Luke 1:46-55
Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood
November 3, 2024
Mary was brave. But even a brave person will feel unsettled when an angel of the Lord appears.
I’ve never seen an angel myself - at least not one that bellows out “Greetings!” - but since the angels in these stories often follow their greeting with “Don’t be afraid!” I’m guessing it’s a distressing experience.
Surely Mary was afraid. Being told you’ve been carefully selected to give birth to the Messiah? Stressful information, regardless of your situation. But for an unmarried teenager in a society that frowns on pregnancy outside of marriage? Yikes.
Afraid or not, Mary listens to the angels, asks fewer questions than many of us would have, and then accepts the charge.
Soon after, she departs for the hill country, off to visit her relative, Elizabeth. Who - it turns out - is also pregnant. The two women share an intimate moment of joy and excitement over their shared pregnancies and then Mary sings the song we’ve come to know as the Magnificat.
**********
What I found myself wondering as I read this familiar story this week was this: where is Mary’s mother?
Wouldn’t a mother’s guidance be helpful in this situation? We know that Mary’s already engaged to Joseph, so it’s possible she’s already started living with her future in-laws. But Mary’s mother isn’t just absent from this story, she’s absent from all of scripture. She’s not there beside the manger or anywhere else in the story of Jesus’s life.
Grandmothers, you may want to write a stern letter to the editor complaining about this oversight.
We know, of course, that so many details of this story didn’t go down the way they are portrayed here. The stories about Jesus’s birth in our gospels conflict with one another and were written years after his death. Plus, he was born a nobody from nowhere, so who would have been paying attention to the details anyway?
The stories may not be factual reports, but they are still important. As I’ve heard some preachers say, “I don’t know if this story happened, but I know that it’s true.” Meaning: there are important truths conveyed in these Biblical stories even if we lack eye-witness accounts.
So it’s possible her mother was there all along. We don’t know. But her absence in this story makes my heart ache a bit for young Mary. I am reminded of my favorite painting of The Annunciation by Henry Ossawa Tanner. Mary sits on a bed in the dark with a gleaming shaft of light beside her. She looks up at it with a face full of questions. And she looks so very young and so very alone.
**********
Welcoming new life into the world is a funny thing. Even as a mature first-time parent who was ecstatic to meet my child, I was surprised, during my pregnancy, to discover an emotion I couldn’t quite put my finger on lurking in the shadows.
I eventually figured out it was grief. Co-mingled with joy, to be sure, but grief, nonetheless. Because I could see that becoming a mother meant a significant chapter of my life was ending. Welcoming something new meant letting go of what had been.
All Saints Day is one of the times in the church year when we lift up the power of grieving - specifically the complex feelings of loss we walk through when someone we love dies. This is how we most often think of grief - grief over someone who has died. But grief takes many other forms, too: grief over the loss of possibilities, changing relationships, endings (happy and sad).
We can experience grief when we lose a pet, end a marriage, change jobs, move away, or give up a long-held dream. Whole societies experience grief when we go through something like a global pandemic, wars, acts of violence and natural disasters, a season of political unrest. We may feel ill-at-ease, sad, shocked, anxious, confused, guilty angry, terrified, numb. Grief tiptoes up on us when we’re least expecting it. It can wash over us like a tidal wave or drip steadily on the windowsill of our hearts. And it can be all jumbled up with hope, excitement, and joy.
In short: grief can feel like a mess.
Which is why I wish Mary had her mother. And I wonder where her mother is. And I wonder if there is grief jumbled up there in Mary’s brave heart when the angel comes to visit. Because wherever her mother is, she’s not there with Mary on that bed in the dark.
*********
But Mary - wise, brave, resourceful Mary - steps outside the frame of the painting right away.
She may not have her mother, but she knows this is no time to be alone. She weaves her own community - traveling to be with her relative, Elizabeth. In doing so, she also ensures Jesus will not be alone. He will be born into community, entering the world connected to his cousin, John, who will come to play such an important role in his life.
And the song Mary sings while with Elizabeth - the one we’ve come to know as The Magnificat - connects her to her ancestors, too. It’s a remix of Hannah’s song, from First Samuel. And Hannah’s song has echoes of Miriam’s song from Exodus 15. All three are songs about God’s faithfulness in times of trial and how God’s heart is most-especially with the vulnerable. They are prophetic songs - songs of a world turned upside down. The last are first and the first are last. The hungry are filled with good things and the rich are sent away, wanting. And they are songs about community woven across generations: Mary sings of “the promise you made to our ancestors — to Sarah and Abraham and their descendants forever.”
We can imagine Mary singing this song to her infant son. For all we know, it’s a song that Mary’s mother sang to her.
It’s a song that connected Jesus to not only his mother’s voice but the hearts of his ancestors. A song that showed him his place in the world - anchored firmly in a long line of prophets, misfits, and outsiders hoping against hope for a better world. A song that spun a vision of the world as it could be - a vision of God’s realm come on earth.
Is it any wonder, then, that as an adult Jesus spun stories about lost sheep finding their way back to the fold, tiny seeds growing into mighty bushes, day-laborers encountering a generous landowner, outsiders pausing to help strangers on the side of the road when insiders shirked their duty, and two lost sons and their lost father finding their way back to one another?
This was the song Jesus inherited from the saints who went before him. And it’s the song we inherit, too.
In times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to us singing her ancient song of wisdom, bravery, and hope. She sings through her loneliness and fear, seeking community with kin and ancestors. She listens for the songs of the saints who went before, taking strength from their faith and hope. She sings through grief and pain, excitement and joy - she sings a song of life lived in community, the wisdom of our ancestors, and hope for a better world for all children.
May the song continue through us.