Both/And
By Mary Beth Eroen
“And Mary said: My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant.”
Luke 1: 46-48a
There’s no way around it: when your name is ‘Mary,’ the Christmas story comes with a little something extra. Your ears can’t help but perk up a bit each time the name appears— which is, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, kind of a lot. For reasons beyond the obvious—or maybe exactly for all the obvious reasons— I’ve always deeply admired the mother of Christ. In the last two years, I’ve come to admire her in a new way.
In her great song of rejoicing found in Luke 1, Mary bravely gives voice to the earth-shaking reorientation that is about to occur not only in her life, her body, her community, and her world, but indeed in the very universe and reality around her. She joyfully submits to God with faithful abandon. She fiercely foretells God’s coming justice and mercy. She marvels in her unlikely place in this great cosmic story. But mere verses before, the Bible recalls her being ‘greatly troubled’ and more than a bit confused at the prospect of bearing, raising, and eventually walking to the cross with Jesus. It’s easy to imagine the complex swirl of emotions she must have been experiencing.
Our culture loves to sell this season as the jolliest, most wonderful time of the year. In the church, we love to turn our attention and focus to the great joy of Jesus’ arrival and all it means for us. And it is joyful! It can also be confusing, or sad, or lonely. Or full of grief.
Last year was my first Christmas without my dad. I felt deep grief and a listlessness that left me detached from the celebrations of the season—I was in a ‘humble state.’ This year, in my second Advent without him, I find grief sitting right next to joy. In what feels like the space between an inhale and an exhale, I can experience them both. And somehow, they enrich one another. It’s like they are related—sisters, almost. My grief is evidence of joy, and my joy is made richer by my grief.
In the past two years, Mary has been a teacher to me. In her humble state, she glorifies and rejoices in God. She sets an example of how to be faithful and afraid, how to be joyful and grieving, how to have doubt and trust: how to be both/and. She reminds me that being a human—made and loved by God—is a confusing, breathtaking, complex experience, and that’s okay! Mostly, Mary provides an example of how to place all those amazing, complicated human things in the hands of God, who will gently and lovingly walk with us as he calls us to be bearers of his son Jesus’ good news.
Not a bad namesake if you ask me.
In her great song of rejoicing found in Luke 1, Mary bravely gives voice to the earth-shaking reorientation that is about to occur not only in her life, her body, her community, and her world, but indeed in the very universe and reality around her. She joyfully submits to God with faithful abandon. She fiercely foretells God’s coming justice and mercy. She marvels in her unlikely place in this great cosmic story. But mere verses before, the Bible recalls her being ‘greatly troubled’ and more than a bit confused at the prospect of bearing, raising, and eventually walking to the cross with Jesus. It’s easy to imagine the complex swirl of emotions she must have been experiencing.
Our culture loves to sell this season as the jolliest, most wonderful time of the year. In the church, we love to turn our attention and focus to the great joy of Jesus’ arrival and all it means for us. And it is joyful! It can also be confusing, or sad, or lonely. Or full of grief.
Last year was my first Christmas without my dad. I felt deep grief and a listlessness that left me detached from the celebrations of the season—I was in a ‘humble state.’ This year, in my second Advent without him, I find grief sitting right next to joy. In what feels like the space between an inhale and an exhale, I can experience them both. And somehow, they enrich one another. It’s like they are related—sisters, almost. My grief is evidence of joy, and my joy is made richer by my grief.
In the past two years, Mary has been a teacher to me. In her humble state, she glorifies and rejoices in God. She sets an example of how to be faithful and afraid, how to be joyful and grieving, how to have doubt and trust: how to be both/and. She reminds me that being a human—made and loved by God—is a confusing, breathtaking, complex experience, and that’s okay! Mostly, Mary provides an example of how to place all those amazing, complicated human things in the hands of God, who will gently and lovingly walk with us as he calls us to be bearers of his son Jesus’ good news.
Not a bad namesake if you ask me.
Reflective Question for the Day
How can we surrender all our emotions to God this season?
How can we follow Mary’s example to glorify and rejoice, even in a humble state?
Mary Beth Eroen’s favorite movie is White Christmas, mostly because of Rosemary Clooney’s costumes. Her favorite thing to do on a day off is sew, garden, and go to the movies alone. Speaking of, she’s still recovering from seeing Hamnet a few weeks ago. She recommends it, but wants to make sure you know to bring plenty of tissues if you decide to see it.