Assent to Joy

Sermon for The Fourth Sunday of Advent

Saint Peter's | Arlington, VA

Luke 1:39-45 (46-55)

On this fourth and final Sunday of Advent, each candle in our wreath is lit, the creche is nearly full, and it is not Christmas just yet. Almost, but not quite.

Which means there’s still some time left for any last-minute preparation that may or may not have been put off—which I’m sure stirs up some mixed feelings...

Nevertheless, in this season of waiting in darkness, as we begin to turn ourselves toward the light that is to come, perhaps eagerly so, there is still important work for us to do if we are to fully enter into Christmas. Our lessons and liturgy this morning invite us into a practice of cultivating creative, prophetic imagination—and it is two women who will be our teachers. 

We can hear echoes of this invitation in a poem called The Rose That Grew From Concrete:

Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete? Proving nature's law is wrong it learned to walk with out having feet. Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams, it learned to breathe fresh air. Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else ever cared.

I love the imagery in this poem that is at once both playful and prophetic. 

But even more so, a rose growing in some faraway, forgotten fringe of society is the very Christmas story we will gather around in just a few short days... Or to put it differently, “Lo, how a Rose e’er blooming from tender stem hath sprung!... It came, a flower bright amid the cold of winter when half-gone was the night.” 

Throughout our scripture, it is often from the overlooked places and people that wisdom comes. And in much the same way, refrains of resilience in the face of foreboding circumstances have a way of surfacing from seemingly unlikely places. At times prophetic voices may even come in the form of a quiet whisper, rather than from a megaphone. 

Over these recent weeks we’ve been working our way through the Advent hymn O Come, O Come, Emmanuel (or “God With Us). Perhaps it has felt like an interesting choice for a “Song of Praise,” maybe even just a little unsettling—because it has something of a mournful feeling to it, doesn’t it?

Now, to be sure, it does tell all the praise but it tells it slant, so to speak. It’s not quite so straightforward.

It speaks of exile and captivity, of tyranny and gloomy clouds, of loneliness and mourning. Through it we hear—and join alongside—God’s people from all of history in longing for deliverance, for salvation from our wounds and estrangement from God and one another. It is something like a guttural cry that emerges from the deepest core of human need, with all of the complexity that comes with it. 

It’s in more than just the words, though. Because the origin of this well-known melody is actually a chant that was used in funeral processions—which some have even called a “death chant.” So, it’s really no surprise that it may sound a little somber. And perhaps the degree to which it does depends on the time and place within which the tune is set. 

This palpable and layered longing for God to be “with us” is something of a dirge through hope and despair, grief and celebration—because all of these things are inextricably interwoven. 

Every “rejoice” (or “gaudete”) that is lifted up in this song comes from this context. It rises much in the same way a beautiful rose might find a way through a crack in the concrete—or like one set against the grey backdrop of a gloomy, cold winter that bursts forth in bright red brilliance at the eleventh hour, when all hope for any semblance of goodness and beauty would seem to have been lost.

This is just what “praise” in a setting of Advent longing sounds like. It is a rejoicing that comes with much texture—but it is rejoicing nonetheless. It’s a kind of practice nicely captured in the title of a new memoir by the well-known and loved television cook, Ina Garten, Be Ready When the Luck Happens. Rejoice in living, as the title suggests, and be ready: because there’s a very thin line between anticipating something new to come and living in a way that calls it forth into reality.

It’s for this reason the words of O Come, O Come Emmanuel have long been linked to those of The Magnificat. From as early as the 8th century, monastic communities would prayerfully recite these two different pieces together: the hopeful longing for a world to come set alongside this jubilant proclamation from the Mother of Christ that that world has indeed arrived. 

We need look no further than this morning’s lesson in the Gospel of Luke to learn about imaginative, prophetic living. By this I mean living in a way that is grounded in the everydayness of life but sees beyond things as they are to enact what the theologian Kelly Brown Douglas calls “God’s just future.” It is living in a way that is not content to leave the vision of God’s Kingdom (or we might say Beloved Community) to some far-off distance tomorrow but instead reaches for it and pulls it into this historical present, today.

The biblical scholar, Walter Brueggemann, suggests in his seminal work The Prophetic Imagination that the work of a prophet is to engage in “futuring fantasy.” 

“The prophet does not ask if the vision can be implemented,” he writes, “for questions of implementation are of no consequence until the vision can be imagined. The imagination must come before the implementation.” 

And this is precisely what unfolds between Elizabeth and Mary. 

Both women know about living on the lowly margins. Their lives are shaped by a patriarchal society and are subjected to the violence of occupation. And it is from these bleak margins, where agency is limited at best and hope is so-often scarce in supply, that joyful song erupts.

This passage in Luke’s Gospel is the only section in which women give speeches that are not then followed by them being corrected. There is no challenge to their truth telling. In this exchange between these two, Luke ascribes to each the highly revered role of prophet—because it is through them the Word speaks and the Spirt does something new. 

Prophets are those who receive a word from God and then make it known. It’s about sharing divine wisdom with others more than merely receiving it for oneself. Prophets are like midwives in the thing God’s Spirt is seeking to birth.

So, Mary hears a seemingly impossible thing from the angel Gabriel—and enacting it is far removed from any realm of practicality or strategic implementation and personal fortitude. This is something altogether different. And with only as much as a vision and steadfast faith, Mary assents and then quickly moves into action.

An unwavering conviction, full or fear and trembling as it surely was, carries her to visit her elderly cousin, Elizabeth: whose situation is nearly as impossible to believe as her own. 

And from the very moment these two enter one another’s presence, God’s Spirit—Emmanuel—is indeed with them. In the same way Gabriel promises Mary the Holy Spirt will come upon her, it so fills Elizabeth that prophesy begins to pour out from her. 

“Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”

It is from this particular place, in all of its lowliness, that salvation will come for all.

Now, in conclusion... All of this if pretty remarkable, but what really grabs hold of me is what happens in the middle of this visitation between two faithful women.

Something is being stirred up. John begins to dance in Elizabeth’s womb. And from the center of this scene, even as much remains unclear, an abundant joy rises up anyhow.

A poem from Mary Oliver, who a good friend of mine (and herself a poet) likes to refer to as “Mother Mary,” suggests a similar kind of wisdom. She writes, “if you suddenly, unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give into it.” And if we really want to catch a glimpse of just what it looks like to engage in “futuring fantasy” in Advent times, I think it is just this.

After the women exchange good news, they then delight in its wonder. They fully give in to it. And it is from this joy-filled place that Mary breaks out into song:  

“My soul magnifies the Lord,     and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,  for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant... He has has brought down the powerful from their thrones,     and lifted up the lowly.”

Assent to the thing God wishes to bring forth—in your life, in our community, in this world. Assent to joy. 

Because in giving ourselves to joy even in less-than-ideal or possibly hostile conditions, it will bloom. Even in the dark night, it will bloom. Even in fear and trembling, it will bloom. 

And as we proclaim the Good News of Christ together, in the words of the Avent hymn we sing today, this joy

whose fragrance tender

with [a] sweetness [that] fills the air, 

[will] dispel with glorious splendor

the darkness everywhere. 

Amen.