Iain Atkinson

Mother Mary, pray for me.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed are thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, mother of God, please pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

Most Holy Theotokos, help us.

Mary, you are the matrix of this moment. I see you kneeling down to pick a flower among long grass. I feel that you pick me. I feel that you choose me in this moment of reading, writing, and meditation. I feel that you exist in particular relation to me in this moment of connection and love. I feel my whole inner body seizing up in holy fear, and excited apprehension of whatever may come next.

Holy Mary, you exist. In this space in which you certainly do not exist, in which you are a figment of my imagination, I see that you exist as all that exists. I see that I am a figment of your imagination. I see that I am choosing to believe that you exist, and I feel in this choice as if you are choosing and selecting and believing in me. My choice to know you is dependent on your having said yes to God.

I feel this moment as one of divine conception. I am overshadowed by the Holy Spirit. To relate to Mary is to participate in her explicitly sexual relationship with God, and to relate as God to her virginal sexual openness. It is to relate as God within God as sexual openness itself. It is to discover faith as bodily openness. It is to discover faith as imaginal boldness that finds confirmation and effectiveness within sexual stimulation. Shall I write this? Dare I? I am turned on writing this. I am deeply sexually satisfied to be praying this prayer through my hands right now. My inner body trembles.

I pray: stay with me Mary. Walk with me. Let me dream of you, let me experience you in every prayer, in every moment, as the Lord who is utterly a human being who doesn’t know they are the Lord. To me, Mary, you are the “whore who is a virgin” (more or less from “The Thunder” in the Nag Hammadi library, or so ChatGPT told me). To me, you are the look of the Lord who doesn’t know they are the Lord. I love you, Mary, I love you.