The problem with religious platitudes is that they are exactly that: flat (from the French, plat). They are usually true, or at least half-true, but they are uttered unthinkingly, or with a vague sense that they are appropriate in the circumstances, and have become thin with over-use. So, when somebody dies, there are well-intentioned mutterings about the deceased being ‘at peace now,’ or, rather presumptuously to Catholic ears, ‘with Jesus in heaven.’ Meanwhile, I am busy praying for the dead person’s soul and the forgiveness of their sins, not presuming but hoping, with firm faith and trust, that our merciful Lord will indeed forgive. The comfort offered by the platitude is no comfort at all if it obscures rather than illumines and prevents us responding as we might.
Today’s memoria of the Holy Rosary, instituted as a thanksgiving for the victory at Lepanto, reminded me that love of Our Lady has given rise to a large number of quite cringe-making platitudes concerning her. They do her an injustice even as they seek to honour her. Mary is indeed our mother, but she is first and foremost the Mother of God, a woman of such unique faith, courage and holiness that she inspires a loving awe, a reverent fear, as she directs our gaze towards her Son, Jesus Christ. The wonderful array of titles with which the Church has invested her are the measure of this, each of them worth pondering carefully. Her appearances in the New Testament are comparatively few, but each one is telling. Today, if you have a moment or two, read through the gospel for the feast, Luke 1.26-38, and ask yourself what it means to be the handmaid of the Lord (and if you happen to be male, ask yourself the same question because the whole Church is feminine before God). The answer may disconcert you.