Mary

The film, Mary (2024), is pregnant with intimations of the theological implications of her unborn and then newly born son, Jesus. That story is of course well-known grace á the Gospels, and the theology of agape love associated with that faith narrative is at least available through the writings of Paul and many later Christian theologians. What we know of Mary is much less, given that her role in the Gospels is not central even though the heavy title, Mother of God, has been applied to her without of course implying that she is the source of God. The film, like the magisterium of the Roman Catholic Church has done, endeavors to “evolve the myth” by adding to Mary’s story even though the additions are not meant to be taken as seriously as, for example, the Catholic doctrine that Mary is assumed bodily into heaven. The movie comes closest to the magisterium in suggesting that Mary’s birth is miraculous; the magisterium holds that Mary is born without sin, and that Jesus inherited this because of the Incarnation (i.e. God, rather than Joseph, impregnates Mary). Suffice it to say that the perception of myth as static is the exception rather than rule; it is natural for the human mind to work with myths such that they can evolve rather than take them as given in a final form or extent. This is not to say that we should focus on the faith narratives as if they were ends in themselves and thus unalterable; rather, as the film demonstrates, religious transcendence is of greater value.

I contend that the film does a bad job of adding events to Mary’s life—filling in gaps, as it were—but the film does a good job of evolving her spirituality, or spiritual strength, and an even better job at intimating the nature of religious or spiritual transcendence. The failure, I suspect, have more to do with wanting to titillate audiences with fight scenes and even special effects, such as when Mary and Joseph ride a horse through a wall of fire to escape a fight scene. As there is no hint if a miracle, the entire scene adds nothing theologically and thus it can be easily tossed. Similarly, killing off Mary’s father in yet another fight scene adds nothing theologically and can thus be written off as another appeasement to keep movie-goers entertained by action and drama. Mary’s years spent growing up in the Temple scrubbing floors and presumably being educated are more useful, however, because her stint there cements Mary’s association with religion, which in turn helps support her as a major, though not the central, character in the Gospels. In this way, the film can be considered to serve as a foundation, or basement, for the Gospel narratives, which of course focus on Jesus, the Christ-Messiah.

The principal ways in which the film evolves the story by providing background to the Gospels are subtle and few. The first does not even involve any lines. Mary’s spiritual strength can be seen literally in how she maintains eye-contact when she comes face to face with Herod. He is the one who looks away; she does not. The implication stated by one of Herod’s guards is that Mary has “special powers,” and is thus a threat. The assumption is antiquated in the modern world; we would say Mary has fortitude. More than once in the film, she does not cave into the demon who is trying to tempt her. Her spiritual—not just ethical!—strength is evinced in her standing up to evil entities, human and otherwise. This hints at Jesus’s line to Pontius Pilote, “You would have no power over me if it were not given to you from above.” Mary has that same faith, so there is a spiritual connection between mother and son. Considering all the antagonists facing Mary in the film, her faith that her role in the saga by which love will conquer the world by means of her son will succeed is truly amazing.

That faith is explicitly thought by Mary as the last line in the film. “But in the end, love will save the world.” Love will prevail. That may sound strange to people living in 2024, given the horrendous and large-scale aggression that were still being unleashed by certain governments, which of course are comprised of human beings with power. Mary’s faith may seem woefully or downright utopian. In the film, Mary believes that her faith that love will save the world has a lot to do with the fact that she chose her son just as God chose Mary to bear Jesus, and she would make the same choice even in that last scene after hearing a prophesy in the Temple from an old man. Holding baby Jesus in his hands, the man tells Mary and Joseph, “This child is destined to cause the fall and rise of many in Israel, and he will be opposed, and the sword will pierce your soul, Mary, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed.” Even in spite of this future, Mary says, in effect, bring it on; the goal is worth it.

Parsing the prophet’s statement can provide us with the theological meat of the film. The haughty will be brought low by Jesus’s preachments and example of self-less, humble love, whereas the presumed lowly yet humble Hebrews of pure hearts will no longer be presumed to be sick or sinful (or both). It is easy to grasp that the sword refers to Mary watching Jesus’s excruciating death on a cross and having to mourn the death of a son; it is more difficult to understand what is meant by the sword that will pierce Mary’s soul being necessary “so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed.” Christians watching the film may expect something like, “so that many will be saved.” Revealing the thoughts of many people whose thoughts were presumably hidden is a curious expression. Is the revealing of the thoughts of many part of, or necessary for, love to save the world? At its conclusion, the film raises an interesting puzzle that, in pertaining to the future, presumably has to do with the content of the Gospel narratives, including Jesus’s preachments and life. In the Gospels, does he or his actions facilitate the revealing of the thoughts of people? What thoughts, and of whom?

It is perhaps in the nature of religious truth that it is not in a film’s action scenes, but like the breeze that passed by Ezekiel on the mountain—a breeze that eludes the grasp of our finite fingers. Distinctly religious transcendence is not exhausted within the limits of human cognition, perception, or sensibility (emotion), so wrote Pseudo-Dionysius in the sixth century. The film is perhaps most of value in affording us an experiential glimpse of such transcendence as we try innately to figure out the prophesy.