Monday, December 26, 2016

The Rest of the Story

The Flight Into Egypt by Jean François Millet, 1864.

Christmas Eve 
Luke 1:18-2:15
18 Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. 19 Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. 20 But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. 21 She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” 22 All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet:
23 “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
    and they shall name him Emmanuel,”
which means, “God is with us.”
24 When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, 25 but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus.

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.” When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet:
‘And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
    are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;
for from you shall come a ruler
    who is to shepherd my people Israel.’”
Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.” When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. 10 When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. 11 On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. 12 And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.
13 Now after they had left, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him.” 14 Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt, 15 and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet, “Out of Egypt I have called my son.”

Sermon: “The Rest of the Story”

Into the wild and painful cold of the starless winter night came 
the refugees,
slowly making their way to the border.
The man, stooped from age or anxiety, hurried his small family 

through the wind.
Bearded and dark, his skin rough and cracked from the cold,
his frame looming large in spite of the slumped shoulders:
He looked like a man who could take care of whatever came at them 

from the dark.
Unless, of course, there were too many of them. One man he could handle . . . two, even . . . but a border patrol . . . they wouldn’t have a chance.
His eyes, black and alert, darted from side to side, then over his shoulder, then back again forward. Had they been seen? Had they been heard?
Every rustle of wind, every sigh from the child, sent terror through his chest.
Was this the way? Even the stars had been unkind---
Had hidden themselves in the ink of night so that the man 

could not read their way.
Only the wind . . . was it enough?
Only the wind and his innate sense of direction . . .
What kind of cruel judgment would that be, to wander in circles

through the night?
Or to safely make their way to the border only to find the authorities 

waiting for them?
He glanced at the young woman, his bride. No more than a child herself.
She nuzzled their newborn, kissing his neck. She looked up, caught his eye, and smiled.
Oh, how the homelessness had taken its toll on her!
Her eyes were red, her young face lined,
her lovely hair matted from inattention,
her clothes stained from milk and baby,
her hands chapped from the raw wind of winter.
She’d hardly had time to recover from childbirth when word had come that they were hunted, and they fled with only a little bread, the remaining wine.
Suddenly, the child began to make small noises.
The man drew his breath in sharply.
The woman quietly put the child to breast.
Fear . . . long dread-filled moments . . .
Huddled, the family stood still in the long silence.
At last the man breathed deeply again                                    

reassured they had not been heard.
And into the night continued Mary and Joseph and the Babe.


It’s not the usual Christmas story we hear, is it? Ann Weems’ poem The Refugees[1] reminds us that the first Christmas was more Aleppo than Hallmark nativity. God entering the world was and is a story full of chaos, fear and threat. But we choose not to remember those parts, focusing instead on the angelic choirs and the shining star.

Why don’t we want to remember the real Christmas? As you might expect, I have a theory. It’s the same reason we would rather cheer on Frodo in his quest to take the ring to Mordor than clean the bathroom. It’s the same reason we want to watch Jyn Erso steal the death star plans instead of watching the latest troubling news. It’s called escapism. We all long for an escape from both the horror and the humdrum of this life. This isn’t a bad thing – it’s a human thing.

When life gets too heavy, when the nights grow too dark, when we fear for the state of the world we’re leaving for our children and grandchildren, escape is seductive. And so, we imagine the fluffy (somehow sweet-smelling) sheep, the wise men with their glittering clothing and the child that never makes a peep. It’s a story that brings us comfort, an escape from all that troubles us, as well it should.

We should never discard this story, after all, as Madeleine L’Engle wrote: “Stories make us more alive, more human, more courageous, more loving.” But if we only ever tell this version of the Christmas story, we might forget the most important part of it all: that the incarnation – God With Us – was not an escape. Jesus wasn’t bored in heaven with the Creator and the Spirit, longing for a little earthly entertainment. No, the incarnation was a radical entering in. God breaking into the world, not waiting for it to all be calm and bright, but right in the midst of the chaos and the terror and the threat. 

Yes, an angel came and told good news to Mary and Joseph that they were going to be a part of birthing God into the world. But less than a week later, another angel (maybe even the same one) came to tell them it was time to get out of Dodge, because Herod was afraid and angry, and when fear, anger and power are wedded, violence ensues.

The Refugee Redeemer fled with his family; God choosing to come in such radical vulnerability that he had to be carried in his weary young mother’s arms. Now, that’s not a glittery story. We don’t particularly want our children to act that one out.

But it is the other half of the Christmas story, nonetheless. And, at the end of the day, as enticing as escapism is, we do not need a God who escapes our troubles. We need this Refugee Redeemer, who came into the world at its most messy and unsettled, and still does. Who took the form of the most vulnerable among us, that we might never confuse power with holiness. Who longs to gather all the lost children home, and to defy the might of empire with the resilient hope of a single baby’s cry.

Yes, we want a God who helps us escape it all, of course we do. But we need a God who runs towards and not away from danger and distress. A God whose birth is more grit than glitter, more trial than tinsel.

This Christmas, let’s tell the whole story of Jesus. And then, let’s join him in entering into, and not escaping from, all the desperate, despairing places of this world, to proclaim that most essential of truths: 
“God is with you. And so are we. You are not alone.”  Amen.




[1] Weems, Ann.  The Refugees,”Kneeling in Bethlehem. Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1987. Print.

Monday, December 19, 2016

Do Not Be Afraid: Shepherds

"Omran, Angels Are Here" by Judith Mehr

December 18, 2016 - Fourth Sunday of Advent
Luke 2:8-14

In the region of Bethlehem there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. 10 But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: 11 to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. 12 This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” 13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,
14 “Glory to God in the highest heaven,
    and on earth peace among those whom God favors!”


Sermon:  “Do Not Be Afraid: Shepherds”

I’m going to start this morning’s sermon with a riddle (that those of you who are Tolkien nerds like me might get):
          “It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,
Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt,
It lies behind stars and under hills,
And empty holes it fills,
It comes first and follows after,
Ends life, kills laughter.”

What is it?

Darkness! I’ve been thinking a lot about darkness this Advent. Certainly the events in Aleppo make our world feel like a dark place. The tensions in families and communities. The political games. The exhaustion on the faces of those we love. As the days grow shorter and the nights grow longer, sometimes it feels like darkness abounds. We seem surrounded by it, we even feel it within ourselves, and like children trying to drift off to sleep, we fear it.

But maybe darkness isn’t our greatest fear, however threatening the shadows seem. I came across a quote I found particularly helpful:
“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when [adults] are afraid of the light.”

Now, the internet will tell you that Plato said this. Perhaps a reminder of the posts that read “Don’t trust everything you read on the internet!” attributed to Abraham Lincoln will remind us that, just because we’re told someone said something, doesn’t mean they did.  But nonetheless, whether written by Plato or some philosophical grad student in a dorm room, it’s a compelling quote: that fear of the light is the greater tragedy for us grown ups.

Marianne Williamson, later quoted by Nelson Mandela in his inauguration speech, wrote a similar thing, words we’ve been using as our Affirmation of Faith this Advent season: “It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.”

As menacing as the dark seems, as fearful as the night can be, I agree. We will always fear the dark. But we will always fear the light more.

Take the case of those shepherds watching their flocks near Bethlehem.  The text in Luke doesn’t just say they were out strolling with their sheep one night. No, they were living in the fields. They lived in near-total darkness, every single night. Their eyes became adjusted to it, so they could see a sneaky sheep skulking in the inky night in the wrong direction. This pastoral night vision, honed over years of living in the fields, meant the dark was no longer menacing or threatening. It was an old friend, and they could see through it to recognize the real threats of predators lurking beyond the fold.
But one night was not to be like all the others. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them. “Shone around” is so very fun in the original Greek: that word is perilampsen. Lamps, light, all around them.

This word is only used in this form twice in all of scripture: here, in Luke, and also in Acts, describing Saul’s conversion moment on the road to Damascus, when he would receive a new name and a new path. You see, when the perilampsen comes, your life will never be the same.

Maybe that’s why we fear the light the most. The darkness is expected, comforting even, if our souls and eyes adjust to it. It does not demand much of us, except perhaps feeding our most negative anxieties and allowing them to roam as freely as predators in the night.

But the light – the perilampsen – the glory of God stopping us in our tracks, well, that demands much of us. Perhaps this is why the angel’s message of good news for all people, and so many other angelic messages we’ve encountered this Advent, begin with the words, “do not be afraid.” God knows that our first impulse to this blinding light, our first reaction that we have no power to restrain, is fear.

But notice how gentle that angel is!  He/She doesn’t say, “Suck it up, silly! Don’t be a coward!” No, that angel says, “Do not be afraid…for see!” For see. Embrace the light. Study it, allow it to flow around and within you. And then begin to feel its warmth – that this light brings not destruction or threat, but the best news there is: that God is with us all. And, as if the light wasn’t enough, it’s met with angelic choirs singing the words that darkness most fears: glory and peace.

Sometimes, though, like Saul our eyes are blind to this perilampsen and our ears are deaf to this angelic song of glory and peace. Like those shepherds in the field so accustomed to the night, we don’t even notice how little of the picture we’re actually seeing, or how we’re adding to darkness rather than light.  But when this glory of God comes, we see the world and ourselves as we really are, and this terrifies us. 

If we see our pride, our egos, our prejudice, our bitterness, we can’t stay the same. We have to change, because that darkness is no longer cloaked in denial. God’s glory has brought it to light in order to make all things new. Newness is perhaps the most frightening thing of all.

There’s a reason Jesus didn’t appear on the scene as a 35-year-old, or a 70-year-old, or a 90-year-old, or a 17-year-old. Babies literally scream of newness, and nothing is ever the same. Life doesn’t go back to how it was. The very foundation shifts. I was there when my nieces were born. It is beautiful. And it is terrifying.

Because this newness, this light, seems so very fragile. We’re afraid of snuffing its glory with our cynicism or negligence. We’re afraid of tainting it with our preconceptions about the world. We’re afraid of looking so very dim next to it.

But here’s the thing about perilampsen, this brilliant glory of God that came in a newborn refugee child. The more it was oppressed, the more it faced the prejudice and hatred of rulers, and violence and poverty and cynicism, the brighter it shined. The darkness rightly feared it, and still does.

And so, like those shepherds sleeping in the shadows, comforted by them, we must leave our darkness behind, and bask in the glory of this coming child. We must not be like those tragic adults who fear the light, giving ourselves over to the despair darkness brings. If we do that, we will hear stories of violence in Aleppo and Sanford and feel pity and anger and fear, and do nothing. 

But if we give ourselves over to the Light instead, seeing this world as it is but straining our ears for the sounds of angelic music within it, we will do much.  We will reach out to mothers whose children have been enslaved by gang violence in our own community and offer them words of hope and healing. We will give to the White Helmets Hero Fund, that supports rescue workers saving civilians in Syria.  As Duraid, one White Helmet aid worker said, in supporting them “You will restore hope to a person who is hope itself.” 

We will give to the Save the Children Syrian Children’s Relief Fund, recognizing that Jesus was born into a time when children were threatened through the terror of Herod, and he never wants us to forget children enduring similar genocides.  We will name our own fear of welcoming refugees, but let the light of a coming child, and not fear, dictate our path.

Yes, the light, perilampsen, is terrifying. Those shepherds were never the same. Paul was never the same. We cannot play it safe if we are to follow this light.

As Marianne Williamson wrote and we confess this day,
“We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us, it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

So let your light, that perilampsen, that glory of God within you. Especially when the night seems dark and full of terrors. For the Light is coming, and it will change us, and we will change the world.  Amen.

Sunday, December 11, 2016

Do Not Be Afraid: Joseph

Joseph Comforting Mary by Suzy O Photography
Matthew 1:18-25
18 Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. 19 Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. 20 But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. 21 She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” 22 All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet:
23 “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
    and they shall name him Emmanuel,”
which means, “God is with us.” 24 When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, 25 but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus.

Sermon: “Do Not Be Afraid: Joseph”

“Still waters run deep…” isn’t that how your old saying goes?  I suppose there’s some truth in that.  I’ve always, it seems, been associated with quietness and stillness; even before the baby.  You know me as Joseph, husband to Mary, father (well, sort-of, we’ll get there later) to Jesus.  I’ve been remembered, for good or ill, as the strong, silent type.  The manger character just slightly more essential than the second sheep.  Good ol’ carpenter Joe, doesn’t ever make a fuss, does he?

Well, I’m here today to set the record straight.  Yes, I, Joseph, am a man of quiet disposition and deep soul, slow to speak, more apt to listen and observe.  But there’s an even more important aspect of my personality you must understand if you truly want to know me and my family: I never do anything by accident.  Every choice I make is carefully thought out, meticulously considered, and purposefully acted upon. 

You also need to understand the world in which I lived, the faith woven throughout every moment.  Your scriptures say that Mary and I were “engaged” when she was “found to be with child.”  They also say we were married. A bit confused, are you? Let me clear things up: First of all, we weren’t engaged, at least not in your understanding of that.  In my time, marriage was a contract between families that involved several stages:

Stage 1: When a young woman reached puberty, she was contracted to her husband by her father. Vows were taken.

Stage 2: Though already married in terms of vows, she remained with her family while her new husband made arrangements for their livelihood and home.

Stage 3: When all was ready, the young bride came to live with her husband (or him and his parents), the marriage was consummated, and children usually came into the picture.

Mary and I were at stage 2: already married, but not yet living together.  So any complications at this point did mean divorce, not a simple “breaking it off.”

Now, onto the next key part of our story, described by your scriptures as “Mary was found to be with child.”  Found?!  Well isn’t that cute.  This wasn’t some fertility hide-and-seek game.  She was pregnant.  In my time, this meant one of two things: either she had been unfaithful to me, the punishment for which was death, or she had been attacked.  She was pregnant, that much was plain, but she was either guilty or innocent of the circumstances of that pregnancy.  Normally, a public trial would take place to determine Mary’s culpability in her pregnancy.  Your Bible says I was unwilling to expose her to public disgrace.  In my language, I was saving her from being made a spectacle of. 

I had no option but to divorce her; the Law was clear.  But I did get a say in the manner in which that divorce happened: public and dramatic, or as quiet as possible (of course everyone would still know).  As I said, I never made any decision lightly, and I did love Mary, so I wanted to spare her some shame, even if she was guilty.

That was my plan.  I’d thought it through; consulted the Law; began to put things in motion.  But then an angel showed up, and ruined those plans, thanks be to God.

“Joseph, son of David,” he said, “do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

I found it funny he told me not to be afraid.  Truth be told, I hadn’t even realized how terrified I was.  I thought I was acting out of duty and custom – the Law was clear.  I had to choose between the lesser of two evils.  There was no third choice, or that’s what my fear wanted me to think.  Of course, there was.  I know that now.  The angel told me not to be afraid to take Mary as my wife, because this child was from God, a child who would save people from their sins.  I remember finding it ironic that the child who was an emblem of the sin of unmarried relations in my understanding of the Law, was to be himself the intercessor, the forgiver, the undoing of the power of sin.  It’s almost like God did that on purpose! 

The angel’s message wasn’t just about remaining married to Mary, moving on to stage 3.  I was also told to name that child.  Again, you need to know a bit about what this meant in my world.  Naming a child wasn’t picking the least terrible among the family names, or the cutest in the latest name book.  On the whole, mothers did the naming in those days[1].  But for a father to name a child was to say, “This child is mine.” It’s something like adoption in your day.  Put simply, it settles the question of paternity for good. This doesn’t of course mean the gossip dies down entirely, but it gives that child all the rights of inheritance and identity of the father’s line.

As you know, my line had special prophetic significance.  My bloodline was no stranger to strange pregnancies: the beginning of your book of Matthew shows that. I like the way one fellow, Raymond Brown, describes my genealogy:

“Among Matthew's forty-two fathers (his count) were listed four Old Testament women, all of them with a history before marriage or childbirth that made their situation either strange or scandalous. In particular, Tamar, the widow of Judah's son, was found to be pregnant indecently long after her husband's death; Judah denounced her ‘til he realized that he was the father. Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah, became pregnant not by her husband but by David. Yet in all these instances the woman was God's instrument in preserving Israel and/or the lineage of the Messiah. So also, the fifth woman of the genealogy, Mary, is in a seemingly scandalous pregnancy.”[2]

And scandalous it was, this pregnancy of my wife, Mary. I tell you, for a man accustomed to stillness, quietness, and careful calculations of each choice, the unexpected scandal of a child was about as terrifying as it gets.  It turns out, my still waters did run deeper than my fear, though.  Because that angel taught me that sometimes the right thing to do can’t be contained by the constraints of how things have always been done.  Sometimes, God interrupts our careful plans and what matters most is not dogma, or ritual, or even belief, but grace.

I’ll not pretend to you it was an easy life being the adoptive father of such a child.  The stares and the camel milkman jokes never stopped.  There were even a couple of teenage tantrums of “you’re not my real dad” that were pretty painful.  But I wouldn’t trade anything for the honor of being Jesus’ earthly father.  It very nearly didn’t happen.

I tell you my story, partly to finally set the record straight, but also because when I look out today, I recognize many of you.  Some of you sure look an awfully lot like me: the strong, silent type.  And I just want to remind you how very deep those waters within you go, that you don’t have to let your life be dictated by convention and rules all the time.  Sometimes, you can do the unexpected thing: silence your fear with a public act of grace; bear the brunt of others’ scrutiny to protect those you love; recognize that we’re all of us adoptive children of God, hoping our life isn’t some sort of cosmic accident.

Take it from me, Joseph, the choice to belong to each other, (knowing it will cost us much in terms of our rightness, our carefully laid plans, and our pride), this will never, ever be the wrong choice.  Do you have the courage to make that choice, and to stand by it?  How deep will your waters go? Amen.



[1] Mendenhall, Laura S. "Adoption." Journal For Preachers 25.1 (2001): 41-43. ATLA Religion Database with ATLASerials. Web. 7 Dec. 2016.
[2] Brown, Raymond Edward. "The Annunciation Of Joseph (Matt 1:18-25)." Worship 61.6 (1987): 482-492. ATLA Religion Database with ATLASerials. Web. 7 Dec. 2016.

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Do Not Be Afraid: Mary



Before the sermon began, we viewed a slideshow of annunciation artwork, including some of these.


December 4, 2016 - Second Sunday of Advent
Luke 1:26-38
26 In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, 27 to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. 28 And he came to her and said, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” 29 But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. 30 The angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. 31 And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. 32 He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. 33 He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.” 34 Mary said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” 35 The angel said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon 
you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God. 36 And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. 37 For nothing will be impossible with God.” 38 Then Mary said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” Then the angel departed from her.


Sermon: “Do Not Be Afraid: Mary”
We know the scene: the room, variously furnished,
almost always a lectern, a book; always
the tall lily.
       Arrived on solemn grandeur of great wings,
the angelic ambassador, standing or hovering,
whom she acknowledges, a guest.

But we are told of meek obedience. No one mentions
courage.
       The engendering Spirit
did not [arrive] without consent.
         God waited.

She was free
to accept or to refuse, choice
integral to humanness.

Aren’t there annunciations
of one sort or another
in most lives?
         Some unwillingly
undertake great destinies,
enact them in sullen pride,
uncomprehending.
More often
those moments
      when roads of light and storm
      open from darkness in a man or woman,
are turned away from
in dread, in a wave of weakness, in despair
and with relief.
Ordinary lives continue.
                                 God does not smite them.
But the gates close, the pathway vanishes.

She had been a child who played, ate, slept
like any other child–but unlike others,
wept only for pity, laughed
in joy not triumph.
Compassion and intelligence
fused in her, indivisible.
Called to a destiny more momentous
than any in all of Time,
she did not quail,
  only asked
a simple, ‘How can this be?’
and gravely, courteously,
took to heart the angel’s reply,
the astounding ministry she was offered:

to bear in her womb
Infinite weight and lightness; to carry
in hidden, finite inwardness,
nine months of Eternity; to contain
in slender vase of being,
the sum of power–
in narrow flesh,
the sum of light.
                     Then bring to birth,
push out into air, a Man-child
needing, like any other,
milk and love–

but who was God.

This was the moment no one speaks of,
when she could still refuse.

A breath unbreathed,
                                Spirit,
                                          suspended,
                                                            waiting.

She did not cry, ‘I cannot. I am not worthy,’
Nor, ‘I have not the strength.’
She did not submit with gritted teeth,
                                                       raging, coerced.
Bravest of all humans,
                                  consent illumined her.
The room filled with its light,
the lily glowed in it,
                               and the iridescent wings.
Consent,
              courage unparalleled.

Denise Levertov's poem "Annunciation" introduces us to a very different Mary.  She is not all meekness and alabaster skin and laundered blue scarf.  She is the embodiment of courage in the face of fear.  She does not have to say “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

She could have said, “Gabe, you must be crazy! I’m not bearing God’s son. I’m still a child myself, only thirteen, and I’m not even married yet!”  She did not.  She could have given herself over to fear of this mother of unknowns (pun intended), and fled.  She did not.  She consented, and so ushered God into the world with a willing heart and body.  And what love that child would learn from her, all because she chose him! 

Our poet Denise reminds us that this annunciation moment was not Mary’s alone: we all have them.  Moments when God would bring us great possibility, but that light is so startling, that invitation so overwhelming, that we cower in familiar shadows, relieved when God’s Spirit moves on to call someone else instead.  These small annunciations happen so often, we do not even notice them most of the time.

They are the moments just after a conversation has ended in argument, when God nudges us toward apology, yet we retreat into “us and them” instead.

They are the moments when we the invitation is given to tell someone about our faith, or our church, or our questions of God, and then we embrace an evangelism of politeness instead.

They are the moments when a young person, perhaps a child or grandchild, expresses their deep concerns about the world and, instead of asking more and listening, we spout an answer they were not seeking, and shut down true dialogue, because we don’t know what to say, and we worry we’re not right, and that scares us more than anything.

They are the moments when we feel uneasy by the hateful, racist language of a stranger or even a friend, and know we should speak up, but don’t, because we’re just relieved we’re not the brunt of their vitriol.

They are the moments God speaks to us in the middle of the night with dreams of trying something new, of being someone new, but we awake to the complacency of our routines, and we forget.

I doubt Mary has forgotten her moment.  Sometimes, I imagine a wise Mary enjoying heaven with Jesus.  I picture her face this time of year, when that beautiful, but biblically unfounded song, “Mary Did You Know?” gets sung again and again.  I see her rolling her eyes with bemusement that we in the church seem to have forgotten that she was in on the whole incarnation thing from the very beginning.  That her ‘yes’ was not blind acceptance; but that she had some idea of what she was getting into.  She chose to say yes, and because she did, God was born into the world with her eyes, and her laugh.  What a miraculous thing!  She chose to be brave.

When was the last time we did that?

These small annunciations come to us, and like Mary, we have a choice.  We can choose the path of fear, which will keep us doing exactly what we have always done.  We can tell those Gabriels to move on to someone younger or older, someone stronger, less afraid, more faithful, and they will.  And our companion will not be the new life of God, but our old life-draining fear.  Nothing will be demanded of us, and nothing will change.

Or, we can choose the path of courage.  Everything will be demanded of us, and it’s possible that everything will change.  God will dwell in us, show us how very small our fear can be, and how very big our life can be.

God’s Spirit gives us a choice, just like Mary.  Will we consent, or will we let fear rule our lives?   God will be born into this troubled world again and again, this is true.  This is what we cling to each Advent season, as the days grow short and the nights grow long and dark.  God will be born, but the real question is: will God be born in you?  In me?  In us?    Will God have our eyes, our laugh?  That, my friends, depends on what we choose.  Amen.