Mary of Nazareth Asks by Mary HansonA furious flame of unearthly glow
Tore through the morning gloom. I froze in horror that Nazareth dawn. Mortified what misfortune shall befall me? “Ave Maria, yours is adoration and glory. Forevermore you are favored by God.” The Christ shall enter the world through you. By your womb our God becomes mortal.” “But shouldn’t I know more?” I implored. To be untrue, I abhor the thought. I said yes to Joseph moreover I love him. How can I say yes to the child of another? I hear the wrath and fear the stones. The shame to be shorn and called a whore. Choruses of ridicule and scorn await me. In a torrent of worry I prayed for fortitude. “Fear not” I heard, “And how shall this be?” Gloria in excelsis I murmured in consent. Tremors tore to the core of my soul. A corporeal shudder left me transformed. Reinforce my resolve, support me through. I nourish the flesh of God in my body. |
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Mary Asks More
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Mary did as mothers do.
She drew him under her scarf, if sharp winds suddenly blew, or wrapped him in her skirt. He noted too the hen lowered her wings, over her chicks frozen with fright. Of dangers, she taught him what she knew, if overhead an eagle flew in sight. One day they drew lots for his coat. Did she teach him how to die? Mary did as mothers do, and Joseph too, in the cool of the grove, they taught him where the olive grew. To seek solitude and sustenance, in trees where he rested and prayed. He selected wood with strength and straight grain to build tables and good things. They taught him work that satisfied. Then one day a tree was felled. Did they teach him how to die? Mary did as mothers do. She walked not fast where the poor, hoped for healing or sight renewed. He saw those begging for crumbs or coins. Mercy she taught him and care, and showed how blessings are shared. One day he was anointed king, his feet were washed by her who cried. He received the oil over his head. Did she teach him how to die? Mary did as mothers do. On that day when Gabriel came. Obey the only word she knew. “Be it to me as you say.” A son of David’s house is born, of the power from most high. As she obeyed so did he. The call of the Father not denied. One day he faced Jerusalem. Did she teach him how to die? |
Jean-Joseph Weerts 1847-1927 Belgium
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Painting by
William Brassey Hole 1846-1917
English
William Brassey Hole 1846-1917
English
Holy Poet-martyr St Robert Southwell and The Burning Babe
painting by William Hart McNichols
Fr. McNichols was born in 1949 in Denver is among the most famous creators of Christian iconic imagery
The Burning Babe by Robert Southwell (1561-1595)
A Burning Babe! An alarming apparition in the winter forest! A gruesome image that sends a shudder through the marrow of one’s bones.
Are you once again stricken and jaded by the sentimentality of this season?
Perhaps it has not been the best of years. I recently discovered a poem from Elizabethan times thanks to a new composition by a young Denver composer, Tony Domenick, who set the words to music sung by the choir at Montview Presbyterian. We were puzzled by this choice of text for Christmas and it created quite a lot of discussion among us. I quote Heidi, a fellow alto, “I am an elementary school administrator. A burning baby is a disturbing image.”
John 18:37 Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. I was born and came into the world for this reason, to testify to the truth. Whoever accepts the truth listens to my voice."
Some reflection clarifies the scene. Jesus suffered the passion not only on the cross, but from the moment he was born—or conceived. His whole life from first breath to his last was his sacrifice. When we view the infant Jesus in a manger, his suffering has already begun. This is not the usual peaceful child deep in the peaceful dreams of a baby.
From Philippians 2:6-8: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a human being, he humbled himself, and became obedient to death, even death on a cross!
He temporarily released his Godly status (literally, he did not cling to it) to visit earth as a human, for one purpose: that we earthlings may briefly view God in a way understandable to us.
The Burning Babe by Robert Southwell
As I in hoary winter’s night stood shivering in the snow,
Surpris’d I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the air appear;
Who, scorched with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed
As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.
“Alas!” quoth he, “but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are men’s defiled souls,
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.”
With this he vanish’d out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas day.
The author, Robert Southwell, was a distant cousin of Shakespeare and a priest, when being Catholic in England was deadly. He wrote this poem in London Tower, the last year of his short life. He was executed for being Catholic.
The John 18:37 passage reminds the reader of Esther, who was in her position for the particular time. It is true of us all that we are at our posts now for our time, Esther as well as Jesus, men and women.
Esther 4:14 For if you remain silent at this time …And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this …
He Born of Her “No money to pay, no place to stay.”
She birthed with the breath of animals. He gasped the dankness of fresh dung. The gold of kings received with joy, A few coins paid, his body was hung. His baby lips sought her breasts, Her lips brushed his soft cheeks. From her he learned a mother’s kiss. His lips greeted, loved, farewelled. The kiss of betrayal he did not resist. A thirst awakened on his tongue, Her mother’s milk brought nurture. She taught him the taste of fine wine. From water he fermented vintage of joy, A cup of sorrow in the garden he cried. A newborn shivering in the cold, Soft lamb wool swaddled him. Her warmth the glow of very first love, He loved the sheep every last one, Became the sacrificial lamb from above. Embryo ears heard hints of life outside. Her voice told secrets of the world to come. A childhood in Galilee with friends. His voice healed the lame, the spirits fled. But in the end voices condemned. Eve’s flesh the dust of his humanity. His human body hungered as a boy. Her strong arms kneaded dough, He told the lesson of leaven. Broken bread of life we now behold. |
Woodblock by Eric Gill 1929 British
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Mary’s Pentecost
Love at your first breath, My demise at your last, You escaped the tomb, We embraced, we ate, Past turmoil dissolved. Swallowed in a cloud. How does a mother Contain all of this? Here and gone again. Enough, no further! Forty days my son, Always at your side, Your feet left earth, Climbed into the sky. Another angel voice. Swirling wind, tongues, Of flames on our heads, Maid servants prophesy! Now I know, I am blessed, As the angel Gabriel said. Comfort you promised, In this Spirit you sent. I feel your breath again. Your voice in these voices, I ponder these things. My other children, have taken me in. Yet my first is still here, Let me have peace, And rest in obscurity. |
El Greco 1596
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Mary's Sword Huddled beneath the cross, We sank in blood-soaked mud. Stones embedded in our knees, Light, dark, thunder, sun again. Has it been a day? Time is lost. Moaning mouths now silent, No two words cling together. My son just cried, “Father, Why have you forsaken me?” Long ago, Gabriel spoke, “You are highly favored!” My young body was eager, My faith was so innocent, “May it happen as you say.” Youthful ignorance spoke, He meant favored for this? To see my son brutally die? God, to this I did not agree! My firstborn was a delight, Despite the village gossip, Dear Joseph at my side then, Ignored the whispered scorn. A sword did not occur to me. At first my younger children, Did not all follow him. He asked, “Who is my mother?” That one day, like I wasn’t there! Simeon’s mysterious words, “The rise and fall of many.” Our house was full of friends, How was I so naive? One denied him last night, Betrayed him with a kiss. You his Father, you allowed this! His earthly flesh is mine. Were we not in this together? Now I know this sword of Simeon: He said this child, my son, will cause the rise and fall of many. One thief believes, the other not. Sheep scattered, the curtain rent. The Jews my people in disarray, My heart pierced lifeless. The mighty win, poor still hunger. That sword! It separates. |
Artist: William Strang (Scottish 1859-1921) |
Mary of Nazareth AsksA furious flame of unearthly glow
Tore through the morning gloom. I froze in horror that Nazareth dawn. Mortified what misfortune shall befall me? “Ave Maria, yours is adoration and glory. Forevermore you are favored by God.” The Christ shall enter the world through you. By your womb our God becomes mortal.” “But shouldn’t I know more?” I implored. To be untrue, I abhor the thought. I said yes to Joseph moreover I love him. How can I say yes to the child of another? I hear the wrath and fear the stones. The shame to be shorn and called a whore. Choruses of ridicule and scorn await me. In a torrent of worry I prayed for fortitude. “Fear not” I heard, “And how shall this be?” Gloria in excelsis I murmured in consent. Tremors tore to the core of my soul. A corporeal shudder left me transformed. Reinforce my resolve, support me through. I nourish the flesh of God in my body. |
El Greco: The Annunciation 1597 |
Why I Am Enrolled in Seminary Rather Than . . .
See in original publication.
Why am I here and not there?
I am HERE because I have been THERE.
Been there, done it, have the diplomas to prove it.
The alumni associations can find my telephone number anywhere to solicit for donations.
Long time ago, I heard a distant call, but the BIG voices said, “YOU DID NOT HEAR THAT CALL.”
“Only the boys hear that call. Vain imaginings, abomination, against nature.”
You don’t want to go to seminary anyway.
It is HARD.
You have to take
γρεεκ and Theology.
Besides, what would you do with it? You can only teach women and children.
“You would be a good preacher’s wife.”
But the boys at church camp ignored me.
So, 50 years later, after many career
cul-de-sacs,
I sneaked into seminary hoping to stay under the Divine Radar.
He showed me my place. It was in seminary.
He gave me
perseverance to learn Greek,
eyesight to learn Hebrew,
strength to carry Ethics books,
nerves to preach in Homiletics,
computer that mostly functions.
My grown kids say, “Have fun, Mom, with Greek and Hebrew.”
My husband is happy, if I am happy.
My turn has come.
I am here because
God grants, I can be.
Why am I here and not there?
I am HERE because I have been THERE.
Been there, done it, have the diplomas to prove it.
The alumni associations can find my telephone number anywhere to solicit for donations.
Long time ago, I heard a distant call, but the BIG voices said, “YOU DID NOT HEAR THAT CALL.”
“Only the boys hear that call. Vain imaginings, abomination, against nature.”
You don’t want to go to seminary anyway.
It is HARD.
You have to take
γρεεκ and Theology.
Besides, what would you do with it? You can only teach women and children.
“You would be a good preacher’s wife.”
But the boys at church camp ignored me.
So, 50 years later, after many career
cul-de-sacs,
I sneaked into seminary hoping to stay under the Divine Radar.
He showed me my place. It was in seminary.
He gave me
perseverance to learn Greek,
eyesight to learn Hebrew,
strength to carry Ethics books,
nerves to preach in Homiletics,
computer that mostly functions.
My grown kids say, “Have fun, Mom, with Greek and Hebrew.”
My husband is happy, if I am happy.
My turn has come.
I am here because
God grants, I can be.
Theology is the study of God. The struggle to understand God, to better serve him, is our human endeaver. As earthlings we will never satisfy this yearning, but our utmost is required to conform to his image. It is what we do as his creatures.
Our human conclusions in theology have consequences. To determine the validity of a piece of theology, set it on the road. Give it wheels. How does it work out in real life?
I find that putting these ideas into another genre gives a new view of another facet with more emotion attached. Visual art, poetry, and music are effective vehicles for conveying truth.
Our human conclusions in theology have consequences. To determine the validity of a piece of theology, set it on the road. Give it wheels. How does it work out in real life?
I find that putting these ideas into another genre gives a new view of another facet with more emotion attached. Visual art, poetry, and music are effective vehicles for conveying truth.
She He Never Blamed
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Dec 2016 Mary Stromer Hanson
He laid no blame on her now. Nor ever. Did he hear the taunts? Absorb their darts of disdain? Born of immorality they rant, In derision of his own Mother. She could have been stoned, If she were caught in The Act. Jesus also bore her pain and On such as her, he laid no blame. His ancient mothers Rehab, Bathsheba, Ruth, and Tamar. Wombs used bravely despite Deceit to further Jessie’s line. How did they bear the shame? Unborn waiting to be born. His ancestry of uncertain fame. Boldly proclaimed at his birth. On mothers, he laid no blame. The woman spilled blood, Unclean a disgrace shunned. Jesus did not abhor the stain. With no angry refrain, he healed. A woman again unnamed, Cried and kissed his feet. How could a prophet not know? That in this city she is profane. “Go in peace, I lay no blame.” Stones raised against her, He could see his mother. Forced to drink the cup of dust From the temple floor as the Priests were quoted. The adulteress condemned, Miscarries, barren, cursed. Jesus bent to write in the dust. Who of you have not sinned? No one remains? A fetus saved? On a woman he never laid blame. |
Artist: Mina Anton Cairo, Egypt 2013
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Mary Asks More
by Mary Stromer Hanson Dec 9 2017 Watercolor by Lisa Guinther
My firstborn, can you tell me more?
This frosty morn of your first dawn.
The force of birth unknown to me.
Crushing torrents gripped my flesh
Pouring water and red blood spilling,
I expelled you on the strawy floor.
Are you my Lord or a lesser soul?
Is there more that I should notice?
Joseph tore the silvery cord.
He had delivered lambs before.
You savor breath as earthly being.
No more my body nor part of me.
I pray your world is good my son.
What more is it that we should know?
Your warm mouth seeks my sorefull breast,
You pawed for milk and found the source.
I’ve seen my sisters nursing theirs.
Your instinct is sure, no need to learn.
This baby’s thirst appears quite earthly.
Will these lips speak mighty oracles?
Do I nourish the mouth of God?
I adore you as a normal child.
Your perfect body smooth and rounded.
Praise God although our family is poor.
Is this fragile finger formed,
The same as any mortal’s?
Why do I look for something more?
Is this the hand of God I kiss?
Is there more you wish to show me?
Your form and face seem ordinary.
Eyes and forehead look like mine,
Your curly crown resembles Joseph’s.
Surely not so! I’ll tell you soon more.
Your seed was not sown by human control.
You are from a source most glorious.
This frosty morn of your first dawn.
The force of birth unknown to me.
Crushing torrents gripped my flesh
Pouring water and red blood spilling,
I expelled you on the strawy floor.
Are you my Lord or a lesser soul?
Is there more that I should notice?
Joseph tore the silvery cord.
He had delivered lambs before.
You savor breath as earthly being.
No more my body nor part of me.
I pray your world is good my son.
What more is it that we should know?
Your warm mouth seeks my sorefull breast,
You pawed for milk and found the source.
I’ve seen my sisters nursing theirs.
Your instinct is sure, no need to learn.
This baby’s thirst appears quite earthly.
Will these lips speak mighty oracles?
Do I nourish the mouth of God?
I adore you as a normal child.
Your perfect body smooth and rounded.
Praise God although our family is poor.
Is this fragile finger formed,
The same as any mortal’s?
Why do I look for something more?
Is this the hand of God I kiss?
Is there more you wish to show me?
Your form and face seem ordinary.
Eyes and forehead look like mine,
Your curly crown resembles Joseph’s.
Surely not so! I’ll tell you soon more.
Your seed was not sown by human control.
You are from a source most glorious.
Spietis of the Devill
Spietis of the devill, shrieked the High
Court of Justiciary. Women for pain.
No whiff of herb, sorcerie, charms.
Sche deserves what Eve brought forthe.
Timber heaped high, stake driven deep.
Shee is reprehensible and heretical.
From Pain of labour to Pain of flames,
Eufame MacLayne bare twins, her babes
torn from her full breasts aching on the
Castle Hill of Edinburgh. Genesis, Exodus . .
Do not contravene the Decrees of Providence.
Evil women. Gateway of the Devil.
Sche gasped for a potion, the midwife
Agnes Sampson, seized her hidden stash.
Now damned for showing compassion
practicing her craft. Carnal, Heresy!
Woman, do not despise your curse.
Outcasts, Bitches, Hexen, Vixen, Scum.
Faire is foul, and foul is faire. She who is
the misbegotten sex, brings black plague.
"God almighty, when did I deny you?
You forsook me, you made my feminine form."
Fire licking at her soles, hair singed.
“Come my child, you are home in my breasts.” October 30, 2016
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