The Way of Mary: Eve

 Good Tuesday morning, good Advent pilgrims who walk The Way of Mary. Today is the last of the O Antiphons: O Virgo virginum, (O Virgin of Virgins)

"O Virgin of Virgins, how shall this be? For neither before you was any like you, nor shall there be after. Daughters of Jerusalem, why marvel at me? Because the thing that you behold is a divine mystery."

It is the Eve of the Nativity of Jesus. We are at a spiritual crossroads, our souls are perched on a precipice where the Spirit opens what Steve Charleston calls "a portal of possibility".

Eve. I can't help but remember her. The first woman. Traditional theology has held that, since Adam, the first man, sinned, Jesus, the son of God, had to come into the world to redeem him through the pain of his suffering. And Eve, since she followed the Serpent and led the first man to sin, had to be redeemed by the pain of the labor of Mary.

No, I don't buy that particular version of the story. It's way too tidy and logical and left-brained. And, in this specific case which is out of character for me, I don't care much about the word etymology of 'eve'. Still, I do love that the day when the Spirit opens "a portal of possibility" is called Eve.

Redemption, like beauty, as Madonna sings, is where you find it.

I don't care how old you are, what you've been through this past year, or your current psychological, emotional, financial, or spiritual state, there is something about Christmas Eve that is undeniably magical.

The proof of the magical nature of Christmas Eve is found precisely because some people spend so much energy either resisting or denying it, or ignoring it or trying to prove it is impossible and beyond all logic and reason.

Once, years ago, I was actually - seriously, genuinely, honestly, earnestly - asked if I would "pray for a light dusting of snow to begin just as we were leaving midnight mass."

I laughed softly and asked, "Do you really think I have that kind of power?" She ignored my question, looked off into the distance where her memory lived, and then started to tell her story.

Once, as a teen, she said, she had attended "midnight mass" and, after singing Silent Night while holding lit tapers with the lights in the church dimmed, she left the church with her parents and found that "someone" had placed luminaria on the sidewalk leading up to and all around the church.

"And then," she said, "a light flurry of snow began and it was just so . . .so . . . magical."

There was something in her eyes, in the far-away look on her face, that made me ask, "What was going on for you at that time?"

She kept talking to that far-away point in her gaze and said,
"I knew my parents were headed for divorce. I just knew it. My brother was home from college and his transformation was so shocking I hardly recognized him. I was having trouble in school, distracted as I was with boys and parties and all the changes going on in my life as well as in my body. My father's job was suddenly tenuous. My mother had taken a part-time job. My parent's relationship was buckling under the strain of it all. Our whole family was falling apart. My whole world was caving in."

"And then," she said, "we all went to mass and when we came out, there was the moon and the luminaria and the snow flurries and, we - silently, so silently and without speaking - took it as a sign that there was hope in new life. And, just like that, we were okay again. Well, not okay but we had hope that we would be okay again."

She kept looking away, at that far-away point, still caught up in that memory. "And, so, what's going on for you right now," I asked, gently, carefully.

Those words seemed to break her gaze and she finally looked at me, full face. It took her a few moments to re-enter her present reality and, as she did, her eyes filled with tears.

Finally, she took a deep breath and said, "Let's just say that history has a way of repeating itself, and I need a little Christmas miracle right now, myself."

I think we all do. I think we all carry around impossible burdens that are invisible to the naked eye. Ancient wounds covered by thick scars. Old fears which come to haunt new anxieties. And the undeniable, strong craving - the deep longing and unspeakable desire - to suspend belief in the harsh realities of the present and fall hopelessly in love with the magic of the hope of incarnational love.

There is such hope in love. Real. In the flesh. Human. Tender. New. Unconditional. Love.

Everything and anything is possible. Stars announcing the birth of a human being. Angels singing to hillside shepherds. Virgins who conceive and give birth. The savior of the world lying in a trough meant to feed animals, wrapped in bands of cloth, held in the arms of young, refugee parents in a strange town, far from home and family.

There is such hope in all of that as to mend that which is tattered and strained and falling apart and to make whole again that which is broken.

Hope is magical. Hope is, as Ms. Emily once said, "a thing with feathers." It is also in quiet singing in a dark church with lit tapers and soft luminaires on hard, cold sidewalks and light snow on a dark night, and the first full moon of winter.

And that's what we have tonight, perched as we are on the eve of the miracle of hope. And, in that place of hope, there is an abundant, life-giving, soul-nourishing joy that surpasses all logic and reason.

As Pascal said, "Love has reasons which reason cannot understand."

I believe that with all my heart. Preposterous, I know. Absurd, to be sure. Foolish, no doubt.

Guilty as charged, but, as that verse goes in "Crazy After All These Years," I would not be convicted by a jury of my peers.

I hope you find some of the magic of hope this night. And, if you don't or can't find it, make a little of your own. Light a candle in the darkness. Hum the tune of your favorite Christmas carol. Fashion some luminaires out of some lunch bags and sand/dirt and tea lights and line your sidewalk with them.

Bundle up and take a walk at midnight and feel the cold night air enter your lungs and chill you to your spine. Take it as a sign that the universe is reminding you that you are alive. That just may be enough of a miracle to carry you through to the miracle of hope.

Tonight, the spirit is opening up a portal of possibility. Like Mary before her, let us follow Eve, as well. Let us ask, "How shall this be for me?" and then know that what we behold is a divine mystery.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia!


Image: Streetcar Madonna, Boston Athenæum by Allan Crite, a Black artist and devout Episcopalian who set many of his paintings, even his religious ones, on Boston’s south side.