The joyful mysteries of the rosary guide us along a journey of prayer through Jesus’ conception, birth and early life. We see God not only in his human form, but in the most vulnerable phases of his earthly existence. It is one of the most intimately relatable periods in Jesus’ life. None of us have been crucified or raised from the dead, but we have all experienced the helplessness of birth and infanthood, when we are utterly reliant on the care and kindness of others. When I pray these mysteries, the idea that most often comes to mind is the littleness of Jesus (and, for that matter, of Mary).
These mysteries have much to teach us about the dignity and inherent worth of the poorest and most marginalized in our world, and about how God comes to us through our encounters with them. These lessons are apparent in the fruits of the mysteries: When praying about the Visitation, we gain a greater love of neighbor; and when contemplating the birth of Jesus, we are to think of people in poverty. At the end of it all is the final fruit, the joy of finding Jesus—and of finding him in the ostensibly lowliest and most unexpected places.
As I pray the first two decades of the rosary and reflect on the Annunciation and Visitation, I recall how God chose a poor, marginalized woman in a far-flung corner of the Roman Empire to serve the pre-eminent human conduit of his grace. It’s crucial to remember that at the moment of the Annunciation, Mary was a young, poor Jewish woman living in a land under Roman occupation. I am reminded of what America’s James Martin, S.J. wrote in his book Jesus: A Pilgrimage: “We may struggle with the notion of God’s paying attention to us in our littleness….Mary can be seen as a figure with little power.” Yet God does not discount Mary because of her vulnerability; on the contrary, God affirmatively chooses a woman of modest origins to bring his son into the world. I often wonder: To whom might God appear if he chose to set the Incarnation into motion today, rather than two millennia ago?
Jesus is not born into wealth, privilege or (earthly) power; he comes into the world not only to minister to the least of these, but as a poor child himself. We often lose sight of the radical nature of the Incarnation, but I find it important to remember that Jesus’ ministry to the poor is not only, or even primarily, a top-down dynamic featuring a powerful God and powerless humanity. It is the fruit of God coming into the world to live among the poor. It’s true that Jesus did not come as a straightforward revolutionary bent on overthrowing the Roman Empire, as some of his disciples initially hoped. The direct purpose of the Incarnation—the redemption of the sins of all humanity—was far broader than that. But he did come to subvert the dynamics of domination and exploitation, conquerors and colonized, haves and have-nots.
I return to a similar idea when I imagine Simeon laying eyes on Jesus in the Temple—the fifth and final joyful mystery. I think of the English hymn “Hail to the Lord Who Comes” that recounts a beautiful story of the Presentation: “Hail to the Lord who comes, comes to his temple gate/ Not with his angel host, not in his kingly state/ No shouts proclaim him nigh, no crowds his coming wait.” It’s tempting to think of Jesus only as a regal, conquering warrior, as the King of Kings. (I love Handel’s music, so a regal image of Jesus springs to the forefront of my mind more often than I’d care to admit!) Yet when Jesus arrives in the Temple, he comes as a human child in the arms of his parents. He comes not to subjugate humanity with the swords of the heavenly hosts, but to offer us a richer, fuller experience of God’s tenderness and mercy–and to inspire greater love between human beings themselves. Simeon finds God in a poor baby boy, and I like to see him as standing in for all of us who are called (to borrow a beloved Jesuit phrase) to seek and find God in all things and all people. As I pray this last mystery, I ask God: Lord, where in the world can I find you today, and how are you calling my attention to my brothers and sisters in need?
What, then, is the joy at the heart of these mysteries—the joy at the heart of the Incarnation itself? For me, it is the knowledge that none of us are too small or insignificant to receive God’s love and grace. It is the often-stunning notion that God himself has lived through the most precarious, vulnerable circumstances that a human being could ever experience, because he came into the world as an impoverished infant. To all those who experience poverty and need—be they material, spiritual or both—or who feel insignificant, cast aside or thrown away by society, these mysteries bring the joy and consolation of God’s love.
