Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore. . . Edgar Allen Poe (“The Raven”)
Opening with a line from Edgar Allen Poe’s poem, “The Raven,” may be a strange way to begin a post about Mary, the mother of Jesus. But Poe’s narrator understands that stillness and mystery are necessary bedfellows. To still your heart as you encounter mystery is the best, perhaps the only, response. Even as a teenager, Mary refused to run in the face of mystery. Though she was understandably frightened and confused at the sight of the angel Gabriel, she listened as he revealed the destiny that would not only change her life but ours:
“Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. And the Lord God will give to him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob orever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.” [Luke 1: 30-33]
Brazilian novelist and lyricist Paulo Coelho contends that [w]e have to stop and be humble enough to understand that there is something called mystery. And Mary did just this. She stood humbly in the face of the greatest mystery of all–a virgin who would bear the son of God–and stilled her heart, proclaiming: “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.” At the time she uttered these words, many historians believe that Mary was most likely between 12 and 14 years old. A babe herself, Mary gave herself wholly to this mystery, embracing her role as handmaid of the Lord.
We may believe ourselves to be mystery people, but in truth, we’re generally logic people bent on rational explanations and solid answers. If something seems too good or too strange to be true, we argue that it undoubtedly is. In the face of mystery, we often become rational, turning to science as authority. For to embrace mystery as Mary did requires a big leap out of ourselves and beyond reason. The young woman in this photo throws herself into the air, trusting that she will hang suspended above the earth, magnificently held in the mystery of the moment. She has faith that, for a time, her leap will defy reason and explanation. She leaps into the air, proclaiming let it be to me.
Author and theologian Frederick Buechner believes that [r]eligion points to that area of human experience where in one way or another man comes upon mystery as a summons to pilgrimage. In a traditional sense, a pilgrimage is a journey taken into an unknown or sacred place in search of wisdom and transformation. An encounter with mystery, as Buechner maintains, is a summons to begin that journey, which may be physical and/or spiritual. Mary and Joseph travel from Nazareth to Bethlehem, separating themselves geographically from their home and families. Their greater journey, however, is spiritual as they leave behind the selves and lives they’d imagined and step boldly into God’s love and assurance. Their pilgrimage is one that changed the world.
In my own life, I’ve stood in the face of mystery many times. Clearly, my encounters have been small and personal when compared to Mary’s. Still, there have been times when I’ve known things before they happened, when, beyond explanation, I saw in remarkable clarity how things would play out. This mystery occurred first when I was a teenager, and thus began my lifelong pilgrimage. On the night my father died, I went to bed, only to wake an hour later, certain that I should go to him. As my sister and mother slept, I walked to the hospital bed where my father had spent his final weeks and knew, even before I touched his hand, that he’d died. In the presence of this mystery–his soul having departed and the peace that passes all understanding washing over us–my heart was still.
Mysteries abound where most we seek for answers. Thus writes author Ray Bradbury. As we search for answers, we often slog our way forward, one logical, purposeful yard at a time. But when mysteries abound, we often leap, becoming servants to something, to someone bigger than ourselves. We leap, trusting in the sacred pilgrimage from reason to faith.
The Leap When twilight eases into the tall grass and the air groans under its own weight, a girl leaps, and there on the windless meadow hangs suspended above the foxtail and bushclover. And the leap-- call it abandon, call it rapture— splits the plane of possibility. Arms and legs take the evening by wing, while gravity lies spent and breathless, completely undone. Such an extravagant offering: the height and breadth of mystery, this kinder air.
