
Image credit: copyright Ben Wildflower
by Rebecca Lowe
I’ve always had something of a fascination with Mary. I’m not a Catholic, but as a long-time believer, I welcome this rare inclusion of the feminine into a largely male Biblical cast. The little we know about her is coloured by centuries of religious dogma. It’s easy to see her as a passive figure – the obliging handmaiden who casts herself in the role of a servant – a literal walking womb for the Son of God. Bute she is more, much more than this.
One of my favourite pieces of poetry is The Magnificat ,which appears in the gospel of Luke (ch.1, vs 46-55). It is one of the earliest known Christian hymns, taking its name from the Latin translation (‘My soul magnifies the Lord’). Dietrich Bonhoeffer – a German theologian who was executed by the Nazis – described it as ‘the most passionate, the wildest, one might even say the most revolutionary hymn ever sung.’ Its message is radical and compelling – and I believe it has never been more relevant.
It starts off predictably enough. Mary describes herself as an obedient handmaiden. She marvels that God, in all His might, has seen fit to bestow her, the most humble of women, with the honour of bearing His child. But it quickly becomes more radical. Identifying herself with the lowest of society, Mary becomes a symbol of God’s upside-down kingdom:
‘For He that is mighty has magnified me: and holy is His Name. And His mercy is on them that fear Him: throughout all generations. He has shown strength with His arm; He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He has put down the mighty from their seat and has exalted the humble and weak. He has filled the hungry with good things and the rich He has sent empty away.’
This is a very different version of Mary than that associated with the traditional Nativity. No longer meek nor mild, this version of Mary is empowered and impassioned, a radical advocate for social justice, and the embodiment of revolutionary zeal. So where did these words come from?
A persecuted mother
Tradition attributes the words of the Magnificat to Mary, the mother of Jesus. The context is her visit to her cousin Elizabeth, who is pregnant with the baby who will become John the Baptist. On hearing that Mary is pregnant, Elizabeth’s baby moves in the womb – the first kick. As an encounter, it’s both tender and poignant. Both are ‘miracle’ babies – Elizabeth is pregnant in old age, when told she was unable to conceive and Mary a pregnant unwed teen, a frightened virgin. It’s touching that the younger woman should seek out the older, in search of support. As readers, we know the eventual fate of both babies. Elizabeth’s son John will die prematurely and violently at the hands of an unpredictable Roman ruler, Herod Antipas. Mary’s son Jesus would be condemned to a cruel and violent public execution under Pontius Pilate.
It’s easy to over-sentimentalise the Nativity, with its images of angels and cattle, but in reality any birth – and especially especially one out of wedlock – was fraught with danger. In Mary’s time, according to Jewish law, becoming pregnant outside of marriage was punishable by stoning. Add to this the precarious political situation in which Mary was living. A Judean woman in occupied Roman territories, Mary was also the recipient of years of oral traditions celebrating God’s faithfulness and a continual yearning for freedom.
Viewed in the context of the later Biblical narrative – in which the holy family are forced to become refugees, fleeing Herod’s persecution – is it any surprise that the focus of Mary’s hymn becomes noy one of praise, but a thirst for freedom and justice?
Radical roots
But to appreciate the full historical impact of these words, we need to go beyond the Biblical narrative and consider the historical context. Most Biblical scholars agree that it’s unlikely this exact set of words was spoken by Mary. More likely, they belong to an Early Church hymn which was later incorporated into the narrative. If so, what might have sparked them?
What we know of the Early Church depends both on the Acts of the Apostles and later written documents. The Acts account suggests that the early disciples shared their resources, practicing what is perhaps the earliest example of communal living:
‘All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of their possessions was their own, but they shared everything they had and put it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to anyone who had need.’
Further evidence of the Early Church’s attitude towards wealth inequality can be seen in the writings of the Early Church Fathers, some 200-300 years after the death of Christ. Here’s Saint Basil the Great (330-379AD):
‘Money kept standing idle is worthless; but moving and changing hands it benefits the community and brings increase…
“I am wronging no one,” you say, “I am merely holding on to what is mine.” What is yours! Who gave it to you so that you could bring it into life with you? Why, you are like a man who pinches a seat at the theater at the expense of latecomers, claiming ownership of what was for common use. That’s what the rich are like; having seized what belongs to all, they claim it as their own on the basis of having got there first. Whereas if everyone took for himself enough to meet his immediate needs and released the rest for those in need of it, there would be no rich and no poor….
When a man strips another of his clothes, he is called a thief. Should not a man who has the power to clothe the naked but does not do so be called the same? The bread in your larder belongs to the hungry. The cloak in your wardrobe belongs to the naked. The shoes you allow to rot belong to the barefoot. The money in your vaults belongs to the destitute. You do injustice to every man whom you could help but do not.’
And again from The Didache (also known as The Lord’s Teaching Through the Twelve Apostles to the Nations) – dated by scholars to the First or Second Century AD:
‘Share everything with your brother. Do not say ‘It is private property’. If you share what is everlasting, you should be that much more willing to share things that don’t last.’
An upside-down kingdom
The Early Church also grew up in the teeth of Roman opposition. Christians were persecuted throughout the Roman Empire, beginning in the First Century and ending in the Fourth Century AD. The first, localised persecution occurred under Emperor Nero (c.54-68AD) in Rome. Luke’s gospel, in which the Magnificat appears, is thought to have been written down c. 68-70. So we can assume that this context of martyrdom and oppression might have also have coloured the text.
The Magnificat, then, is more than the sum of its parts. It is the prayer of a Jewish, teenaged mother living in a nation under foreign occupation. It is rooted in Jewish salvation history with its promise and conviction of God’s lasting covenant with His people. It is also the prayer of an Early Church born in the teeth of opposition and persecution, with a vision for social and economic reform where the upside-down Kingdom of God will usher in a new era of radical inclusion.
The text of the Magnificat transcends the time for which it was written or spoken. Mary becomes an archetype for all who have become displaced and oppressed. Is it too far a step to regard Mary as representative of all the mothers across the centuries who have lost children, families and homes to violent conflict and imperialist occupation?
A dangerous message?
Perhaps this is why, throughout history, poor and oppressed people have embraced and identified with these words – and why they have always been regarded as dangerous by people in power. During the British rule of India, the Magnificat was prohibited from being sung in church. In the 1980s, Guatemala’s government found the message of God’s preferential love for the poor to be too revolutionary and dangerous and banned any public recitation.
Similarly, after the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo – whose children all disappeared during the Dirty War – placed the Magnificat’s words on posters throughout the capital plaza, the military junta of Argentina outlawed any public display of Mary’s Song. In Nicaragua, the Magnificat is a favourite prayer among peasants and is often carried as a sacrament.
The artist Ben Wildflower (image above) depicts a defiant Mary with her fist raised to the sky, and her foot stepping on a snake. He says: ‘She’s a young woman singing a song about toppling rulers from their thrones. She’s a radical who exists within the confines of institutionalised religion.’
We sit at a crucial time in history – a time when the seemingly unstoppable rise of neoliberalist Capitalism sees the gap between rich and poor rising at terrifying rate. Half the world’s wealth is now owned by the top one per cent. In the UK, the use of food banks has increased by 94 per cent in the past five years. Homelessness is up by 27 per cent since last year. The world feels increasingly polarised, with the rise of far right populist leaders threatening to undermine the very roots of democracy. Meanwhile, across the Middle East, thousands of women flee occupation and persecution, just as Mary fled across the desert with her baby, seeking a place of refuge and safety in an increasingly insecure world.
We need the words of Mary’s Song, the Magnificat, to remind us that another world is possible – a world where the poor are uplifted, the hungry fed and the wealth of the rich redistributed to assist those in need. Is it revolutionary to think these things? Yes. Is it dangerous? It has always been so. But the alternative – blithe acceptance – is far more dangerous. And so, like Mary, we live in hope. Indeed, it is the only way to live.
My latest self-published chapbook, ‘Ten Faces of the Virgin’ considers ten artistic portraits of the Virgin Mary. It is available on Amazon and here.