This, to the world-at-large, wasn’t big news at all. It was a small, insignificant thing, not even a blip on the radar to anybody who was somebody. Status quo, at best… and yet, the One who hung the stars was born of a woman and swaddled in cloth.
Maybe Mary is called “blessed” by all generations because she should be, because she reminds people of many cultures, times, and places of that fundamental fact that Jesus grew up to adulthood in order to drive home: God is love.
Then I remembered Mary. Mary who was frightened facing the unknown, who despite that and any reservations she had about partnering with God in bringing Christ into the world, as a co-creator with God of a more beautiful world, dared to hope and dared to sing, “My spirit rejoices.”
As someone who was young, poor, and illiterate, Mary was not among the affluent or at the center of power, but lived in a village in the backwaters of the Roman Empire. This is who God honors—the least, the marginalized, the vulnerable. This is where God locates God’s self.
If we need to reclaim anything in Mary’s story—if we can reclaim anything in a story that is not ours in the first place, but the story of a young, poor woman living in occupied territory long ago—if we can reclaim anything for Mary and for ourselves it is the freedom of her yes, the courage in her yes.