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.