Mary and the dream of God
Advent 4C | Luke 1:39-45(46-55)
Mary visits her cousin Elizabeth and when she speaks, stuff happens. The child in her cousin’s womb, Elizabeth’s miracle child, who is to be John the Baptist, responds to Mary’s voice. And Elizabeth’s own response is incredible: it says that she
“was filled with the Holy Spirit and exclaimed with a loud cry, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.””
How does she know? It’s not like Mary posted the news anywhere?
But that’s the Holy Spirit, isn’t it? It speaks when we are silent and moves us when we’re afraid. And here, it brings them to see the great joy that is abounding in their presence.
This incredible story of identity and excitement and special announcement and family and anticipation and bonding over future motherhood is super cool. And it takes place in the middle of a bigger, intertwining story of these two mothers-to-be, their partners, and the lives these families will create together.
The evangelist we call Luke invites us into this story by establishing this bigger family. Zechariah, a priest, who is married to Elizabeth, a descendent of Aaron, the priestly brother of Moses. That makes her almost like holy royalty. And her cousin, Mary, is too.
Zechariah and Elizabeth have always wanted kids, a boy or a girl, it doesn’t matter. They aren’t asking for much, like a whole den full of cubs. Just one beautiful, healthy baby. But like so many others, it wasn’t in the cards for them. No matter how much they tried. Or prayed.
That’s why, when an angel visits the holy man, the priest, Zechariah when he was at the altar, at the holiest place in his world, and tells him that he will be a father, that Elizabeth will have a baby boy, he should name him John. Zechariah laughs. Like Sarai. But the angel doesn’t find it funny. The angel silences him, saying he’ll speak again when the boy is born—when he gives him the right name.
Six months later, the angel comes to Mary, too—gives her the deal directly. God will make her a mother, she will bear a son, but he won’t be a prophet—he’ll be the son of God.
Yes, she says. She’s in. It’s a deal.
John and Jesus are the plan.
These parents would be there to raise them. Give them every opportunity they can. Then, when the time comes, these cousins would be off to start the love revolution. The small task of bringing God’s transforming love into the world.
Which is a curious way to do a revolution if you ask me. Every other revolution starts with tyranny and anger and the mass collection of weapons—maybe a written manifesto. Colonists got so mad about the price of tea! And they just wanted to buy that cheaper sugar from the caribbean, but nooooo! The king was like, you’ve got to pay our prices and the colonists were like, that’s it! We’re not leaving you, you left us. Shots fired!
This revolution is like, mmmm…how about we not shoot them? How about we love them instead?
Actually, it’s a bit more than that. The love revolution expects people to treat each other as equals, to not use power to exploit other people, to steal from them, intimidate them, make them do things they don’t want to do but they will because you’re the one with the gun and the thing you’re asking them to do is to give them more money so they, as an individual can put it in their own wallet.
The love revolution doesn’t allow for the kings God warned the Hebrew people about over the centuries, that they went on to experience for centuries. It doesn’t allow for imperialism and crusades—wars of choice or of self-righteous vindication, or torture, execution, and maiming—bombing of cities, hospitals, or shooting up daycare centers or schools. None of this is covered by this plan.
But the most beautiful part of all of this is simply—
Mary said yes.
She understood what the angel was offering because she understood who God is. That God is love and that love looks a lot different than the junk we’re used to reading about in the newspaper.
This is the part of the story that is perhaps most easily overlooked and underconsidered. That Mary not only knew who Jesus was going to grow up to be—at least conceptually—but she knew what God values. The way God works.
This isn’t to say she knew all of the details of the plan, but she understood where it was going. Because God has always been against empire, exploitation, and how wealth and power are used to destroy other people.
So if God was going to do something new here, to offer a messiah, to lead us out of these evil ways, then it would have to come through a love revolution, wouldn’t it?
It’s like I always say, you can’t fight fire with fire—it fundamentally doesn’t work. So now, I keep seeing these ads online for those towels that you keep in your kitchen to smother grease fires on the stove. But, like, that’s the point, isn’t it? The love revolution is one of those towels we smother hate and extortion and violence and inequality and injustice with. We smother it all like the danger it is.
Mary gets this about God
—about God’s dream for the world. And she says to that: I’m in. And, because God has chosen me, then how blessed am I? A nobody. Just a girl, really. No job, no standing, not even a husband—just a fiance.
And, in the most beautifully self-aware state, we see a stunning understanding from her that this is how God is, isn’t it? That she gets to be the example because it fits. It all fits.
It wouldn’t be a prince or a wealthy family, but a distant relative of little consequence. You don’t choose a rich guy to get rid of rich guys. God is lowering the mountains and raising the valleys. She is of the valley where the great mass of people are, the people yearning to be freed from the yoke of oppression—driven to pull the plow that enriches another and protects their progeny and descendents.
For Mary, this is so clearly the way of God, that when Elizabeth calls her blessed, Mary starts singing God’s praises. Like we sang today: the Magnificat. A song of being noticed by God in our lowliness, of God’s generational mercy, empire destroying might, generosity to the hungry and strictness with the wealthy, and the continued devotion to a promise to ancestors long, long ago.
We are now just days from Christmas.
Which means we are in the midst of a season of generosity and joy. And also grief and loss. This is always someone’s first Christmas without a special person. Or the ache of loneliness is more acute this season than the rest. It isn’t an easy time for everyone.
But Mary sings for all of us.
This love revolution God has begun with Zechariah and Elizabeth and Mary and Joseph and John and in Jesus is for all of us. Not just in happy times, but especially when we aren’t! And more than that, it is a balm that soothes the wounds of living in unjust times in an unjust world—when we are the ones who suffer the brunt of empire’s hatred. Or when we are brutalized by those who take advantage of economic conditions to enrich themselves—and most especially, when we feel low. Like we are the lowliest of people.
God chose the lowliest servant. A human mustard seed. She will grow God’s greatness inside her. And that greatness will be revealed to the world.
Friends, this is the beauty of the gospel—why it is such good news to the poor, the lowliest. It is for us! When we are toiling—which is most every day. When we get down—which can be any time.
And what it offers isn’t a magic spell—to wake us from sadness and suddenly [poof!] happy! It is a spark, a cleanse, a jolt, a rushing wind of the Spirit that knocks us on our butts that opens our eyes and hearts to the most obvious thing in life—we aren’t alone. Nobody needs to suffer in silence. Because each of us is here, near, to see and hear the muffled cries.
This is a love revolution, friends.
It isn’t a one-man deal. He didn’t free us that one time two thousand years ago so we can all just pretend everything is fine and all this in our world is the way God likes it. Revolutions require people participating. We partner with God. And Mary gets this. And John the Baptist gets this. And Peter gets this. And Paul gets this. And Hildegarde gets this. And Thomas Merton gets this. And Dorothy Day gets this. And Oscar Romero gets this. And Desmond Tutu gets this. And we get this.
This is what we anticipate. In days we celebrate the anniversary of the birth of a revolution. Of a transformation. Of accepting our call to this new thing. A divine partnership. Healing and freeing each other. Lowly people like us. Misfits and try-hards all. People who weren’t all born into loving homes or have struggled in our lives to do love at all, but we’re here. Trying. Learning. Because this is how the Kin-dom happens. When we love each other, we tear down those walls others build that separate us from grace.