God’s Word and Ways—“let
it be to me according to your word”—opens the door to his
ongoing salvation work. And he is in the midst of us,
transforming lowliness into blessedness; desperation into
wholeness; abandonment into faithfulness; emptiness into
gratitude. Even so, let it be with us.