Mari on Mary

I have been doodling pumpkins again (pumpkin-doodling is an activity which I boast to have perfected) which means my mind must be in fall already, despite this day's agreeably warm weather. I breathlessly anticipate crisp mornings, nights of excessive baking, and Halloween-costume planning...of course I am thinking in terms of Mad Men--I can probably come up with a pencil skirt and silk blouse before the end of October.

It is Ordinary Time in the Christian calendar. No one really likes Ordinary Time, the way no one really likes punch. I mean, we'll drink it, but no one shows up at a party and thinks, "Yay--punch!" the way people might think, "Yay--Vodka!" No one shows up at Mass and thinks, "Yay--Ordinary Time!" the way people might think, "Yay--Easter Vigil!"

Ordinary Time feels like it will never end. Thank Jesus there are a couple Feast Days to break up the monotony of the light green vestments, lack of incense, lack of sung prayers. There is Trinity Sunday, there’s Mary’s Assumption Day, and there is All Saints Day, which I guess covers them all. I have to tell you how thankful I am for saints. And not only for their feast days--fragrant, colorful breaks in the all-too-appropriately-named “Ordinary Time” in the liturgical calendar.

But I am also thankful for what they teach us about the Christian Life--what their fascinating lives with all their beautiful writings, their unimaginable hardships, their strange and terrible martyrdom stories, their wacky mystical experiences--can reveal to us about how we should live, how we should want to live.

Growing up, I had a gloomy hunch that to be a Christian meant to be alone in the world. Well, alone along with a couple of televangelists. With every triumph by the ACLU to take prayer out of school and Christmas trees out of shopping malls, I watched Christians panic, as though we were a rare species becoming extinct. I started to sense that I was part of a small, jittery group of people whose entire creed and dogma was quickly being destroyed further with the release of each new Marilyn Manson album.

I secretly feared that to commit to my faith meant I had to sacrifice my zeal for academia and the arts at large (and definitely my fondness for Bill Clinton); for to read books written by agnostic intellectuals meant there would be a great weeping and gnashing of teeth in my future, as well as the decline of Christendom as I knew it.

It wasn’t until I returned to the Church of my baptism that I began to truly understand the enormity of Christianity in all its ancient richness: its huge wild history, its poetry, its art, its philosophy, its splendor and ardor and mysterious aroma and sweet taste of real wine—not Welch’s Grape Juice (from concentrate). I wasn’t just part of a youth group who had to uphold a very large pizza budget and the occasional obscenity-free rap concert to retain its dwindling members; I was a part of a millennia-year-old tradition.

And, I began to learn about all our saints—the “superheroes of the Church” as my priest calls them. I learned about St. Francis and the gentle way he spoke to little birds, I learned of St. Julian’s humble and radical love for her peasant neighbors, I loved the resplendent prayers of the Desert Fathers whose multisyllabic names--Athanasius, Shenouda--were like foreign poetry in and of themselves, and I always got a real kick out of dramatic nun-and-monk saintly romance stories that inspired Denison Witmer songs.

But mostly Mary. I’m bonkers for Mary. I hear that she was my grandmother’s favored saint too so it must be an Andrew thing. I love Mary for the reasons that everyone loves Mary—her willingness to embody her faith, her unhesitating open spirit, her immediate obedience to God, her kindness and care for Jesus so movingly portrayed in artistic masterpieces such as the many Pietas, even if Jesus was always snapping at her in public and even said that people who love their mothers more than they loved him weren't worthy of him. Ouch. Jesus spared no sentiment on the topic of mothers.

What I love about Mary is the trueness of her femininity: femininity that transcends societal standards, traditional gender roles, Biblical misinterpretations. I love Mary for her strength and bravery while carrying out the most feminine of all acts: having a child. She was not by any means submissive to society, but did not waver a moment before submitting to God's command. When God chose Mary to carry out her duty--the most important of any Christian in history--He must have chosen her for her certain courage and tenderness. It's safe to say Mary was not the sort who put too much value in what people thought of her. It's safe to say she didn't worry about her weight and endlessly complain that her hair was growing out too flippy.

I also love her husband Joseph, for being unwilling to put her to shame even when he suspected that she had been shacking up with the milkman. But then when an angel appeared to him and told him to chill out because it was just the work of the Holy Spirit, Joseph, who was then sort of put on the back-burner, was unfailingly loyal to her and supported this very special mission of hers all of his days. Mary was the real Career Woman in the scenario. I like to think of Joseph as a serious feminist.

Once upon a time, ancient Hebrews camping out in the desert, approximately 1,920 years before the invention of the personal refrigerator, used to preserve their meat with herbs. These herbs had protective qualities which would guard their valuable meat from decay. The Hebrews favored a certain ambrosial herb which was bitter at first taste; its distinct flavor was bold, piquant, distinct, strong, at times overpowering, but delectable. It was so beloved and even revered that it was worth more than its weight in gold. It was delicate, precious, sacred.

Apparently Jews like their women how they like their herbs, for this is the essence of Jewish femininity: fragrant, spicy, tangy, sharp, strong--but at the same time nurturing, protective, valuable, mysterious, and precious. Quite fitting that this herb of which I speak is called maror--the origin of Mary's name.

Wonderful Andy told me that when I kick the bucket and arrive at the pearly gates all dressed in a shiny robe--actually I hope it's a cream chiffon cocktail dress--and God and I have a little heart-to-heart about my earthly life, He wouldn't ask me, "Why were you not St. Clare?" or "Why were you not St. Mary?" but instead, Why weren't you Mari?

I have yet to fully understand what my Mari Work here on earth entails, but I so very much hope to carry it out Mary-style. I want to be bold and brave, open to embody Christ. I want to be nurturing--either of children, or of people around me. If I should marry, I want to marry a feminist.

So, gracias, Mary. Not only did her Assumption Day get the church smelling of incense once again, but she inspires me to be like our herbal eponym: distinct, strong, tender, protective.

Now, for a walk along the beach. Leaves have already started cluttering the walking path.