Listen to the Sermon.
I love the image of Mary traveling dusty, rocky roads to visit Elizabeth. Was Mary on foot? Riding a donkey? Mary, young and recently pregnant by the Holy Spirit, on her way to her kinswoman Elizabeth. Elizabeth, married to the priest Zechariah and old enough to be past child-bearing, is 6 months pregnant with John who-will-become-the-Baptist. Both are unexpected pregnancies. They have so much to talk about!
This pregnancy has upended Mary’s life. Quite literally, her life will not be as she expected it in any way. She is young and healthy, chastely engaged to a nice man who has a solid job. She expected to get married, and create her own household with Joseph. Eventually have children, and grandbabies some day. Go to the well, do the laundry, cook dinner. Attend synagogue regularly and make pilgrimage to the Temple in Jerusalem. Live a full but unexciting life, as would have been typical for a woman of her place and time. Now all of that is in question.
And the angel said so many things about this baby. What do they all mean? The future is DEFINITELY NOT going to be what she expected!
Who among us has ever had something happen in life, even something good or expected, that forced us to let go of expectations or dreams about our future?
It happens all the time. In our personal lives, we find out about a new diagnosis of cancer or an unexpected pregnancy. Someone we love dies, a relationship fractures. We lose a pregnancy. We get laid off, or even get a great job offer. Something happens and we are forced to re-evaluate our life, to let go of hopes and expectations as we shift to a new reality.
It happens in our church community too. When our friends leave the church - by death, or because it doesn’t fit for them any more. When a once vital ministry dwindles or ends. When a beloved clergy leader leaves. Predictability is tenuous. The future looks and feels uncertain.
Our natural response to these kinds of broken expectations, even when the thing happening is good, is grief. It’s the process of grief that gets us from the “Oh, Soup!” recognition that life has just changed in some previously-unimagined way to, eventually, being able to claim the blessing and joy in our new version of life in its fullness.
We can imagine Mary’s journey from that moment with the angel, telling her some quite wild and irrational news, to this moment when she arrives at Elizabeth’s house singing this song of God’s majesty and promise.
Mary makes her way past the denial, fear, and even anger at the angel’s announcement. Past the bargaining, doubt and depression that are the middle stages of mourning a forced change in our life expectations.
Mary comes to acceptance of her pregnancy, of the prophecy of her son as the Messiah, of the presence of the Holy Spirit within her. Mary gets to a place of joy and proclaiming the greatness of God. The very same God we can imagine she questioned, railed at, bargained with, and despaired would ever be known to her again. Mary goes beyond acceptance, she moves to a place of joy that spreads from her life to the life of the world.
“My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed: for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.” (Luke 1:46b-49)
Mary goes on to praise and glorify God’s strength and mercy, shown as God scatters the proud in their conceit, casts down the mighty from their thrones, and sends the rich away empty. God is lifting up the lowly, filling the hungry with good things. God’s power is in ordinary people - like Mary and Elizabeth, like you and I. God’s reign brings dignity to the invisible and the marginalized, food to those who hunger, healing and wholeness to those who suffer. Mary’s song foreshadows her Son’s ministry of proclaiming the in-breaking kingdom of God where no person is oppressed or devalued.
It sings to us, reminding us that we matter. Even when we struggle with grief and disappointment for how our lives could have been, God does not forsake us. Like Mary seeking Elizabeth’s company to share the experience of life-changing unexpected pregnancy, we do not walk alone when the way seems difficult or dark. We walk with one another. AND, from our humble lives, from the hope we come to know, we speak the truth of love and light to the darkness, to the principalities and the powers that would try to persuade us that we are small, lowly, forgotten, and insignificant.
Mary proclaims otherwise. She calls us to join her song of hope and revolution, to the proclamation of the coming of the kingdom that will conquer all the hate and fear in the world with a love that subverts the structures of power and has room for every person. This is NOT bewildered, inarticulate, teenage Mary meek and mild!
On this last Sunday in Advent, when our expectation for the birth of Mary’s child is at a peak, Mary’s song calls us together. Calls us to move through our grief and disappointments, to share her hope, with one another and with the world. Mary’s song calls us to see a future where God’s love and justice prevail. A future where the light of our humble lives, lived together in faith and in community, pierces the suffocating darkness of fear. One individual can hold hope for a different future, but when we come together in hope, we create a holy revolution. Claiming the blessing and joy in the fullness of our life, we up-end the tyranny of power and the stranglehold of consumerism. In claiming our joy, we prepare the world to receive the greatest gift of all - Love.
So, here in this very short last week of Advent, what do WE need to do to move from the “Oh, Soup!” moment of realizing that our lives are changing from our expectations, to claim our joy and join the holy revolution of hope?
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