God is not a hoarder of glory. He is lavish. Open-handed. He delights to share what is his—life, joy, even victory over death. The Assumption of Mary is the radiant sign of that generosity. When the Father brings Mary, body and soul, into heavenly life, he is not making an exception to keep us small; he is unveiling what he wants for all who cling to his Son.
Look at how the story in Judah’s hill country begins: not with Mary grasping at honor, but with movement toward another. She goes quickly to serve her older cousin. Her greeting stirs new life; a child rejoices before he can speak. Elizabeth recognizes the gift and blesses Mary for trusting God’s promise. And Mary answers by directing every compliment away from herself and toward the Giver, praising the One who lifts the lowly, scatters the proud, and breaks open his storehouse for the poor. Only one line needs to be heard aloud today: “He has filled the hungry with good things.”
That single sentence is the doorway to this feast. God does not keep his goodness locked in heaven. He feeds the empty, meets the needy, and—most astonishing of all—shares his very life. In Christ he has already walked through death and returned, not as a ghost but as the first harvest of a new creation. Mary is the first to follow him in the fullness of that harvest. Her Assumption is not a private prize; it is a public promise. Where the Head has gone, the Body is destined to follow. Our bodies matter. Our stories matter. Nothing given to God is lost.
So the question becomes simple and searching: do we live as if God is this generous? If we do, it will show. People who trust an open-handed God become open-handed themselves. We stop hoarding time, attention, or forgiveness. We notice the hungry—physically and spiritually—and share what we have. We defend the dignity of the sick and the aging because the body is made for glory. We carry one another’s burdens, not because we are heroes, but because heaven has already leaned toward us.
Mary teaches the shape of such faith. She receives, and then she moves. She listens, and then she goes. She treasures God’s word, and then she lets that word become flesh in the ordinary work of visiting, helping, and rejoicing. That pattern—receive and move—is the Christian life. Receive mercy at the altar; move toward the neighbor who needs it. Receive hope in prayer; move toward the situation that seems impossible with a hope that does not quit.
Let this feast anchor us in confidence. The tomb is not our final address. The last page is light, not darkness; song, not silence. Ask Mary to help us trust the Giver the way she did, so that our lives—our choices, our calendars, our tables—become places where God’s generosity is not only spoken about, but tasted. Then this parish will look a little more like the hill country: joy leaping, blessings spoken, and grace moving quickly from one home to another.