In one of the many rooms of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, there is a stunning depiction of the angel Gabriel’s Annunciation to the Virgin Mary. This work was painted in 1898 by Henry Ossawa Tanner, a Pittsburgh-born but Philadelphia-trained artist. Because the painting covers nearly an entire wall, it’s difficult not to be arrested by this painting upon entering the room.
Tanner’s portrayal of the Annunciation has captivated my attention since I first saw it, not because of its size in the museum gallery, but because of its rather unusual interpretation of the moment when Mary first learns that she will bear the Son of God.
In Tanner’s work, Mary is more realistically depicted than in some other renderings of the Annunciation. Tanner reveals her as a young woman, possibly as young as 12. In Tanner’s painting, Mary is sitting, somewhat hunched over on her ruffled bed in a simple, spartan room. She is clearly a native of ancient Palestine; Tanner, thankfully, makes no attempt to render Mary as an Anglo to suit romanticized Western wishes. Mary does not have her head bowed in self-deprecation or as if she is looking away from the angel’s presence. But her shoulders are slightly stooped, as if burdened with the news she is receiving and the task ahead. Her hands are clasped, maybe somewhat fretfully because of her troubled state.
But what is most striking in Tanner’s representation of the Annunciation is the appearance of the angel Gabriel. Gabriel is not a recognizable, human-like figure. If one did not know the story, it would not be obvious what was happening. There are no angel wings or Cupid-like accoutrement. Gabriel is visualized as a bright, vertical flash of white light, surrounded by an aureole of yellowish hue. To the eyes, the angel does not look like a human at all but instead like a supernatural parting of the veil between heaven and earth.
And Mary sits, undoubtedly confused and overwhelmed on her unmade bed, alone, not shielding her eyes from the light or prostrating herself on the ground, but looking directly at the brilliance before her. She doesn’t avoid the light, as much as she may feel weighed down with the magnitude of her new, unchosen future. The heavenly gift has broken into her world, and she, without making excuses or running away, accepts the gift into her life. Her life has been disturbed by God, but she doesn’t avoid the disturbance. Rather, she looks it straight in the face, if blinding light can be said to have one.
There is a tension in Luke’s account of the Annunciation, especially when compared with that of Matthew. Luke presents the virginal conception of Jesus as something to happen in the future. It’s unclear whether the outcome hinges on Mary’s response. But regardless, Mary is offered some kind of agency. She is presented with the opportunity to respond.
And she does, first, with a question of how such things can be considering her virgin state. This is followed by her assent to be the servant of the Lord. Tanner’s portrayal of the Annunciation extracts Mary from facile moves to label her as meek, mild, and overly submissive. Without question, we know that Mary said yes. But her yes has volition more than meager assent to unsolicited domination. Her yes has power because she chooses to accept the gift of God’s disturbance of her life.
The Church has sometimes tried to downplay Mary’s humanity in order to explain how she could be worthy of God’s particular favor to bear the Incarnate Word. And in doing so, Mary has, in turn, become far removed from our ability to relate to her. The magnitude of what Mary does is paradoxically downplayed. It’s Mary’s sublime expression of her humanity that is actually so inspiring for us. And her embodiment of her own humanity is what makes her so worthy of veneration and a place of honor in the company of saints. From the depths of her very humanity, in spite of her humanity, we might say, Blessed Mary was able to accept God’s disturbance into her life.
And in saying yes to God, but not glibly or easily because of exaggerated demure, Mary directs our attention back to God. Scripture provides no evidence that Mary engaged in vociferous protestations of unworthiness or displays of false humility upon being greeted by Gabriel. As far as we know, Mary didn’t fall on the ground beating her breast out of self-flagellation, and in turn draw attention to herself. Nor did she counter the angel’s message with a vigorous attempt to do something for God in order to try to repay what God had done for her. As Tanner interprets the Annunciation, Mary quietly but boldly gazes with genuine acceptance into the heavenly disturbance of her peasant world.
This disturbance is an unusual gift, but it’s a gift nonetheless. Unquestionably, it is clouded with what the future will hold. Mary’s eyes, gazing upon the shaft of inbreaking light, seem somewhat darkened with an expectation that the future will hold sorrow. Her eyes seem to behold the cross on the horizon. And yet, without turning from the light, she still says yes. Her yes is almost a sacramental expression of the grace operating within her. The disturbing gift that breaks into her world is unsolicited. That’s usually how grace works. But one thing is sure: it’s God’s gift.
This is how God’s grace manifests itself. It pierces the veil between heaven and earth. It disturbs our world. And the natural reaction to disturbance is fear, anger, or avoidance. We find myriad excuses to reject God’s ceaseless gifts. Could it ever happen that the distortion of our ordered ways would be God’s gift? How could it be that, of all people, God would choose me upon which to bestow a gift? How could it be that, of all people, God would choose that person to receive a gift? In this world of sin and willful negligence, is it even possible that God would deign to part the curtain between heaven and earth, much less give us something? What silliness is it for us to receive a divine gift that necessitates our bearing a burden or two!
And so, we find that making excuses for our unworthiness is easier than accepting the gift. We choose comfort over disruption. Or we throw ourselves wholeheartedly into doing things for God, who has no need of any of them, rather than standing still and boldly facing, eye to eye, God’s disturbance of our lives.
We see in the Blessed Mother no attempt to control her own fate. We see no effort at replicating the actions of her husband’s ancestor David. Rather than busying herself with offering God a house through her own endeavors, she assents for her womb to be the house of God through God’s own initiative. Unlike Peter, Mary doesn’t shun God’s stooping down to offer her the gift of grace. She simply says yes.
Perhaps what is most astonishing of all is that the gift with which God overshadows Mary might not seem like a gift at all. God imparts to her a child by the power of the Holy Spirit, conceived out of wedlock, unbidden, into poverty. The gift carries with it the potential scorn of a society enmeshed in a clear system of honor. The gift will hold near unbearable sorrow in thirty years’ time. The gift is the disturbance of a way of life, if poor, at least simple and clear. What kind of gift is this?
It is none other than the gift of God, and it is the reason we so often shun such gifts. These gifts come to us even when we don’t ask for them. These gifts poke holes in our best laid plans. These gifts cannot give us the satisfaction of repaying the Giver.
Mary makes no attempt at trying to figure out why she is the recipient of God’s favor. And she doesn’t try to buoy her self-esteem by floating on clouds of pride because she was indeed the recipient of God’s wonderful gift. She inwardly ponders, and sitting there alone in her room, on a bed whose sheets have been disturbed with sleep, she gazes into the bright light from heaven. And she doesn’t look away.
We rightly marvel at Mary’s sublime expression of her humanity. We rightly contemplate how far her example is from our meager attempts at obedience and humility. And so we, too, sit on our ruffled beds. We acknowledge the ways in which God has disturbed and continues to disturb our lives. We know how difficult it is to accept these disruptions of the status quo as gifts, but Mary teaches us to do so.
Sitting, with shoulders slightly bowed down with the weight of the world’s troubles and sorrows, we nevertheless make a bold move, with Mary as our guide. We ponder and cogitate on what manner of greeting God has chosen to disturb our lives. We even ask a question or two. But rather than retreat inward out of defensiveness, we look up at the blazing light. In the brief time that we can keep our eyes open, we see a glimpse of heaven. And we hold our gaze as long as possible. And without comforting resolution or solid reassurance of our future, we say yes to God.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fourth Sunday of Advent
December 20, 2020