One of my favourite novels is The Annunciation to Mary by Paul Claudel. There is a scene that always returns to me, almost like a prayer. Violaine, marked by pain and self-giving, utters a phrase that pierces the soul:
“What use is the finest perfume in a sealed vessel?”
And she continues:
“Now I am completely broken, and the fragrance is released…”
There is something profoundly evangelical in these words. As if, without knowing it, they described what happens in Mary’s heart at the Annunciation. For love, when it is true, cannot remain sealed away.
Mary: the open heart where God enters
Saint Luke’s Gospel places us in Nazareth. Everything is simple. Everything is discreet. And yet, the greatest of miracles takes place there.
The angel enters and greets her: “Rejoice, full of grace”.
Mary is troubled. She asks. She does not fully understand. And that makes her even closer to us. She does not answer from certainty, but from trust.
“Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord; let it be done to me according to your word.”
In that instant, her life—like Violaine’s perfume—ceases to be “sealed”. It breaks, it opens, it is given. And then God can enter.
God becomes flesh: the mystery that overwhelms us
The liturgy of this day gives us words from Leo the Great, which help us grasp the depth of what happens: majesty takes on humility, eternity enters time, God truly becomes man.
There is no mere appearance. There is no distance. The Word takes on “the reality of human flesh” in Mary’s womb, as we pray in the Collect. God takes what is ours to give us what is his. And it all begins with the silent yes of a woman.
To be poured out: the path of true love
A few days ago, Pope Leo XIV recalled the figure of Etty Hillesum, a woman who, amid suffering, discovered something essential: that life finds meaning only when it is given. She wrote:
“One would like to be balm poured out over so many wounds.”
That image—so delicate and so radical—connects in a striking way with the Annunciation. Mary becomes that balm. She does not hold back. She does not protect herself. She offers herself. And thanks to that self-giving, Christ enters the world.
Proclaiming Christ: a life that is shared
Perhaps that is why, as we contemplate this mystery, we feel it is not only something to behold, but something to carry forward. This year’s motto reminds us in the words of Saint Augustine: proclaim Christ wherever you can.
Today is the day. Today is the moment to allow ourselves to be broken and shared, like bread. Not to live shut in. Not to keep the perfume. To proclaim Christ without doubt and without fear. Like Mary. For proclaiming will not always mean speaking. Many times it will mean living in such a way that others can sense—even from afar—that God is near.
That he keeps coming. That he keeps seeking open hearts.
The yes that keeps changing the world
The Annunciation is not only a remembrance. It is a door that remains open. God continues to speak his word. He continues to await a yes. He continues to desire to be present in history through concrete lives.
Through ours. And perhaps today, as we return to Nazareth, we may understand it in a new way: the world does not need perfumes kept in reserve, but lives poured out. Like Mary’s. Like those of so many who, in silence, have decided to love to the end.
