How to approach this first English translation of the oldest complete biography of the Virgin Mary, dating from the 7th century, and most likely narrated by one of the finest theological minds of Late Antiquity? Two preliminaries, along with a few corresponding questions, may help with this somewhat unusual challenge.
First, a thought experiment. Imagine the discovery of an ancient treasury of stories about the Virgin Mary, and with it wonderful new details concerning the life of Christ, rescued from the ancient Greek original through its translation into Old Georgian, a language of the Caucasus Mountains, by a monk on Mt. Athos. Would this not be a most exciting event, epochal in its implications? Ah, we might ask, but do we know that these stories are historically accurate? Might not the very emphasis upon the Virgin Mary, rather than Christ himself, even suggest their later and derivative character? Would we, then, take these as stories about the Virgin Mary, or rather as reflections of the time and place of their composition?
In fact, Stephen J. Shoemaker has offered us just such as collection of wonderful stories, stories that were taken so seriously by the ancient Church that it based many of its most important feast days upon them. (This legacy continues, with six of these feast days still shared in common by the Orthodox and Catholic Churches, five of which are also recognized by the Anglican Communion, despite the fact that only one of these narratives, the Annunciation, is mentioned in canonical Scripture.) The translator, a professor of religious studies to whom we must be grateful, is clear about his own answer to the question: “Of course there is no reason to assume that these supplements to Mary’s biography bear any relation to the historical realities of earliest Christianity.” Nevertheless, he adds, these narratives are “invaluable for the insight they offer into how Christians at the end of antiquity had come to remember the mother of their Lord and how they interpreted her significance.” In this case, the biography should be read as not actually being about the Mother of God at all, but about the mindset of 7th-century Christians in the Byzantine East.
Second, a story. A certain medieval Russian icon of the Mother of God, the Kursk Root Icon, is so greatly loved and venerated for its wonder-working character that an Orthodox priest is assigned to travel with it throughout the United States and indeed the world. This priest relates how once, while travelling with the icon through the South, he felt a strong inclination to pull over at a rest stop, even though he was quite near his destination. Once he pulled over, a man immediately approached, expressing an urgent need to speak with him. Uncertain how to explain the nature of his mission easily, and needing to proceed to the parish where he was being awaited, he found himself inspired to say something to which he felt the man might relate, this being religious country. “Do you believe in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?” asked the priest. “I do, sir,” came the reply, “I do.” “Well,” the priest replied, “we have his mother in the back seat!”
Once the surprise had subsided, he continued, “Why don’t you come along and see.” Finding this irresistible, the man followed him to the church, heard his talk on the Virgin Mary, and reverently stood in silence before the icon, coming up afterward with a transformed countenance. Recounting the recent death of a loved one, the loss of his job, and severe health concerns, he said tearfully, “Father, when I saw you I was about to do harm to myself. Now I know I will be all right.” Is this a story about the Virgin Mary, narrating how God continues to work wonders through her? Or is it just a touching story about two strangers who met by happy coincidence?
To fully understand the stories compiled in this biography, we need to approach them as would have the contemporaries of Maximus the Confessor, their compiler. To the ancient church of the first millennium, through the Incarnation of Christ and the Descent of the Holy Spirit, God was actively at work in the world, ever operative in our midst. This divine activity could be experienced in different modes: through the Holy Scriptures, of course, and in the Eucharist and the other mysteries of the Church—but also through holy relics, which continue to work miracles. They were present in holy places where the Lord had lived, and in sacred spots where martyrs had witnessed to their faith. They were at work during major feasts of the Church, roughly half of which concern the Virgin Mary. The divine energies were active in holy icons, and indeed through holy stories, such as those related in this book. Thus, the first and second preliminary examples mentioned above would have been given much the same status, with the recent story about the Kursk Root Icon understood as revealing a kind of epiphany of the Mother of God, just as do the icon itself and the Marian narratives. That is to say, there was always something like a shared experience of spiritual realities, a collective sense of how and where God could best be encountered even within this world, albeit through his energies or activities (energeiai) rather than through his ever-transcendent essence (ousia).
But does this mean we must accept these stories as possessing only spiritual importance, rather than also narrating historical truth? The ancient Church did not make this distinction, nor would it have found it meaningful. Moreover, ethnologists and philologists increasingly acknowledge the impressive ability of traditional peoples to pass down narratives intact through generations and across time. (We may recall that both the Iliad and the Odyssey were preserved for centuries before being written down, and that schoolchildren in madrassas still memorize the entire Koran, even without knowledge of Arabic.) Finally, those with Protestant backgrounds will surely want to ask whether the Early Church could have esteemed the Virgin Mary to such a degree. The evidence from church history increasingly suggests that this was the case, and it is worth remembering that the first miracle, the Miracle at Cana, was initiated through petitions to the Mother of Christ, who was asked to intercede with her son. Standing in present-day Cana, and looking up at the ridge where Nazareth is situated a few miles away, realizing that the villagers of Cana must surely have known Jesus already, it becomes all the more remarkable that the anxious hosts of the wedding celebration chose to approach him in this indirect way, unless we take this as revealing some deeper significance.
As Stephen Shoemaker points out, this is not the earliest appearance of many of these narratives. The Protoevangelium of James, for example, focusing upon the young Mary from her conception to the birth of Jesus, dates from the second century. The stories are consistent with those in Maximus’ more comprehensive biography, and raise the question even more compellingly: could all this be fabricated, coming so soon after these great events themselves? At any rate, the reader will find here truly wonderful stories. Sparkling stories about the sites of great mysteries, such as the Annunciation taking place while the Virgin was standing in prayer near a fountain—a fountain (long the town’s main source of water) that can be seen to this day in Nazareth, whose residents still know the location where this took place. Stories about the star that guided the magi, which Maximus explains was in fact an angel, descending and ascending in just the right way to help them find their way, pointing “like a finger” with its “intense brilliance.” Stories relating details about Mary’s responses to the crucifixion and death of her son, and to his resurrection and ascension. And stories about her own final moments on earth.
We can, indeed, read these as charming and indeed edifying tales, for they are both. But we can also approach them as did the early Church—reverently and prayerfully as icons of great and holy events, events upon which the world still hangs, and through which the divine energies continue to work. In either case, we owe a debt to the translator for making them accessible to us. They are eminently readable, effectively conveying the sense that Maximus the Confessor, along with being one of the great philosophers and theologians of Late Antiquity, was also one of its great storytellers. And, indeed, Maximus’ theological insights themselves, with which the text is studded like jewels on a queenly tiara, are themselves worth far more than the price of admission. This is not only a popularly accessible text, but also one that is enhanced by all the usual scholarly apparatus: an index both to scriptural references and to names and subjects, extensive endnotes, and a helpful introduction placing this text in historical context.
The publication in English of this engaging biography should contribute to our understanding of the ancient Church—not only as actual or would-be scholars, but as seekers of the truth. Those who have a sense that the early Church might still have much to teach us could do far worse than to come on along, like the distraught man at the rest stop, after hearing that the Mother of God was in the back seat!
Bruce Foltz is professor of philosophy at Eckerd College in Saint Petersburg, Florida.
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