Lessons in Sacrifice: Mary

by Megan Roegner

There is one part of the Christmas story that has always captured my attention more than any other: “But Mary treasured up these things, pondering them in her heart” (Luke 2:19). That sentence has always been so beautifully poetic to me, especially in the context of the rest of the reading: In Luke 2: 8-21, ten sentences start with the word “And.” I imagine a flurry of activity surrounding the birth of Jesus. The angels are singing, the shepherds are worshipping—Luke’s narration can barely keep up—“And…And…And.” Only verse 19 starts with “But.” Only Mary is still, a lull in the storm. I love the verb “treasured,” showing the priceless worth of the experience. My very favorite part is “pondering them in her heart.” Pondering is usually the in the domain of the mind, but Mary ponders in her heart, a blend of thought and emotion, of wisdom and feeling. Young, inexperienced Mary becomes a symbol of the most profound joy.

On Christmas Eve 2009, I was nine months pregnant. When the pastor read this verse, I could feel my baby move inside me, and I started to understand what this verse really means. Two weeks later, my son Samuel was born. There were so many things to treasure up—his comforting warmth on my chest, his sweet milky smell, watching my husband become a father. I remember once at the hospital, Jeremy and I were watching Samuel sleep. He wasn’t doing anything—his chest was just rising and falling gently, and yet it kept us transfixed. I loved him so much that I wanted to cry (and did). But my joyful pondering led me to an unexpected epiphany. I wondered to Jeremy in amazement at the idea that this was probably how our parents felt about us. How incredible that someone could love me this way!

God reveals different aspects of himself through our experiences, and becoming a parent has helped me understand what it means to be a child. The love I have for my son is sacrificial—if I could, I would take the burden of every pain and every sadness and bear it myself without hesitation. But to be honest, that is what I expected to feel even before I knew what it would actually feel like. This kind of sacrificial love is expected from parents. However, how often do we think about what it means to be that child a parent would die for? It is overwhelming and a little bit disconcerting to think about being the recipient of such a sacrifice. Immediately, at least for me, feelings of unworthiness creep up, the fear of being a disappointment. When I think back to Sam, though, I know that no sleepless nights now or teenage hijinks in the future will bear any weight on my love for him. My love just is; how astounding to know that this pales in comparison with God’s perfect and eternal love for me.

On the other end of the spectrum, once a child has accepted a parent’s sacrifice, it becomes too easy to take it for granted. Even though it seems as though the Christmas season has just ended, Lent will be here soon—it’s a season Lutherans love with its solemnity and minor chords and the drama of the Passion. But maybe it sometimes becomes a little too familiar. This year, when I feel like I’ve lost my grip on the enormity of the sacrifice God has made for me, I’m going to think of Mary.

I like the fact that Luke never reveals what exactly Mary ponders as she treasures up the experience of Jesus’ birth. I imagine, after giving birth in a stable and then being visited by any number of earthly and heavenly creatures, one deserves a moment of private reflection. I have to wonder, though, if she had yet begun to imagine the pain that would accompany the honor of being the mother of the Messiah. Did she ever think about Isaiah’s prophecies?

Surely he has borne our griefs
and carried our sorrows;
yet we esteemed him stricken,
smitten by God, and afflicted.
But he was wounded for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
and with his stripes we are healed. (53:4-5)

If Mary is a symbol of profound joy during Christmas, she is a symbol of the deepest grief on Good Friday, kneeling powerless at the foot of the cross as her son is being killed in the most horrifying way for others’ sins, for her sins—the mother becomes the child, the recipient of the ultimate sacrifice. As a parent, I can’t imagine anything worse. No amount of suffering I bear would equate to watching my son suffer and being powerless to stop it.

Thankfully, Mary’s story doesn’t end at the foot of the cross, and neither does ours. After suffering his death, Mary witnesses her son’s resurrection—what indescribable joy that must have been! Becoming a parent has helped me understand this joy even more. I think it’s interesting that in the last reference to Mary by name in the Bible, Acts 1:14, she is praying together with the other disciples after Jesus’ ascension. Contrasting with her private moment in Luke 2, in Acts 1 she is an active part of a community of believers. Mary ultimately becomes a symbol of how the joy of the resurrection is not just to be pondered, but shared.