If you go into a church at this time of year, most likely there will be a lot of Christmas carols and decorations and talk of celebration and hope and baby Jesus. I like Christmas carols as much as the next person, but if you really read the story, the truth is that the birth of Jesus really fucked up a lot of lives.
No matter how much the Protestants try to reduce her to a demure extra in “Jesus, The Movie,” and no matter how much the Catholics try to keep her pure and virginal, the fact is that Mary was pregnant – a tremendously physical and consuming thing. It was highly unlikely that she walked around smiling sweetly for nine months. As far as Mary was concerned, there were few rewards for gestating Deity, for carrying God around in her belly. There’s morning sickness, heartburn, hormone swings, and swollen feet. (although I guess that the robes she wore did diminish the need for maternity clothes.)
Giving birth – with no epidural, no sterile sheets, nowhere to go if something went wrong – is bloody and painful and long, and then this slimy, bald baby pushes his way out. That was by no means the end of the bodily fluids. Babies mean puke and poop and pee and whipping out a breast every couple of hours at feeding time. Carrying a child changes your body and leaves a mark, and Mary’s body was no exception.
In a time when women were stoned to death for getting pregnant outside of marriage, Mary probably never completely escaped the whispers. Neither did Joseph, since I have no doubt that many friends and family never got over the fact that he stayed with the little tramp. Mary and Joseph most likely stayed poor their whole lives, and Jesus didn’t help out the family much, since being an itinerant preacher was not a particularly lucrative profession. Mary’s final reward for being the mother of God was to watch him die like a criminal, and to get painted with a halo centuries after she was dead.
Recent Comments