Glimpses of Mary

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In Dakota: A Spiritual Geography, Kathleen Norris narrates her struggle to claim for herself the faith of her grandmothers. Frustrated with the institutional church, she nevertheless could not bring herself to leave it behind. She writes that the “strong old women” of the church kept drawing her in: “Their wellworn Bibles said to me, ‘there is more here than you know.’”

I suspect that line reflects the experience of many of us who find ourselves compelled to study biblical texts and their times. Whether our interests are theological, historical, literary or some combination thereof, the Bible and its world have us in their grip and will not let us go.

Perhaps because Norris invokes the Bibles of women, her comment echoes in my head as I think about the work I did for my own book, Mary: Glimpses of the Mother of Jesus (University of South Carolina Press, 1995). This was a project I undertook with reluctance. My earlier work had focused on the letters of Paul and the Acts of the Apostles, so that the gospel stories of Mary seemed alien territory. More important, I am a Protestant and an inheritor of a tradition that sniffs for mariolatry at any mention of Mary’s name. But I was lucky: Mary hooked me, and I found out that there was more to her than I knew.

Included in that “more” is the endangered Mary of Matthew’s gospel. I was accustomed to the conventional wisdom that whereas Luke focuses his infancy narrative on Mary, Matthew is more interested in Joseph; so until then I had paid little attention to Mary’s place in this story. But what did I find? If read sensitively, Matthew does allow Mary to emerge as a person, as a vital though silent presence.

Her name first appears in the genealogy of Jesus (Matthew 1:1–17), a genealogy that includes the names of four other women—Tamar, Rahab, Ruth and “the wife of Uriah.” All of these women pose threats to the Davidic line (or are thought to do so) and are threatened in return. For example, because Judah’s elder two sons each marry Tamar and then die (as a result of their own wrongdoing), Judah sees Tamar as a threat and refuses to have his remaining son marry Tamar, as is her right under Hebrew law. This refusal in turn threatens Tamar’s social and economic well-being.

Similarly, Joseph poses a dire threat to Mary (and, of course, to her son) when he contemplates a divorce. Matthew 1:19 puts the matter somewhat gently: “Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly.” This “quiet” divorce, however, would leave Mary without a husband or a father’s name for her child. However quiet and dignified Joseph’s actions might be, the social and economic consequences for mother and child would be catastrophic.

The second half of Matthew’s infancy story repeats this theme of lurking menace in more strident and somber tones, as Herod sees in the infant king a rival to the throne and sets out to destroy him. Herod’s action also threatens Mary, a fact too often overlooked. Throughout chapter 2, Matthew refers to “the child with Mary his mother” (Matthew 2:11) or “the child and his mother” (Matthew 2:13, 14, 20, 21), binding the two figures together in one inextricable image—as is often depicted in Madonna paintings. Whatever endangers Jesus endangers his mother. The slaughter of Bethlehem’s infants with its haunting reminder of “Rachel weeping for her children” (Matthew 2:18) serves to recall for us the disaster Jesus and his mother barely escaped.

Matthew’s Mary, however, speaks not a single word. She takes no independent action. Yet through her connection with the infant Jesus, Matthew introduces the theme of resistance that runs throughout his narrative. Normally we think of resistance to Jesus in the gospel stories as something that begins when Jesus’ teaching or actions threaten local authorities. But it is not only the adult Jesus who threatens those around him; the as-yet-unborn Jesus and his silent mother already threaten Joseph’s marriage and Herod’s kingship.

In Luke’s gospel, by striking contrast, Mary is anything but silent. She questions the angel Gabriel, quietly but firmly consents to God’s will, eloquently sings forth the praises of Israel’s faithful God, and demands that her adolescent son account for his behavior. Mary’s words have received much scholarly attention, as well they should. What I find most compelling about Luke’s Mary, however, are two instances in which she says nothing.

At the conclusion of the shepherds’ visit to the newborn Jesus and his family, Luke comments that all “were amazed at what the shepherds told them” (Luke 2:18). Then Luke singles out Mary for specific attention: “But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19). Similarly, at the very end of the infancy narrative, when Jesus returns from Jerusalem with Mary and Joseph, the narrator adds that “his mother treasured all these things in her heart” (Luke 2:51).

These two comments should arouse our attention. Like the patriarch Jacob, 048who worried over his son Joseph’s extraordinary dreams (Genesis 37:11), and like Daniel, who was also haunted by dreams (Daniel 7:28), Mary considers, ponders, reflects. The events surrounding Jesus’ birth are large, disturbing; Luke employs verbs denoting active thought (synteµreµo [2:19] and the closely related diateµreµo [2:51]) to describe Mary’s state of mind. The New Revised Standard Version, however, by using the English word “treasured,” distorts Mary’s action, making it sound as if she is sentimentally recording events in a baby book. Not at all! She is reflecting on what she has seen and heard. Had the same actions been attributed to John the Baptist’s father, the priest Zechariah, countless Scripture students would have designated him the first Christian theologian! By means of these two brief notations about Mary—who is mulling over the strange events that surround her son—Luke prepares the way for the adult Jesus, who also forces those around him to reflect and wonder.

The gospel writers give us only glimpses of Mary. In Matthew she is the endangered and innocent mother. In Luke, she reflects on events she cannot possibly understand. We should like to know more, of course. Outside the Bible, people have told stories of Mary’s education, her family history, her personality and the events of her later life. The scant traces of her left in the gospel stories offer only glimpses, but there is more here than we have imagined.

In Dakota: A Spiritual Geography, Kathleen Norris narrates her struggle to claim for herself the faith of her grandmothers. Frustrated with the institutional church, she nevertheless could not bring herself to leave it behind. She writes that the “strong old women” of the church kept drawing her in: “Their wellworn Bibles said to me, ‘there is more here than you know.’” I suspect that line reflects the experience of many of us who find ourselves compelled to study biblical texts and their times. Whether our interests are theological, historical, literary or some combination thereof, the Bible and its world […]