A Reflection for Thursday of the Third Week of Advent
Find today’s readings here.
In 1945 the Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded to the first ever Latin American writer. The winner was also a woman, Gabriela Mistral. The Chilean poet wrote about the sacred Scriptures, exclaiming, “Bible, my noble Bible,/ magnificent panorama,/ where my eyes long rested,/ you pour from the Psalms fiery lava/ and in their river of fire I ignite my heart ! ” Her works, profoundly shaped by sacred Scriptures, resonate with today’s readings.
The book of Judges speaks of a woman who “was barren and had borne no children” (Jgs 13:2). As with many women in the Bible, this woman has no name. She is “the woman” or “his wife” and she is first labeled “barren” and then miraculously bears a son. This is paired with the Gospel of Luke, which again highlights the “barren” state of a woman, except this time she is named Elizabeth (Lk 1:5-7). These readings are so familiar that the harshness of the judgment of barrenness goes unnoticed. What is it like to be called “barren,” or “childless”? Is part of their story not about God’s compassionate accompaniment of those labeled as useless as land that bears nothing?
Think also of Mary’s predicament when she is found “with child” prior to her wedding night. This becomes another pejorative label that Joseph knows will “disgrace” her (Matt 1:19-20). The scorn is not because her “womb” isn’t fruitful, but because such a state of unwedded pregnancy will mark her as sinful. Is part of her story not about great courage and God’s vindication of women and the complicated situations they face? All three women say “yes” to God, becoming keys to our collective salvation history, yet the vulnerability of their lives isn’t usually part of our reflection.
In her writings, Mistral gave an anguished voice to women in situations of suffering simply for being women: because of motherhood, or being unable to conceive, or being alone and unmarried, or working long hours. In one of her poems (El Niño Solo), she presents two women. Speaking in the first person she describes a night stroll when she hears a baby’s cry. She approaches the hut by the road and is “overcome with tenderness” at the solitary baby on the bed. In just a few words she recounts the mother working in the fields, and the lateness of the hour. She responds to the baby’s cry by embracing the child to her breast and singing a lullaby. The child sleeps clinging to her, as she sings and the room fills with moonlight. As the tired mother returns, she sees the joy in the unexpected visitor’s face and understanding it, leaves the baby to sleep in her arms.
The poem echoes many of the women of Scripture—the poor women working in the fields, the widows desperately trying to feed their children, those who have no children of their own but offer help to the ones who do. The Scriptures make us aware of something that Mistral captures in many of her writings: that women are often not seen in the fullness of who they are. In Scripture and in most of our society since then, women are defined by their relations, by their husbands and their children. And without husbands and children, they are invisible. One of the most surprising findings in the synodal consultations at our local level was how single women felt they had no place in their parishes. Recently, our political discourse has shamefully even suggested that childless women have no stake in the future and should have less of a say in our voting processes.
As we hear these stories anew, let’s awaken to the sadness and marginality of the women in Scripture—to the scandalizing lack of freedom a large portion of women in our world hold, to women being valued solely for their motherhood, or scorned for childlessness, or invisible because they are single, or sentenced to backbreaking work to help their families survive. We need to see you; we need to fight for you. We need to be the angels announcing good news in each of your stories.
Get to know Cecilia González-Andrieu
What is your favorite Advent/Christmas hymn?
I love a hymn from my childhood in Cuba, that blessedly I have not forgotten. I am sure it is very old by the sound of the music. It needs claves and drums for the rhythm. Here’s my bilingual version of the lyrics:
Los niños de Cuba vienen hacia Belén (The children of Cuba come to Bethlehem),
Para bailar y cantarle al Niño Rey (To sing and dance for the Boy King),
Le traen flores de aguinaldo y de café (They bring him holiday and coffee flowers),
Le traen caña de azúcar y rica miel (They bring him sugar cane and tasty honey).
What are you most proud to have worked on at America this year?
I was glad to be able to reflect with our America readers on the spiritual questions brought about by the election. It was a difficult moment to try to write, but that’s what made it so necessary.
Do you have any seasonal reading or movie recommendations?
Groundhog Day (1993) is a film I will joyfully watch every Christmas. It’s not precisely a Christmas movie, but it has a beautiful winter wonderland feel and the story is an exemplary story of hope. Bill Murray is brilliant in it and his character walks us through his redemption one transformation and conversion at a time, showing us we can grow and become the kind of other-centered people we were meant to be.
