The ever unsurpassable G. K. Chesterton noticed in his Orthodoxy – especially chapter VI, The paradoxes of Christianity – that criticism of the catholic faith is so strange because it is so contradictory. For example, for some it is disturbing that man was elevated above all other creatures, as being made in the image and likeness of God, for others that man is humiliated and humility is praised as the ground of all virtues. But of course it’s no good to paraphrase Chesterton:

Thus, certain sceptics wrote that the great crime of Christianity had been its attack on the family; it had dragged women to the loneliness and contemplation of the cloister, away from their homes and their children. But, then, other sceptics (slightly more advanced) said that the great crime of Christianity was forcing the family and marriage upon us; that it doomed women to the drudgery of their homes and children, and forbade them loneliness and contemplation.

He goes over example after example of the contradictory critics of Christianity, only to find that therein lies precisely the key:

And then in a quiet hour a strange thought struck me like a still thunderbolt. There had suddenly come into my mind another explanation. Suppose we heard an unknown man spoken of by many men. Suppose we were puzzled to hear that some men said he was too tall and some too short; some objected to his fatness, some lamented his leanness; some thought him too dark, and some too fair. One explanation (as has been already admitted) would be that he might be an odd shape. But there is another explanation. He might be the right shape. Outrageously tall men might feel him to be short. Very short men might feel him to be tall.

This leads to what he called “the thrilling romance of Orthodoxy”: keeping the balance is not a boring middle-of-the-road policy, but a fearsome fight to keep the balance between opposing forces. Read the chapter, or better still, the book, but here is one last quote:

Thus, the double charges of the secularists, though throwing nothing but darkness and confusion on themselves, throw a real light on the faith. It is true that the historic Church has at once emphasised celibacy and emphasised the family; has at once (if one may put it so) been fiercely for having children and fiercely for not having children. It has kept them side by side like two strong colours, red and white, like the red and white upon the shield of St. George. It has always had a healthy hatred of pink. It hates that combination of two colours which is the feeble expedient of the philosophers. It hates that evolution of black into white which is tantamount to a dirty gray. In fact, the whole theory of the Church on virginity might be symbolized in the statement that white is a colour: not merely the absence of a colour. All that I am urging here can be expressed by saying that Christianity sought in most of these cases to keep two colours coexistent but pure.

It is this fearsome balance which, I submit, is or ought to be the genius of catholic political thought and practice ‘in the center’, between the political left and right. Even more so, I submit that the political divide between left and right is not only boring, but a diabolical divide, as are all the other contradictions mentioned by Chesterton. It is just as easy, and just as wrong, to reduce Christianity to a left-wing discourse, or a right-wing discourse. The true prospects for a renewed Christendom lie in overcoming this political divide, for the ‘thrilling romance of the Center’.

So on the one hand, although it is perfectly possible to reduce Christianity (i.e. Catholicism) to a right-wing identitarian discourse (examples abound), it would be too easy, and hence wrong, to do so. Kingsnorth’s ‘Against Christian Civilization’ gives a nice overview of the problems in that approach. We have to love our enemies, pray for those who persecute us. Catholic missionaries used to travel to the other side of the world to convert strangers, instead of hunting for them when they try to come here.

Right-wing reductions of Christianity rightly boast of all the riches of ‘the West’ – be they economic, social, cultural, etc. – but can be selectively deaf when it comes to Christ’s warnings against wealth and the rich. Christianity is the incarnated religion par excellence, but there is a real danger of idolatry when it comes to all the incarnated ‘goodies’ Christianity has given to the West – first and foremost in the idolatry for ‘the West’ as such.

To make one sweeping caricature, in Christ’s double commandment to love God above all else and love your neighbor as yourself, the Right seems to be prone to a preferential option for the first of these two commandments, with a risk of idolatry towards another vertical value – first and foremost the nation and the economy, political power and money, clear temptations from the devil. Our ‘culture’ and ‘identity’ are some other candidates for idolatry.

On the other hand, it is just as easy and just as wrong to reduce Christianity to a left-wing humanitarian discourse – and Kingsnorth’s essay does little against that danger, starting with a lurking theological irenism. The thrilling romance of the Church combines the contradictory aspects of sectarianism and truly universal ‘catholicism’. Starting from that double commandment, the Left certainly has a penchant for the second of these two commandments, for example with a ‘preferential option for the poor’.

But when Mary of Bethany (in the gospel of John) poured all of the expensive oil on Jesus’s feet, it was Judas Iscariot who said “Why was not this ointment sold for three hundred pence, and given to the poor?” to which Jesus replied “For the poor you have always with you; but me you have not always.” This looks more like a preferential option for liturgical exuberance than a preferential option for the poor. This focus on the love for one’s neighbor at the expense of, eventually, all else, becomes a form of idolatry in itself of course. The Right has the nation, family values, property, Western Civilization, etc., the Left has tolerance, equality, care for the poor, the weak, and eventually wokeism.

Moreover, the pendulum of time moves from the left to the right and back, emboldening each time these right-wing and left-wing reductions by exaggerating the distortions of the other side. The first challenge is therefore to categorically reject this left-right divide as a diabolical divide et impera (divide and conquer) tactic. Whatever truth there may be in this division, you neither talk to the devil, nor talk like the devil. As St. Paul warned us: “For our wrestling is not against flesh and blood; but against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of this darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places.” (Eph. 6: 12). That is perhaps the single most important verse for a political vision for Christendom – arguably more important than “give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and give to God what belongs to God.”, because the whole question is what belongs to Caesar and what belongs to God.

The truly important categorical distinctions are eternal versus temporary, truth versus falsehood, dogma versus heresy, and yes, catholic versus non-catholic. The danger of sectarianism in that last distinction is real, but it is at the same time the crucial glue for a truly universal (global, catholic) community – and crucially mitigated by the love for one’s enemy, as Christ prayed for those who were killing Him. Is this dangerous and risky? Yes it is, but then again we turn to Chesterton:

It was no flock of sheep the Christian shepherd was leading, but a herd of bulls and tigers, of terrible ideals and devouring doctrines, each one of them strong enough to turn to a false religion and lay waste the world. Remember that the Church went in specifically for dangerous ideas; she was a lion tamer.

Christ’s kingship as expressed in Quas Primas is the starting point of course, but perhaps this crucial point, which arguably got bogged down in the second half of the 20th century, needs a crucial counterweight to achieve an enduring balance: the social Queenship of Mary …

If “especially in the modern age freedom has been the great dream of humanity”, we have to carefully investigate precisely that fundamental human reality. Investigating the very nature of (human) freedom can and has been done philosophically, but at the same time St. Thomas Aquinas, following St. John Damascene, notes that human freedom is one of the two marks by which we can say that man is made in the image of God (IaIIae, prooemium). The question then becomes how human and divine freedom can not only coexist and concur without harming or destroying each other, but in a profound and delicate sense also interact with, and thereby elevate (or even enable), each other.

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And besides the crucial remarks by Pope Benedict XVI on the central role of Duns Scotus, Hannah Arendt notes in her appraisal of Duns Scotus’s thought on freedom that “for his quintessential thought – contingency, the price gladly paid for freedom – he had neither predecessors nor successors.”1, further adding that “Scotus is the only thinker for whom the word ‘contingent’ has no derogatory association.”2 For Scotus, contingency is precisely the reality that a person, even God, “could have done the opposite of everything he has actually done” referred to in the Regensburg Address. Such a central role for contingency may at first sight indeed seem contrary to the Greek spirit and its search for the Logos, thereby eventually opening the door to a capricious God – or, in the words of Servais Pinckaers OP, to the freedom of indifference as opposed to the freedom for excellence. But in the contrastive spirit of this essay, precisely this characteristic of Scotus’s thought will be taken as the cornerstone for the entire edifice.

For, Arendt’s positive appreciation stems from her link between Scotus’s thought on freedom and a quote she (spuriously) attributes to St. Augustine: Amo, volo ut sis – I love you, I want you to be. It is a love which ‘wants’ the other person without wanting to possess or rule the other person, but which wants that other person to be with a groundless gratuitousness, lovingly delighting in the sheer existence of the other person. In that sense, it is precisely contingency which grounds and guarantees the gratuitousness of love – rather than leading to capriciousness. Arendt even explicitly likens this to the gratuitous freedom with which God loves creation – a point which will be further taken up in subsection II.a.

Although this kind of freedom is not necessarily opposed to the more traditional freedom of excellence – freedom as always already oriented towards the good – it does mark out a crucial and even fundamental aspect of freedom which the ancient tradition arguably didn’t sufficiently appreciate. The fact that modernity underscored this kind of freedom to the complete detriment of the ancient conception of freedom, shouldn’t blind us to the merits of this conception, and the prospects for a subtle synthesis. Precisely on the issue of freedom of religion – to which we will return later – doe these two kinds of freedom play a crucial role. On the one hand, it is the truth which sets us free (John 8:32), on the other hand, we have to be free to discover and genuinely assent to, the truth.

The prospects for a subtle synthesis can be discerned by turning to the Greeks themselves, more precisely to the greatest among them. In Plato’s Symposium Diotima presents Eros in an ascent of the mind along a classical metaphysical hierarchy, culminating in the vision of pure and eternal beauty – a sublime ascent to the God of the philosophers. However, the height of this ascent is not the possession, but the bringing forth of beauty (212a), in line with Diotima’s earlier point that the object of love is not the beautiful, but “engendering and begetting upon the beautiful” (206e). In brief, the highest form of erotic love is a love that begets, a love that gives life – amo, volo ut sis. Although Socrates initially admits incomprehension, he ends by fully endorsing Diotima’s vision.

Thinking now along with Arendt and Diotima, one could add that such a love to affirm the very being of a concrete other person can also arise mutually, in an encounter between two persons. That mutual ‘amo, volo ut sis’ can then be united in a common and fruitful ‘amamus, volumus ut sis’ (we love you, we want you to be) whereby both persons jointly and gratuitously bring forth and love a third person through their love for each other. This third person receives its very being through their mutual love, uniting the very nature of these two other persons. In the created order, this happens in the spousal love between man and woman as made manifest and irrevocably united in their common child, which is in its deepest level a sign of the supernatural mystery of the Holy Trinity itself.3 If modern freedom is seen in this light, one can see it as a challenge and an opportunity to strengthen and enrich our theological (and philosophical) anthropology, rather than as a mere threat.

Moreover, Diotima also noted that many a shrine had already been built for the spiritual offspring of men, thereby referring to Homer, Hesiod, Lycurgus and Solon, whereas for begetting a human child this honour was “not yet” bestowed upon any person (209e). This can be taken as an indication of the problematic aspects in Greek or even especially Platonist thought, e.g. a dualist primacy of the spiritual over the material, or even of male over female. But it need not be so if Diotima’s not yet has been fulfilled by the Blessed Virgin Mary in her Fiat.4 Countless shrines are devoted to Mary for having given birth to her Son, thereby giving the world something infinitely more valuable than any male work of art, law or philosophy. This keeps intact the very best of the Greek spirit, but by fulfilling and surpassing it far beyond what was dreamt of in Greek philosophy.

Hence, the subtle synthesis between the Greek and the Christian spirit might find a stable anchor in Mary.

This text presents a specific perspective with broad-brushed strokes and should therefore be read in accordance with the regula fidei, without suggesting or implying anything contrary to the Holy Catholic Faith. It should also be interpreted with the principle of charity, avoiding simplistic or reductionistic readings. Even if only one cause is mentioned, it is emphasized for clarity, not to suggest that it is the sole factor.

Next, the question of what causes the current Church crisis is approached contrastively. When an airplane crashes, gravity is a cause of the crash, but it does not answer the contrastive question of why the plane crashed rather than stay in the air. Gravity is always present, and planes are designed to overcome it. Similarly, pointing to human sins and shortcomings, historical contingencies, heresies, or even deliberate attempts to infiltrate, weaken, and destroy the Church is insufficient to explain the current crisis. These challenges have always existed, and the Church is built to withstand and overcome them.

It is important to stress this point, since it pertains to a fundamental disposition. When a general loses a battle and the king asks him why he lost the battle, it would take a very bad general to talk about the guns and cannons and spies of the enemy. We are engaged in a war, the king would reply, I have given you everything to win, of course the enemy has guns and cannons and spies, your job is to win the battle against them. In the same way, the Church has overcome persecution, heresies, betrayal: “In the world you shall have distress: but have confidence, I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33) Only a very bad general or soldier would point to the enemy to explain a defeat.

We are engaged in an arms race against the enemy, but we have received in nuce, from the moment of the incarnation, all the weapons needed. They are always contained as seeds in the Revelation we have already received, handed down through the ages. We simply need the alertness to see contemporary challenges as ways to reveal hitherto unknown aspects of that same Revelation, inspired by the Holy Spirit. Faced with unprecedented difficulties, the question is simply ‘how are we going to win this time?’ – for the fundamental victory has already been obtained on Calvary.

Although the topic of this investigation is supernatural, the mode of this investigation is philosophical. Resorting to the Sedes Sapientiae as the image of true philosophy’s profound and intimate relation to theology, this is an attempt to philosophise in Mary as proposed by Fides&Ratio (§108). If theology is reason applied to – and enlightened by – revelation, theology is always in need of philosophically retracing its own approaches and presuppositions in attempting to deepen our understanding of Revelation.

Moreover, since the current crisis is in large part due to the modern rejection of metaphysics as a reliable path to know both creation and its Creator, it indicates a philosophical problem – to which Mary can offer a response.1 Very briefly, the alleged impossibility to metaphysically know the Ding an sich can be resolved by the Logos through whom all things were made (John 1:3). However, if nobody knows the Son except the Father (Mt 11: 27), this still seems to exclude the possibility of metaphysical knowledge for humans. But since Mary can also call the Son truly her Son and could say on Christmas day Filius meus es tu; ego hodie genui te, she can, qua creature, know the (Father’s) Son as (her, human) Son.

Developing this philosophical argument fully would require far more space. But it at least indicates the direction to take whereby we can likewise know the Son, and through the Son know all things, through Mary as the Sedes Sapientiae. That is, the typical modern philosophical problem of how a creaturely epistemic subject can know things sub specie aeternitatis, can be resolved by taking Mary’s epistemic position epistemologically serious.

I.b. Historical situation

The next question is what this ‘current’ refers to in the phrase ‘the current Church crisis’. What is the proper understanding of our current historical context? How do we distinguish fundamental problems from superficial ones? For this analysis, the historical contextualisation is taken from Pope Benedict’s Regensburg address, where he places some of the deep roots of the modern context squarely within the Christian theological tradition:

“In all honesty, one must observe that in the late Middle Ages we find trends in theology which would sunder this synthesis between the Greek spirit and the Christian spirit. In contrast with the so-called intellectualism of Augustine and Thomas, there arose with Duns Scotus a voluntarism which, in its later developments, led to the claim that we can only know God’s voluntas ordinata. Beyond this is the realm of God’s freedom, in virtue of which he could have done the opposite of everything he has actually done. This gives rise to positions which clearly approach those of Ibn Hazm and might even lead to the image of a capricious God, who is not even bound to truth and goodness. God’s transcendence and otherness are so exalted that our reason, our sense of the true and good, are no longer an authentic mirror of God, whose deepest possibilities remain eternally unattainable and hidden behind his actual decisions. [...] God does not become more divine when we push him away from us in a sheer, impenetrable voluntarism; rather, the truly divine God is the God who has revealed himself as logos and, as logos, has acted and continues to act lovingly on our behalf.”2

This ties in directly to the philosophical problem of the possibility of metaphysics, as mentioned above. For, if “our reason, our sense of the true and good, are no longer an authentic mirror of God”, then we cannot know the Creator – nor, ultimately, the creatures in their true essence. Benedict XVI keenly noted the connection between this problem, and the issue of divine as well as human freedom. Since man is made in the image and likeness of God, human freedom somehow reflects divine freedom. Hence, Scotus’s attention to divine freedom (and the problem for metaphysics it can entail) also has repercussions for the typical modern attention to human freedom. For example, in his 2010 audience on Duns Scotus, the pope connected him in particular to modernity and its desire for freedom:

“Lastly, Duns Scotus has developed a point to which modernity is very sensitive. It is the topic of freedom and its relationship with the will and with the intellect. Our author underlines freedom as a fundamental quality of the will, introducing an approach that lays greater emphasis on the will.”3

Developing that point further, during that same audience he also referred to his 2009 speech to the Roman major seminary, touching again upon the relationship between freedom and modernity:

“Now we wish to see what St Paul tells us with this text: “You were called to freedom”. Since the beginning and throughout all time but especially in the modern age freedom has been the great dream of humanity. We know that Luther was inspired by this passage from the Letter to the Galatians and that he concluded that the monastic Rule, the hierarchy, the Magisterium seemed to him as a yoke of slavery from which it was necessary to liberate oneself. Subsequently, the Age of Enlightenment was totally guided, penetrated, by this desire for freedom, which was considered to have finally been reached. But Marxism too presented itself as a road towards freedom.”4

Within this historical triangle of Duns Scotus, freedom and modernity, the ultimate causes of the current Church crisis are investigated, and Mary will be presented as the one who can overcome this situation. The Sedes Sapientiae will therefore not only serve as a methodological guiding light, but also stand at the heart of the solution.

Dignare me laudare te, o sacra Virgo Maria, contra hostes tuos da mihi virtutem.

&

Gaude, Maria Virgo, cunctas haereses sola interemisti in universo mundo!

Whether or not the current crisis is the worst in the Church’s long history, is a question we can safely leave to future Church historians – or better still, to God. But for those of us living through it today, it most certainly is the worst Church crisis we will ever face, so we have to fight it with all our strength for the salvation of our own souls and those of our neighbour. The Church is the ark of salvation, so any attack on her is an attack on the souls she is built to bring to heaven on the tempestuous sea of time.

Since the Church ultimately has a supernatural origin, identity and destiny, understanding her travails as she travels through time likewise requires a supernatural perspective on the battle she is engaged in. As Pope Pius XII reminded us: “on earth the powers of darkness are ever restless to encompass her destruction.”1 St. Ignatius also tells us that the devil approaches a soul like an enemy captain (cf. 1 Peter:5), looking for our weakest point in order to concentrate his attacks there.2 Hence, and a fortiori, the Church itself is under constant attack and the devastation brought about by the current crisis should be traced back to this supernatural battle. Of course persons play a role, and countless ‘isms’ play a role, but we should always keep in mind St. Paul’s warning that “our wrestling is not against flesh and blood; but against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of this darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places.” (Eph. 6: 12).

Moreover, precisely because the devil concentrates his attacks on our weakest points, we can learn from the errors and heresies promoted by our enemy what are currently the weak points in the human aspects of the Church. Even the Apostle told us that “there must be also heresies” (1 Cor. 11:19). Hence, apart from being a threat, this crisis is at the same time a challenge and an opportunity to make Christ, Mary and the Church triumph once more – this time in our own perilous days, over these ever restless forces of darkness and destruction.

The current crisis is the crisis facing the Church in modernity in general and in the wake of the Second Vatican Council in particular. Since that council was convened precisely to address the relation between the Church and the modern world, the conflicting interpretations and distortions arising during and after that council arguably stem to a significant extent from the challenges facing the Church in modernity in general. But just as the errors and heresies allowed by divine providence in the past have forced and enabled the Church to develop her faith more clearly and vividly, just so the dangerous and erroneous elements in modernity can force and enable the Church to become more truly what she was destined to become from the very beginning.

The central analysis and proposal of this text is that the crisis in modernity stems from the fact that in the past and to this day the Church is not yet Marian enough. As St. Louis-Marie Grignion de Montfort wrote centuries ago: “Mary has been up to this time unknown, and that this is one of the reasons that Jesus Christ is not known as He ought to be”.3 In order to win this battle, the Church will therefore (have to) become more profoundly Marian in the core of her being. The Proto-Gospel (Genesis 3:15) already predicted that she will crush the serpent’s head.

One indication for this is that the Marian dogmas of her Immaculate Conception and Assumption were proclaimed in the latest centuries of modernity, the 19th and 20th century. This is only very recently in terms of Church history, thereby formally indicating a growing awareness of Mary’s role and identity. The first thing to note in this regard is that she is a created person – in contrast and comparison with the great christological and trinitarian debates of the first centuries, pertaining to the divine persons.

Her Immaculate Conception in particular was famously defended by Duns Scotus, whose thinking can at the same time be seen as standing at the origin of some problematic trends in modernity. A marian reading of these trends however, can also point towards their solution. Through such a Marian and Scotistic reading of modernity, the discussions arising in modernity in general and the Second Vatican Council in particular can also be newly addressed.

It is well known that Mary is the one who will crush all heresies, precisely because she is the one who will crush the serpent’s head. The exegetical issue of whether ‘she’ or ‘her seed’ will crush the serpent’s head can quickly be put aside here. Is a murderer killed by the bullet, the gun, or the one pulling the trigger? The more interesting question is the paradigmatically Marian question ‘How shall this be done?’. That is the question to which this text seeks to provide a more detailed answer.

After a further [a] methodological, [b] historical and [c] philosophical analysis in this introductory part [I], the second part [II] will consider three crucial tenets of the faith in light of this Marian proposal – namely [a] God’s motivation for creation, [b] the fall of the angels and [c] the motivation for the incarnation. In the third part [III], three crucial issues of the Second Vatican Council are discussed in light of these considerations – [a] the sacred liturgy, [b] ecumenism and interreligious dialogue and [c] religious liberty. The concluding part [IV] briefly considers a way to put these considerations into practice.

As the world continues to spiral into a vicious circle of weapons and violence, it is more necessary than ever to ask the question about the conditions for world peace. This may be met with ridicule, but even Realpolitik has not been able to avoid these wars. So let us try something else.

The First World War and ‘Christ the King’

Let us go back in time for a moment. In the aftermath of the ‘Great War’, Pope Pius XI published the encyclical Quas Primas in 1925 about Christ’s kingship and the institution of that feast on the last Sunday in October. In it he argues that only a transcendent source of law and power that transcends all countries and peoples can guarantee a precarious world peace. Christ, as God incarnate, is the embodiment of that transcendent source of law and power. Thus, the recognition of his rule or kingship is the path to world peace. One can disagree with that second premise, but ‘transcendent’ also implies ‘universal’ and a system of universal human rights therefore follows the same logic – albeit with different premises.

The Second World War and ‘Mary Queen’

The idea of ​​Christ’s kingship would today immediately be accused of introducing a form of theocracy and at best get bogged down in subtle discussions about the relationship between the divine person and human nature of Christ. But in the aftermath of that other great war, another pope published another encyclical for another feast. In 1954, Pope Pius XII instituted the feast of Mary Queen of Heaven in Ad Caeli Reginam, on the 31st of May. In contrast to Quas Primas, however, the focus was not on Mary’s social and political rule, which nevertheless offers fascinating perspectives.

Mary answers Plato and Kant

To begin with, Mary is a purely created, human person, so as queen she would be immune to the accusation of theocracy. In this way, she guarantees an autonomous and secular, yet universal authority. Precisely that was the greatest problem for humanity for Immanuel Kant in his Idea for a General History in the Perspective of the World Citizen (1784). With Plato’s famous political problem in mind – who guards the guards? – he argued that every highest human authority is inclined to abuse that power and should therefore be placed under an authority itself:

‘The highest chief, however, must be just in himself and yet a human being. This task is therefore the most difficult of all. Its perfect solution is even impossible: from such crooked wood as man is made, nothing can be built that is completely straight.’ (Sixth proposition, §2)

Theological cutting-edge technology

However, this immediately brings us into high-theological waters and betrays Immanuel Kant’s typically Protestant pessimism about fallen human nature. For exactly fifty years after Kant's death and exactly one hundred years before Ad Caeli Reginam, Pope Pius IX published Ineffabilis Deus, which proclaimed the Immaculate Conception of Mary as a dogma. This is not about her (or Christ's) virginal conception, but about the fact that her human nature is not sinful or fallen or unjust – and therefore not made of Kant's 'crooked wood'. If we replace Kant's pessimistic theological premise with that specific optimistic premise, then we obtain, through the same logic, an unexpected argument for the social and political recognition of a woman as queen for world peace – Mary.

Symbolism between fact and fiction

Such theological cutting-edge technology may be greeted with derision by the Realpolitikers on duty, but it certainly has a bond with 4.5 billion people (Jews, Christians and Muslims) and would probably enjoy a lot more shared trust among them than any political leader. Others can also see that a symbolically shared sovereign to whom the highest authority is entrusted is an excellent way to express the equally symbolic but no less powerful aspirations of flags and and peoples, blood and soil. Why put all your trust in, even give your life for, an invisible entity like a nation? Maybe it will be more beautiful than you thought, that changing of the guard, putting Mary in power?

The Marystead is constantly being built and constantly under attack. What is crucial is to understand how the two are related. These are not two distinct processes. Through the cross, they become one and the same process. The inhabitants of the Marystead “will fight with one hand and build with the other” (Montfort, True Devotion, §48). More precisely, they will build by fighting and fight by building, and the secret to their victory is the cross. Uniting their crosses to the Cross of Christ will transform the bullets and grenades of the attacks into bricks and mortar for the building.

Uniting our daily crosses to the cross of Christ turns them into the scaffolding by which the Marystead is being built. We shouldn’t be surprised by our crosses and even welcome them — much like Montfort’s ‘friends of the cross’ — with the joy by which the inhabitants of a city can look at the cranes and scaffoldings in their city or around their house. It is a sign of life and of construction. That the Marystead is under attack is also something we have to accept ever since God instituted the enmity between the snake and the Woman — “I will put enmities between thee and the woman” (Gen. 3, 15).

For the attack is permanently overcome by the cross on Calvary. Christ is our champion. We can extend His cross and His victory in our own daily crosses. Therefore, rejoice in your cross, rejoice when mounting the scaffolding to build up the Marystead, taking bullet after bullet to convert it into brick after brick. Montfort starts his brilliant ‘Letter to the friends of the cross’ with “Would to God I could use the blood of my veins rather than the ink of my pen! But, alas, even if blood were required, mine would not be good enough.” (§1) The mortar of the Marystead is our blood, mixed with the blood of Christ because ours indeed isn’t good enough.

The OED entry for the verb ‘stead’ is much shorter, and most of its meanings are obsolete as well. What it does suggest is mainly “To establish, fix, place.” But that is all that is needed. Marysteading means to establish, fix, place, the Marystead. It is a permanent effort to bring reality (our souls, our surrounding souls and our surroundings in general) into the original, immaculate state of grace that was only preserved by and for Mary – and through her and the cross, made available again for us. For Mary it was a gift of the Holy Spirit, paid for by Christ on the cross. But on that cross, that gift was opened up for all of us.

In English the term ‘homesteading’ is well known, and that is a perfect entry for the meaning of the verb ‘marysteading’. We are permanently in the business of making ourselves and our surroundings hospitable for grace, we are creating a habitat for grace.

The great French Marian Saint Louis-Marie Grignion de Montfort expressed this idea succinctly:

Mary is God's garden of Paradise, his own unspeakable world, into which his Son entered to do wonderful things, to tend it and to take his delight in it. He created a world for the wayfarer, that is, the one we are living in. He created a second world - Paradise - for the Blessed. He created a third for himself, which he named Mary. (Secret of Mary, §19)

He later continues:

Holy Spirit, grant me all these graces. Implant in my soul the tree of true life, which is Mary. Foster it and cultivate it so that it grows and blossoms and brings forth the fruit of life in abundance. (§67)

And then:

Here is the best way, chosen soul, to cultivate it:

71. (1) This tree, once planted in a docile heart, requires fresh air and no human support. Being of heavenly origin, it must be uninfluenced by any creature, since a creature might hinder it from rising up towards God who created it. Hence you must not rely on your own endeavours or your natural talents or your personal standing or the guidance of men. You must resort to Mary, relying solely on her help.

72. (2) The person in whose soul this tree has taken root must, like a good gardener, watch over it and protect it. For this tree, having life and capable of producing the fruit of life, should be raised and tended with enduring care and attention of soul. A soul that desires to be holy will make this its chief aim and occupation.

And he ends thusly:

78. Chosen soul, provided you thus carefully cultivate the Tree of Life, which has been freshly planted in your soul by the Holy Spirit, I can assure you that in a short time it will grow so tall that the birds of the air will make their home in it. It will become such a good tree that it will yield in due season the sweet and adorable Fruit of honour and grace, which is Jesus, who has always been and will always be the only fruit of Mary.

In a way, the Marystead is but a deepening and furthering of what Montfort has written. It is but a branch on the devotion he discovered, to renew and deepen it. Marysteading is cultivating and nourishing and protecting this tree of life, whose fruit is Jesus. We do the work, the Holy Spirit provides the grace and the life.

Every single action of our earthly lives can be understood in this way, as a preparation of ourselves and of the creation surrounding us as “the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband” (Apocalypse 21: 2). The results of our actions might fade away, but they remain forever written in our souls and will become part of “a new heaven and a new earth” (Apocalypse 21: 1).

That is the paradox of the meaning of our finite earthly lives, we are constantly making fleeting sketches in time. But if they are done as Mary, in the way she performed her one great work, for the love of God, it will become the splendor of eternity. We have to work hard in order to become rich by storing up treasures in heaven (Matthew 6: 20). That is Marysteading. That is the breath and meaning of our earthly lives: making a dwelling place, a home, for God’s grace in this world.

God created the world by speaking, so meaning is the bedrock of being. Hence, the being of Marystead is revealed by its meaning. The word ‘Marystead’ combines a very familiar name with a very archaic word. The familiar name refers to the Blessed Virgin Mary, the archaic word expresses a deep and abiding truth about her that this publication sets out to uncover or un-conceal. 'Stead' can be used both as a verb and as a noun. In both cases its usage in contemporary English is quite rare, even more so for the verb than for the noun. Most meanings mentioned here below have the status ‘obsolete’. This post deals with the meaning of the noun.

As a noun, the first meaning mentioned by the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) is: "Standing still, as opposed to movement; stoppage, delay." Standing still, stoppage or delay is far from a flattering term in our fast-paced modern world, but think of the saying "Crux stat, dum volvitur orbis" ("The cross stands still, while the world turns around") — and one is (super)naturally inclined to add 'it' to it because the cross is the only place of abiding rest, while the rest of the world is in a constant flux of ephemeral happenings. This holds for very general philosophical and theological reasons. God is immutable, standing outside of and above time and space and all of its numerous events which capture our attention through numerous screens and news-items.

But the cross perfectly illustrates and embodies that being able to stand still within time and space, to hold one’s ground in its fast-flowing river, is the utmost sign of strength and an intense activity of itself. Just consider how hard it is to ‘stead’fastly keep a promise while many alluring alternatives are passing by. Steadfastness requires strength, of which the cross is the supreme example indeed — to steadfastly keep loving the one who is accusing and flogging and crucifying you. God entered time and space in a human nature and showed us what immutability looks like.

In a somewhat different yet deeply related way, the same thing holds for the Marystead: stabat Mater (John 19:25). The Woman, his mother, was standing still beneath the cross, next to the cross. She wasn't clinging to the cross, she was standing on her own feet, holding her own ground. Which brings us to the second meaning of the noun ‘stead’ mentioned by the OED: "A point or tract in space." It is broken down into several more specific meanings, the first of which reads: "A particular part of the earth's surface, or of space generally, considered as defined by its situation; a locality." Whereas the cross is the pinnacle of God's presence on earth, the steadfastness of the Marystead refers to something that is — or rather, someone who is, i.e. a person — merely of this earth, but of this earth in its most pristine, original, true and immaculate form or situation.

Mary is a creature, a created person, yet in her creatureliness she has been and remains to this day the steadfast abiding place for all of creation, even for God the Son Himself. As bl. Pope Pius IX expressed it in the papal Bull Ineffabilis Deus:

“From the very beginning, and before time began, the eternal Father chose and prepared for his only-begotten Son a Mother in whom the Son of God would become incarnate and from whom, in the blessed fullness of time, he would be born into this world.”

Next, ‘stead’ can mean: “An inhabited place; a city, town, village, hamlet, etc.; occasionally a country, land.” In the plural form, the noun ‘the Steads’ can refer to ‘the Cities’ of the Hanseatic League, cf. the Middle Low German “de Steden”. In contemporary Dutch one can think of ‘de stad’ (singular) or ‘de steden’ (plural). Where people live is indeed the part of the earth’s surface where they stand still, where they stop wandering across the earth.

Once again, this expresses a deep truth about Mary. As forcefully expressed by the great French Marian Saint Louis-Marie Grignion de Montfort:

“The Holy Spirit also calls her the Sanctuary of the Divinity, the Resting-Place of the Holy Spirit, the Throne of God, the City of God, the Altar of God, the Temple of God, the World of God.” (True Devotion, §262)

Next, ‘stead’ can (could) mean: “The place where a body of soldiers is stationed, a military position.” Holding one’s ground requires the utmost form of activity in the case of war, where ‘stopping’ the enemy and forcing him to stand still indeed requires strength, energy, steadfastness. Mary is indeed the impregnable Tower of David, she is “terrible as an army, arrayed for battle.” (Song of Solomon 6:10), she crushes the head of the serpent as the floodwave of original sin conquers generation after generation.

Next, it can mean: “An office or position assigned to or held by a person.” The position or office taken by Mary can and must be taken by any created person. At the Annunciation she opened up her heart, soul, body and mind to God and thereby became fruitful beyond any earthly imagination. So can anyone of us. At the foot of the cross she stood there, with her son, abandoned by the earthly as well as ecclesial authorities — escept for St. John. So can anyone of us. At Pentecost she prayed for the descent of the Holy Spirit upon the apostles, to make what she experienced at the Annunciation something accessible to all of us. So can anyone of us, following in the footstepts of St. Peter who, through his words and baptism, ‘birthed’ 3000 new children of the Church.

These are the main meanings which can be connected to the word ‘stead’ as a noun.

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