advent apertures 2018 Christmas Eve: treasure

Blue homespun and the bend of my breast

keep warm this small hot naked star

fallen to my arms. (Rest …

you who have had so far to come.)

Now nearness satisfies

the body of God sweetly. Quiet he lies

whose vigor hurled a universe. He sleeps

whose eyelids have not closed before.

His breath (so slight it seems

no breath at all) once ruffled the dark deeps

to sprout a world. Charmed by doves' voices,

the whisper of straw, he dreams,

hearing no music from his other spheres.

Breath, mouth, ears, eyes

he is curtailed who overflowed all skies,

all years. Older than eternity, now he

is new. Now native to earth as I am, nailed

to my poor planet, caught

that I might be free, blind in my womb

to know my darkness ended,

brought to this birth for me to be new-born,

and for him to see me mended

I must see him torn.

‘Mary's Song’
Luci Shaw

I can imagine that the the darkest of dark nights might come for a woman when she is about to give birth.  Intermingled with expectation of the life to come, there may be acute fear of the labour necessary to bring about that future, a fear of such ferocity that it wipes out any notions of joyful curiosity.  If that is true of twenty-first century mothers, I imagine it might also be true for a first century mother having her first child; a mother having her first child whilst away from her home and support networks; a mother having her first child when that child already has been prophesied about, when that child’s future is already loaded with the social, political and religious expectations of a nation.

I imagine Mary had endured many, many emotional and spiritual woundings during the course of her pregnancy; wounded by all the times she was told her pregnancy was a sign of her social, political and religious shame.  

I wonder if, before Jesus was born, she knew ‘how, more often than not,/truth is found in silence’, as Patricia Fargnoli puts it (below); if she knew how to look within, to remember the promises of God, to seek out the jewels in those wounds?

Mary has always been a bittersweet figure for me, since I cannot have children.  It troubles me that Mary is held up too often (still!) as a pattern of feminine spirituality because of her role as mother.  For me, a more attractive reason for considering her a pattern of feminine spirituality is due her disposition for ‘pondering treasure’, rather than due to her physical capability.  In other words I want the mind of Mary since I cannot have her fertility.  

Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.

(Luke 2.19 NRSV)

Mary kept all these things to herself, holding them dear, 

deep within herself.

(Luke 2.19 The Message)

Mary is often only present by her silence in the gospel narratives of the life of Christ, and although this might be read as a dismissive act by the (male) gospel writers, I prefer to see Luke’s depiction of her as one who ‘treasures’ as much more than it first appears.

Being a contemplative, one who ‘ponders treasure’ as a lifelong habit, one who seeks light out of her darkness, one who values precious insights out of her grimiest shadows, is not a passive spiritual role.  

For if I really accept the true value of the gift of treasure that God has implanted in me, then inevitably I will be praising God and praying for God’s will to be done.  Any such prayer will propel me into action, because I am a part of how that Kingdom is coming, I am a vehicle for God’s will being fulfilled in this world, here and now.

Pondering treasure, it seems, makes me a spiritual and social revolutionary - just as Mary was before me.

If you have seen the snow

under the lamppost

piled up like a white beaver hat on the picnic table

or somewhere slowly falling

into the brook

to be swallowed by water,

then you have seen beauty

and know it for its transience.

And if you have gone out in the snow

for only the pleasure

of walking barely protected

from the galaxies,

the flakes settling on your parka

like the dust from just-born stars,

the cold waking you

as if from long sleeping,

then you can understand

how, more often than not,

truth is found in silence,

how the natural world comes to you

if you go out to meet it,

its icy ditches filled with dead weeds,

its vacant birdhouses, and dens

full of the sleeping.

But this is the slowed-down season

held fast by darkness

and if no one comes to keep you company

then keep watch over your own solitude.

In that stillness, you will learn

with your whole body

the significance of cold

and the night,

which is otherwise always eluding you.

‘Winter Grace’

Patricia Fargnoli

keep watch over your own solitude. Canon 7D. f5.6. 1/500. ISO 100.