Advent Confessional

Most of you know I’m a Lutheran pastor’s wife. I have a diverse, though entirely Protestant, faith history: My United Church of Christ mom and Berean Bible Church dad raised us in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) and now worship with an American Baptist church. Four years at Valparaiso University gradually transformed me from a reluctant Lutheran to a wholehearted liturgy-lover. But there’s one side of my faith life I’ve been keeping secret...until now.

I love Mary. There, I said it. Most of the year, I can keep it under wraps, but this Advent, I have to give Mary her due. I mean, she was definitely not your MTV-style Teen Mom. I’ve always been amazed at her (apparently) calm response to the angel: “I’m having a baby? He’s the Son of God? Yeah, ok, sounds good.” Kinda makes me wonder what else she said that didn’t quite make the cut...but regardless, I’ve admired this girl ever since I was a child myself.

There was a dear, sweet, lady named Rita who lived across the street from us when I was a child. She was my first babysitter after my parents moved to Kansas City from Indiana when I was 11 months old. As my brother and I grew, we spent a lot of time over at Rita’s house, which was right along our walk to and from school. She had a cherry tree in her backyard that we could climb, and one of those houses that is fascinating in the way old people’s houses are fascinating to children, worlds apart from the Fisher Price and playdoh that covered our playroom floor. There were cuckoo clocks and floral furniture and lots and lots of breakable things (we probably broke a few over the years). Her refreshments--diet soda and sugar-free lemon cookies--left a little to be desired to my 8-year-old self. But the best part about going to Rita’s house was playing the organ.

Rita was the organist at St. Ann’s, the Catholic church that bordered the park in our neighborhood. She had a small electric organ in her living room that was a source of endless delight for my brother and me. I don’t actually recall hearing her play the organ much, but I know she would always let us noodle around on it when we came over. Music was a big part of her life and her faith story, and she loved to share that with us.

I don’t recall exactly how old I was when Rita died, middle school maybe, but there’s one thing that I hold in my heart from that time. When she became ill, my mom was getting ready to visit her in the hospital. I’d been playing cello for a few years, and mom asked me if I’d do something special for Rita. She found the sheet music for the Schubert Ave Maria, helped me learn it, and tape recorded me playing it (remember cassette tapes??) so she could take it along for Rita to listen to.

I hadn’t taken Latin yet, or even met Jackie, my dear friend and source for all things Catholic in high school, so the words “Ave Maria” didn’t mean anything to me then. But the music--the language of the soul--that, I understood. To this day, I love to hear the Ave Maria sung, or play it on my cello, especially during the Christmas season.

That’s the time of year when, in the Protestant traditions, we tend to trot out Mary on her little donkey along with our Nativity scenes as we begin the Advent journey. She has her important (but interestingly, often silent) role in the Christmas pageant. Then there’s the Magnificat and its many beautiful arrangements to be sung in those 4 blue weeks of the church year. But once the Wise Men show up, Mary gets packed away and forgotten about, making a few brief appearances here and there, but mostly in the background of our Sunday morning stories.

The Roman Catholic church, on the other hand--well, I dare you to walk into one of those and try to forget about the Blessed Mother. She is not just part of the Christmas story. For many Catholics, honoring Mary is a part of their daily walk with God. And I get that. As a mother, I can especially relate to her and how she must have felt to be wiping Jesus’ blessed little bum a thousand times, and kissing his sacred scraped knees, and being terrified when he ran off in the crowd (In my version of the Bible, “Didn’t you know I would be in my father’s house?” is followed by Mary saying,“No, Jesus, I DIDN’T KNOW THAT, or else I wouldn’t have been tearing my HAIR OUT all this time LOOKING FOR YOU!!!”) Because, you know, she was a real mom and real moms yell, even at the Son of God. Or I’d like to think so, anyway.

The point being, I love Mary because I can wrap myself in her ubiquitous blue robe and just understand and feel and know the kind of love she experienced for Jesus, and through that, I can begin to understand a tiny bit the kind of love God feels for us. Overwhelming love of a newborn on your chest after a long, hard journey. Frustrated love when your child goes astray. Proud love when your child becomes the man you knew he could be. Heartbroken love when your baby is taken away too soon. Mary’s love is a mother’s love, and there’s nothing else in my life that has brought me closer to God than motherhood.

Don’t get me wrong--I love my Lutheran identity and all that it brings with it: churchy things like God’s unconditional grace, and everyday things like really amazing casseroles, quilts, and baked goods (and the church ladies behind them!) But if there’s one thing I think Catholics do really well, it is to dwell in the mysteries of faith.

Mysteries. Like how a poor teenage girl could be worthy to bear the savior of the world. Like how a piece of music on a scratchy cassette tape could bring comfort to a dying woman. Like how the incredible Love that is Jesus could and can and will break forth in our hearts in spite of our brokenness. Mysteries.

May you live in the Mystery this Advent season. Peace.