There is learning that does not come from books, wisdom that cannot be quantified, holiness as invisible as air, as real as newly poured cement, and eminently present in Mary, the Mother of God and teacher of His people, honored on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.

Too often, misplaced devotion to Mary set her apart from an historical setting, apart from humanity itself, honoring neither her nor God. In the last couple of decades, a kind of spiritual elitism frequently intruded itself into Catholic worship, whether in simple mission churches or modern pseudo places of worship, not much different from beautiful auditoriums, divested of any trace of our traditional art.

It is difficult to believe that a Catholic woman, who prayed the rosary with her family daily, would object vehemently against a simple, but beautiful hand-carved statue of Mary’s being placed in the small sanctuary, saying it made prayer impossible for her. It was banished to an almost invisible niche near a side entrance of the church.

Interesting. Since the woman is well-read, I wonder what she thought of St. Teresa of Avila’s using Mary’s statue as a means of restoring peace to a recalcitrant group of nuns in her former convent of the Incarnation in Avila, where she had been sent to restore order, after she had founded convents according to the stricter rule of the newly established Discalced Carmelites.

On October 6, 1571, Teresa walked in formal procession to the convent, where she was met by such ferocious nuns, two friars had to force their way through the door. Eventually, Teresa was seated, and the letters confirming her position as prioress were read. Above the angry screams of protest, the father provincial shouted, “In short, you do not want to accept Mother Teresa of Jesus!” a single voice replied, “We accept her and we love her.” The Te Deum was sung, but the pandemonium continued until Teresa stood to face the angry crowd.

What followed was an action of pure genius on Teresa’s part. In the afternoon, the nuns went to the chapel for the first chapter meeting with their new leader. There, they found, not Teresa in the prioress’ stall, but a lifesize statue of Our Lady, with the keys to the convent hanging from her hand. Teresa sat at her feet. There was no doubt who was in charge of the convent.

She assured the nuns that, though she would be following the rules of the Discalced, they would be following their own rules. Her one desire was that they should all “serve the Lord in quietness.” And they did, eventually. (Teresa of Avila by Shirley du Boulay, an excellent biography)

My favorite, personal story of a statue’s means of grace has probably already been recorded in an article buried in the Archives, but if so, it bears repeating, for it is sweet and gentle, a child’s story.

He was all of seven, had joined a small group of four I had volunteered to tutor in reading at the parish school. Along with the regular text, the children learned to read simple prayers, and lives of Our Lord and the saints. In the center of the table, there was always a small statue of Mary, a saint, the Infant at Christmas time, the Crucifix during Lent, etc.

After the brief opening prayer, as we were getting settled into the work of the day, I would notice Nicky would reach over, pick up the statue, kiss it and return it to the table in such a quiet manner no one noticed him, or were too sensitive to let on. Nor did I. Month followed month, and the routine continued.

Eventually, June came, and the child moved away. Often, he comes to mind, God’s little evangelizer. He taught me about the sacredness and power of a child’s relationship with God, and he humbled me. The gentle snowflake of grace that was his branded itself on my heart and never melted away.

We religion teachers often remind ourselves that, “Religion is more caught than taught.” Teresa’s counterpart, John of the Cross, frequently drew small pictures of Christ on the Cross, and nailed them up here and there in his austere hermitage, reminding him of the One to Whom he prayed. Neither saint was too high on the ladder of prayer not to need something tangible to keep their concentration on God.

When children are guided to follow the nudges of grace that draw close to Christ and Mary, a spiritual foundation is laid that will carry them through the good times and not-so-good times of their lives.

A picture of Christ in the Garden, a statue of Mary holding the battered body of Christ taken down from the Cross, can be graces that touch children’s hearts and let them know they will not be alone in suffering of any kind, whether in a failed exam, being refused acceptance into a university sorority, facing the death of a parent, or personal, physical pain.

With tenderness and sensitivity, the Russian poet, Alekej Remizov, cut away every attempt to dismiss Mary’s suffering as inconsequential, unable to pierce her Immaculate Heart:

As he pictures her slowly walking along Golgotha’s road, he asks:

Who will comfort a mother who has lost her son?
Who will give her refuge?
Who will shelter her in the dark night of grief?
To whom can she turn?
–the linnet, terrified by the shouting
flies away,
the lips of the beloved disciple
are sealed in grief.
Who will console her?
She is alone, the Mother of God.

Excerpt from The Star of Stars

A picture, a statue, a poem, a sunset, sunrise, an infant’s laugh, can all speak to us of God, and of a Maiden, Mary.

During this season of Advent, may Christ and Mary lead us on the road we seek , where the lion of war lies down with the lamb of peace, and children fear no more. Amen.

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