47. Chesterton, Orthodoxy, 125.
48. Translated by F. Douce and quoted in Miles, Christmas in Ritual and Tradition, 36.
49. Ibid., 47.
50. Quoted from Nissenbaum, Battle for Christmas, 9.
51. Jacobs, Incidents in the Life, 180. Cited in Nissenbaum, Battle for Christmas, 289. See also Restad, Christmas in America, 75–91.
The Breath of Heaven
The story of Christmas does not begin in Bethlehem with songs of angels, shepherds, and wise men. We must at least go back to the conception of our Lord in the womb of Mary months earlier. As we learn, this event occurs during the sixth month of Elizabeth’s pregnancy with the baby John, Jesus’ cousin. And so, it is a story of conception within a story of pregnancy. One effect of this narrative setting is to remind us of the human dimension. The reader feels pulled down from the lofty heights of heaven and into the nursery. We find to our surprise and delight that the nursery is replete with theological mystery and spiritual truth. The enigma of the incarnation begins with the fact that for nine months the eternal and omnipotent Son of the living God curled up and gestated in the watery silence of the womb. In absolute helplessness and vulnerability he remained inside Mary and so identified with the tender beginnings of every human being on earth.
In addition to that, his beginning anticipates his end. As he was wrapped in the warm darkness of Mary’s womb, so he would eventually be wrapped in the cold emptiness of Joseph of Arimathea’s tomb. As he submitted to the fragility of the fetus, so he submitted to the destitution of death. As he laid in the quiet heartbeat rhythm of gestation, so his wrung-out body was laid on a slab of stone. And so, the Son emptied himself twice over: once to life and once to lifelessness, once to the helplessness of infanthood and once to the defenselessness of death.
For now, we return to the grand gesture by which the Word of Life submits to the womb of Mary. But first, Mary must say Yes.
The One They Call Mary
Our chapter opens on the famous scene known as the annunciation when the archangel Gabriel drops softly from the clouds before the unwed girl Mary to announce the child in her womb. The scene is rich with aesthetics, meanings, and deep pools of reflection. I want to consider the moment just after Gabriel has made his pronouncement “you will conceive” but before Mary has consented to it. I’m referring to the blank space between verse 37 and 38, between Gabriel’s calm reminder that “with God nothing shall be impossible” (Luke 1:37, KJV) and Mary’s resolution, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word” (Luke 1:38, KJV). The faithful archangel delivers his message concerning the child to be born and answers Mary’s worried questions about how this could be since she is a virgin. And then there is a moment, just a brief pause in time, when everything hangs in the balance, frozen, as we await the girl’s reply. This act of God will not be forced upon her. She must choose it, will it, acknowledge it, give her assent to it.
There is so much we would like to know about the setting and unfolding of this dramatic scene, and yet so much is left unsaid in the text. Does the annunciation take place at night, at daybreak, or in the afternoon? Does Gabriel appear to Mary in an open field or in the cramped quarters of her home? Does he stand straight-backed with wings outstretched or does he kneel before her with head bowed? Does his voice sound like the cracking of rock or like the combing of a brush through hair? Does Mary look upon her celestial visitor with calm curiosity or avert her eyes in fear? Does she answer immediately or does she take a moment of silence to weigh her response?
For me, at least, the moment of Mary’s decision is captured by the perfect grace of Leonardo da Vinci’s brush in his translucently painted annunciation on display at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. Painted in oil and tempera on a wood panel when he was still a young apprentice, the work radiates the budding genius of da Vinci (1452–1519). The viewer feels less like someone looking at a picture and more like someone who has just stepped inside an internally lit diorama. In da Vinci’s painting, the angel, who has just alighted from heaven and landed silently onto a flowery lawn, lifts his eyes from his kneeling bow to meet those of the girl. He raises his right hand in the sign of peace and poses the question. Mary, one finger holding a page of text that she seems to have been reading, pulls her other hand back in surprise. But her face does not show open-mouthed shock. Neither is it giddy or girlish. She expresses wonder and composed resolution.
Bernard of Clairvaux narrates the dramatic moment:
The angel awaits your reply, for it is time that he should return to God, Who sent him. We, too, are waiting, O Lady, for a word of mercy we, who are groaning under the sentence of condemnation. See, the price of our salvation is offered to you; if you consent, we shall at once be delivered. By the Eternal Word of God we were all created, and behold we die. By your short answer we shall be refreshed and recalled to life. Adam, with all his race Adam, a weeping exile from Paradise, implores it of you. . . . Hasten, then, O Lady, to give your answer; hasten to speak.52
Here is the icon of faith and grace. Gabriel announces but does not compel. God invites but does not force. We cannot say that Mary acted independently of God’s Spirit. No, her pregnancy was dependent upon the work of God within her, but her response was her own. Gabriel awaits her Yes. Mary conceived the Word by faith in her heart before she conceived in her womb.53 God’s relationship with all of us is on display in the annunciation. As creatures, it is true, we depend upon a Creator; as children of the promise we depend upon a Father; as redeemed sinners we depend upon a Redeemer. So, in an important sense, we are never independent of God our Creator, Father, Redeemer, and Life-Giver. Nevertheless, the mystery of God’s good grace is that our lives and our actions are our own. God respects the dignity of our existence.
We return to the scene. For a brief but eternal moment, all of history holds its breath for Mary’s answer. Of course, the Almighty and Everlasting One could do the work of salvation without Mary. For that matter, God could do whatever God wants without any of us, but this is not God’s choice. Instead, God relies upon the unreliable and depends on the undependable, so strong is God’s faith and hope and love.
And what of Mary? What did she feel? Trepidation? Bewilderment? Astonishment? Gratitude? Resolution?
In the traditional depictions of Western art, the Madonna is depicted calm, composed, and placid. The focus has been on her serenity, her holiness, and her submission to the will of God. In recent years other artists have offered a much-needed corrective to this image. Take for instance Amy Grant’s deeply felt and devastatingly beautiful song “Breath of Heaven.” In this track from her 1992 Home for Christmas album, we hear the words of Mary’s self-doubt and fright at the heavy load she has been asked to carry. She wonders if a wiser one should have had her place. She worries that she must walk the path alone. Her heart stretches out in hopes that the breath of heaven hold her together. In the voice of Amy Grant, Mary’s prayer centers on the word “help”—first she prays for help to be strong, then she prays simply to be, and finally her prayer is stripped down to the essential plea: help me.54 We must remember Mary is young and alone. She shoulders so many different emotions. Nevertheless, whatever doubts and fears flutter through her mind, she finds her sense of peace and her courage to go forward.
And so, Mary submits humbly, “let it be to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38) as a “servant of the Lord”—a phrase that is sometimes rendered more delicately as “handmaiden” of the Lord but could also be translated more bluntly as “slave.” She puts herself