A close-up of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus in a nativity.
A close-up of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus in a nativity.
Picture of Heidi Toth
Heidi Toth
Heidi lives, writes, runs and shovels more snow every winter than she would like in northern Arizona. She studied journalism, political science and business and works in communications. She responded to the pandemic by going back to school in 2020 and earning a second bachelor's degree in religious studies.

Walking with Mary, the mother of Jesus

I used to read “The Infinite Atonement” every December. The book brought the Savior so close to heart and mind.

In 2018, living in a country and a time in which I saw very little Christ but a whole lot of Christian nationalism, and having learned more about the author, now an emeritus general authority, I couldn’t stomach the book. Christ was gone from it from me.

That year, I created my own advent calendar. Each night, I spent time with a woman from the scriptures. Most of them were from the New Testament; I wanted to feel closer to Jesus Christ by walking with the women who walked with him. But I deeply love the women of the Hebrew Bible, and I included a number of them as well. Each night I read the scripture story about a different woman—dozens of verses for Mary Magdalene, two chapters for Deborah, but more often than not, having to settle for a verse or two—and then followed a writing prompt: Why did Anna never remarrY Who was Peter’s mother-in-law? How is the daughters of Zelophehad’s fight against injustice akin to the Savior?

Mostly, though, I just imagined their experiences, their thoughts, their emotions, and I wrote their stories. This is before I learned about midrash: an ancient spiritual practice that adds on, rewrites, fleshes out context of what is in the scriptures. It is a practice common among feminist biblical scholars today, both Jewish and Christian. It’s how we write women back into the scriptures after the authors, editors and interpreters wrote them out over the course of millennia.

I returned to those writings this month and read the story of Mary, the mother of Jesus. I wrote it early in my deconstruction—before I knew that’s what I was doing, before I knew what it even was. I simply knew that I wanted a place in these stories. It’s not what I would write today. Today, my midrash is about women taking up space, defying expectations, refusing to be silenced, refusing to be put into a box. I would probably write a different story about Mary today. But this one still spoke to me.

Mary, the mother of Jesus

In Coptic Cairo, the Church of St. Sergius, or Church of Abu Serga, has this tiny chapel built over a cave where the holy family stayed for three months after fleeing from Herod's soldiers.
In Coptic Cairo, the Church of St. Sergius, or Church of Abu Serga, has this tiny chapel built over a cave where the holy family stayed for three months after fleeing from Herod’s soldiers. Photo credit: Heidi Toth

I remember the day an angel came and told me I would bear the Son of God. He called me, a girl of no means or authority, blessed among women. I nodded, swallowed, asked a few questions. I was scared, and I didn’t understand then just how I was to go forward.

I remember the day Elisabeth greeted me with joy in her eyes. She knew. The miracle baby in her womb recognized the tiny combination of humanity and divinity who lived in me. She also called me blessed among women, and she praised the child inside me. I was happy, though I didn’t understand why I was chosen or how I could do this. I didn’t have Elisabeth’s strength.

I remember the day my husband-to-be saw my growing belly and the light left his eyes. I stayed up all night, worrying what this would mean. He came to me the next day and said he’d seen an angel, who had explained everything. We would get married immediately and he would treat this child as his own. I was filled with joy; now the path forward seemed easier. I didn’t understand how hard raising any child would be, much less a child destined to be the Savior.

I remember the day we arrived in Bethlehem to be counted and the moment I knew he was coming. We had nowhere to go, but finally Joseph found us a stable. I was just happy to be off the donkey, in from the chill and somewhere familiar to a little country girl. My baby was born quietly, privately, with the dewy eyes of cattle bearing witness and a goat chewing on his blanket. We called him Jesus, and I nestled him close to me in that building that, through sacrifice, pain and loss, had become as sacred as the temple. I held him close and loved him. I didn’t understand how I could love someone this much, nor that one day, as much as I loved him, he would love me more.

I remember the day, more than a week after his birth, when Joseph and I took Jesus to the temple to be circumcised and take his place in the Abrahamic covenant. As we sacrificed two doves, I smiled inwardly; the others in the temple didn’t realize this boy was born not to be part of the covenant but to fulfill the covenant. One man did; he pulled us aside and quietly worshipped Jesus and praised God for allowing him to meet the Savior. One woman did; she gave thanks out loud to anyone who could hear about his presence before us. But no one else did. They didn’t understand, I told myself. It was true. I also didn’t understand just how he would fulfill the covenant of which I’d known all my life.

Decoration in Al Dayoura, the Hanging Church, formally the Church of the Virgin Mary, an Orthodox Church in Coptic Cairo, Egypt. Photo credit: Heidi Toth
Decoration in Al Dayoura, the Hanging Church, formally the Church of the Virgin Mary, an Orthodox Church in Coptic Cairo, Egypt. Photo credit: Heidi Toth

I remember the day, on a return trip to the temple, when I discovered Jesus was not with the group. I panicked as I searched the caravan. He was a studious, sober, mature 12-year-old, but he was still only 12 and the desert was a harsh place. The last place anyone remembered seeing him was the temple. We’d left a day ago. Had we lost him in the desert? Joseph and I rushed back to the temple. There was my boy, conversing with scholars and scribes about the nuances of the scriptures. They listened and questioned him as they did their equal. The fever of stress and worry I’d felt before broke, leaving me flooded with relief and annoyed that he hadn’t left with us, causing all this extra work. I chided him gently, reminding him that his father and I were worried. He got up to leave, as perfectly obedient as ever, but not before looking me in the eyes and saying, “Know ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?” I understood that he meant Heavenly Father, whose genes somehow made up half of this tall, brown-skinned boy standing in front of me. I didn’t understand how he could be both.

I remember the day of the wedding in Cana, when the family ran out of wine early in the evening. I knew by now that Jesus was indeed his father’s child; that he could command the seas, heal the sick and perform all sorts of miracles. He hadn’t done so publicly, but it is impossible for a loving mother to not notice this about her son, knowing what I did about his father. I asked him to provide wine. He reminded me that his father’s power was to be used for higher purposes, but agreed to help. I directed a servant to do whatever he asked. The wine that he created from water was the best wine served that night. I didn’t understand what that night, that first miracle, was setting off for us all.

I remember so many days and nights, following him, listening to him speak, seeing him forgive sins. I remember the words I heard people yell at him in anger, the labels that scared me. I remember the faces of people who were touched by his incredible life. I remember occasionally seeing a touch of myself in him: my nose, my long eyelashes, my little trick of touching a hand to show someone I cared. I didn’t understand—no one did, not even, for a long time, Jesus—what he had been called to Earth to do. How much it would cost. How much it would hurt. How much all who loved him would suffer.

I remember the day I stood at the foot of a cross on Golgotha. Jesus was dying. He had been tortured and then nailed to a tree and he was dying publicly, shamefully on a hill surrounded by soldiers who taunted him. I thought of the day I discovered I would carry the son of God and how I didn’t understand what meant, and all those times when I simply forgot that this boy at my kitchen table, doing chores, playing with his brothers, even speaking in the temple, was actually the son of God, who had come to save the world. I didn’t know then what that responsibility meant. I knew now, and now, more than anything in the world, as I watched my son suffer and die, I wish I didn’t know what it meant. He had come to save the world, and the world was killing him.


Read more in Four Marys.

Heidi lives, writes, runs and shovels more snow every winter than she would like in northern Arizona. She studied journalism, political science and business and works in communications. She responded to the pandemic by going back to school in 2020 and earning a second bachelor's degree in religious studies.

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