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The Magnificat, Mary’s grateful song for God’s promises for the poor and downtrodden, is a favorite, especially at this time of year. The sentiments are glorious, as we have heard from our choir’s presentation of “Mary and Elizabeth.” But sometimes I think that we in the northern hemisphere, in one of the wealthiest nations on earth, in the relatively affluent northeast, up the hill here in West Orange, might miss the reversal that is so plain to those in greater need than ourselves.
It is often said that a rising tide lifts all boats. And that is true if all the boats are in the same water, at the same level. I just wonder if the image found in the Magnificat is less about boats on open water, and more like the boats on the locks I have come to know on the Erie Canal near the Finger Lakes. In a lock system, when the gate is opened, the boat on the high side experiences a drop, while the boat on the low side rises. Once they are level, each can pass to go on their way.
I was struck by the Poetry and Prose selection from Seasons of the Spirit for this week. It was reprinted from Sojourners (a magazine/organization that defines itself as Faith in Action for Social Justice) and comes from a working class Chilean woman in 1973. It was written shortly after Chile’s democratically elected socialist president, Salvador Allende, was overthrown (I believe our own CIA has admitted involvement). After the coup, General Pinochet declined to give up power, and a brutal military junta ruled that country until 1990.
A US missionary translated this dialogue for two voices and brought it with her when she was forced to leave Chile. I present it to you, with hopes that it might give us another perspective on Mary’s song.
READING--Poetry and Prose • December 21, 2014 2 Women
I am a woman.
I am a woman.
I am a woman born of a woman whose man owned a factory.
I am a woman born of a woman whose man labored in a factory.
I am a woman whose man wore silk suits, who constantly watched his weight.
I am a woman whose man wore tattered clothing, whose heart was constantly strangled by hunger.
I am a woman who watched two babies grow into beautiful children.
I am a woman who watched two babies die because there was no milk.
I am a woman who watched twins grow into popular college students with summers abroad.
I am a woman who watched three children grow, but with bellies stretched from no food.
But then there was a man;
But then there was a man;
And he talked about the peasants getting richer by my family getting poorer.
And he told me of days that would be better and he made the days better.
We had to eat rice.
We had rice.
We had to eat beans!
We had beans.
My children were no longer given summer visas to Europe.
My children no longer cried themselves to sleep. And I felt like a peasant.
And I felt like a woman.
A peasant with a dull, hard, unexciting life.
Like a woman with a life that sometimes allowed a song.
And I saw a man.
And I saw a man.
And together we began to plot with the hope of the return to freedom.
I saw his heart begin to beat with hope of freedom, at last.
Someday, the return to freedom.
Someday freedom.
And then,
But then,
One day,
One day,
There were planes overhead and guns firing close by.
There were planes overhead and guns firing in the distance.
I gathered my children and went home.
I gathered my children and ran.
And the guns moved farther and farther away.
But the guns moved closer and closer.
And then, they announced that freedom had been restored!
And then they came, young boys really.
They came into my home along with my man.
They came and found my man.
Those men whose money was almost gone.
They found all of the men whose lives were almost their own.
And we all had drinks to celebrate.
And they shot them all.
The most wonderful martinis.
They shot my man.
And then they asked us to dance.
And they came for me.
Me.
For me, the woman.
And my sisters.
For my sisters.
And then they took us.
Then they took us.
They took us to dinner at a small private club.
They stripped from us the dignity we had gained.
And they treated us to beef.
And then they raped us.
It was one course after another.
One after another they came after us.
We nearly burst we were so full.
Lunging, plunging – sisters bleeding, sisters dying.
It was magnificent to be free again!
It was hardly a relief to have survived.
The beans have almost disappeared now.
The beans have disappeared.
The rice – I’ve replaced it with chicken or steak.
The rice, I cannot find it.
And the parties continue night after night to make up for all the time wasted.
And my silent tears are joined once more by the midnight cries of my children.
“Two Women” - This poem was written by a working class Chilean woman in 1973, shortly after Chile’s socialist president, Salvador Allende, was overthrown. A U.S. missionary translated the work and brought it with her when she was forced to leave Chile. Reprinted with permission from Sojourners, (800) 714-7474. www.sojo.net. Used by permission.
In Advent, we light candles for hope, peace, joy, and love. In Advent, we dream of what our world could be, even while we recognize the world we inhabit, indeed, that we help create. In Advent, we prepare for God’s coming, into our world, into our lives. Coming as a baby. Coming to reign.
I am not sure what this means for those of us who might be “riding high” in some aspects of our lives. In some ways, the Magnificat should sound just a little revolutionary, and scary, as well as hopeful and glorious. For it requires something of us, all of us.
The Advent of God, Emmanuel, God with us, isn’t a fairy tale where everyone lives “happily ever after.” It is an on-going saga, a tale of hopes and dreams, of victories and set-backs. It is the story of God and God’s people.
May that story find an ending where lion can lie down with lamb, where swords can be beaten into plow shares, where we all can worship together on the holy mountain. There is much work to do. May Mary’s song remind us that God has already seen the finish line.
Alleluia, Amen.
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