You’ve seen it in films and TV dramas so often that it’s almost become hackneyed.
Here’s the scene –
Two people are in some kind of peril – usually a guy and a girl - and they’re running for their lives. They turn a corner, or burst out of the forest, or race to the edge of the skyscraper but suddenly there’s nowhere left to go. You can hear the baddies getting closer. The game’s up.
But it never is.
Because there’s always some way out that involves dangling over the edge of the skyscraper, or swinging across the chasm, and there’s always this moment when the guy’s gearing up for action and turns round to see that the poor girl’s terrified. So he looks at her calmly, reaches out his hand and says ‘trust me’. And she always does. And they always get away.
Could be Humphrey Bogart, Harrison Ford or Shia Labouf. Could be Lauren Bacall, Carrie Fisher or Megan Fox. They’ve all done it, and they’ll keep doing it ‘til kingdom come.
But rather than any particular movie star, it’s that particular moment I want you to hold on to in your imagination this morning; that meeting of the eyes; that reaching out of the hand; that decision to trust despite the terrible danger.
I think there’s something about Mary that fits with that picture.
What we really know about Mary would comfortably fit onto one side of A4 paper, but getting to the truth of who she was isn’t easy, because that one sheet of A4 has been papered over and papered over with layers of theology and interpretation and art, and it takes a lot of work to strip away everything that’s been added to her story over the centuries.
Here’s a good example of that – I’ve shown you this picture before. It’s Botticelli’s painting of the Annunciation, which was finished in 1490. And it’s one of my favourites - I’ve seen it with my own eyes in the Kelvingrove Museum in Glasgow. But note the nice Italian architecture and clothes. Note the pale skinned, fair haired Mary. This is 15th Century Florence we’re looking at; not 1st century Palestine!
And look at her body language. She looks like she’s about to faint, doesn’t she? She looks like someone who’s utterly passive. Someone to whom something is being done.
And I’m not sure that’s what the text implies. I think Mary’s much stronger than we give her credit for sometimes.
And that’s why I’ve always preferred the next picture. She’s young, she’s dark, she’s in a house that looks like it might belong to her time and place. So it’s far more authentic.
But the thing I like best about it is that she’s looking up at the angel. Most other paintings of the Annunciation have her turning her eyes away. But not this one. This Mary’s not passive. She’s frightened. She’s questioning. But she’s an active participant in whatever’s going on. And that’s far more in keeping with how Luke tells the story.
We know enough about the culture of those days to know that Mary would have been in her early teens – maybe even as young as 12. When a girl reached puberty and her parents had arranged a suitable partner for her, she was betrothed to him in a public ceremony, but she’d continue living with her parents. Officially she was married, but the marriage wasn’t consummated ‘til a second ceremony had taken place about a year later, after which she went to live with her husband.
During that year of betrothal, a man could divorce his wife for a number of reasons, but the most common was if she were found to be pregnant. In a culture where male honour was paramount, and the whole of society was engineered around the preservation of honour, for a betrothed girl to fall pregnant was shameful, both for her own family and that of her husband.
Worse still, if she fell pregnant to someone other than her husband. That was about as shameful as you could get.
Matthew’s gospel fills in some of the background that Luke misses out when it comes to Joseph’s attitude to all this, and it’s clear right from the start that as far as he’s concerned, divorce is the only option. There was no question of him putting up with this.
Joseph’s dilemma was whether to divorce Mary quietly, or make sure that everyone around knew that he’d wasn’t the father. There was no question of staying with her until he had his own encounter with God.
So given that strict cultural setting, can you imagine what must have gone through her mind when the angel said “Don’t be afraid, Mary. God has been gracious to you. You will become pregnant and give birth to a son, and you will name him Jesus” ?
She knew straightaway this wasn’t about looking into the future when she and Joseph started living together. This was now. And if it was now, it was all wrong. She knew how much disgrace she’d bring on herself and everyone she loved if she were found to be pregnant.
That’s why she protested and said “How can this be?”. I’m chaste – I’m faithful. This isn’t in the script.
And at that point Gabriel helpfully pulled out a laptop and showed her a ten minute Powerpoint Presentation on what exactly was going to happen on a genetic level so that the divine son, fully God and fully man, could be conceived within her womb. And wouldn’t we all like a copy of that particular CD?
In fact, all he said was “The Spirit will be upon you, and God’s power will rest on you”. No DNA analysis, I’m afraid. Just a promise and some reassurance. And a reminder that strange baby stuff was happening to her cousin Elizabeth too, if she needed someone to talk to. Elizabeth had been barren all her life, but was now six months pregnant with the baby boy who grew up to be John the Baptist.
So there’s wee Mary, sitting safely at home in one sense, but teetering on the edge of a precipice in another. She’s scared to go on, and she’s scared to go back. But there’s this angel looking at her, and holding out his hand. And she knows that the way he wants to take her – God wants to take her – is fraught with danger. But she’s seen enough and she’s heard enough to know that she can trust him.
She doesn’t know how on earth all of this is going to work out. But she has enough faith to believe that it will.
“I am the Lord’s servant” she says; “May it happen to me as you have said”. That’s not a meek surrender. That’s a life-changing and courageous choice.
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In other traditions Mary’s described as the Mother of God, and personally I’ve always found that too much to claim. It’s a title I don’t think she’d welcome.
But Mary’s certainly the mother of God incarnate – and in a way she’s also the mother of all who choose the way of faith.
She didn’t know where it was all going, but she’d seen enough and heard enough to trust that God would see her through. And that’s an example that should encourage us, because it’s not easy being a believer in today’s world.
We’re not an endangered species just yet, but we’re certainly a rare breed. And as the folk around us become more and more removed from the Christian story, we can expect less and less understanding of what we’re really about.
They just won’t get it.
And sometimes that’ll come out in the form of mild abuse and mick-taking. And other times, usually when folk are alone or slightly the worse for wear, it’ll come out in genuine questioning. Some of the best conversations I’ve had about faith have taken place when friends or flatmates have drunk just enough to lose some of their inhibitions.
And the worst thing we can do when we find ourselves having to explain why we believe and what we believe is to try and pretend we’ve got all the answers, because we don’t. None of us have, no matter how long we’ve been Christians for.
And neither did Mary. She didn’t know where on earth all of this was leading. But she’d seen enough to know it was worth staking the rest of her life on.
She looked God in the eye; she took his outstretched hand, and she went for it.
And so must we.
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