Mary, the mother of Jesus is a central figure in the Advent and Christmas story. However, her portrayal in the Christian Gospels is problematic on several fronts and is deeply disturbing for many women particularly. She is over-spiritualized and consequently her identity and integrity as a woman and mother are seriously compromised. I suggest that we obtain a more authentic – and more truthful – portrayal of Mary in Elizabeth Johnson‘s book, Truly Our Sister (2004). From the reflections of that book, I have composed the poem below, which hopefully honors Mary’s deeper story, and her potential to inspire us in our at this special time of year.

(SOURCE: Diarmuid O’Murchu, Jesus in the Power of Poetry, New York: Crossroad 2009, 49-50)

1. The Archetypal Mary

CHORUS:
I am the Madonna who’s black to the core.
And I birth forth a freedom that lasts evermore.

You have cast me in stone like a Queen of the Right,
A white European, so humble and trite.
From head to toe veiled, bizarre the décor,
You have robbed my uniqueness in Palestine’s lore.

My birth was as simple and poor as the rest,
Begotten by God in the power of real sex.
No fancy angelic triumphalist hype
But tendering care amid my struggling tribe.

I grew up with stories of struggle and pain,
My people were waiting for God to regain
Our freedom from those who burdened our way.
So we eagerly waited for God’s bright new day!

Messiahs by the dozen claimed they were the one.
Begotten they said by miraculous turn.
And my eldest darling decided he’d claim
To have been selected for Messianic fame.

If only they knew what the background was like
Out of wedlock conceived – a merciless plight
And all that I suffered – so undignified
Suspecting all through a remarkable child.

He was restless and strange from a very young age
And questioned religion with the wit of a sage.
He travelled the world, to places on end
With a freedom in heart I could not comprehend.

He joined with a commune down near Jordan’s shore
And a guy called the Baptist with prophetic lore
Marked him out for a mission I don’t understand
My wild little lad and his ‘postolic band.

They say he worked marvels and preached like a lord,
And among the great leaders caused no little discord.
I never could answer when the neighbours did ask
The meaning and purpose of his missionary task.

It all turned sour after three years astream.
It seems he reaped havoc on the Temple’s regime.
By the time I was called, in a cruel twist of fame
He was dead on a cross; my God, what a shame!

For months, I kept out of the public domain,
But the women disciples kept calling my name.
And that woman from Magdala, she never gave up
‘Till the vision was grounded in a new Christian Church.

I tried to support what the new group brought forth,
New freedom and peace, and some enduring hope.
We laughed and we suffered, yet knew it was right
While I never forgot my bright wayward child.

They say I assumed to the heavens above
Once more robbing from me the earth that I love.
How I wish they would cherish my feminine truth
As a woman and mother to God’s earthly rule.

ENDING:
To the earth I belong like the Goddess of yore
A radiant woman – but dark at my core!