The Past is Present

Luke 1:68-79
Advent 4
December 22, 2024
William G. Carter

Then his father Zechariah was filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke this prophecy:
‘Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them.
He has raised up a mighty savior for us in the house of his servant David,
as he spoke through the mouth of his holy prophets from of old,
   that we would be saved from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us.
Thus he has shown the mercy promised to our ancestors, and has remembered his holy covenant,
the oath that he swore to our ancestor Abraham,

to grant us that we, being rescued from the hands of our enemies,
might serve him without fear, in holiness and righteousness before him all our days.
And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;
   for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,
to give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins.
By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
   to guide our feet into the way of peace.’

One of the remarkable gifts of a true Christmas carol is its ability to transport us to another time and place. We sing here and now, and we are carried back to there and then. 

Take, for instance, the carol, “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” We will sing after the sermon. It is one of my favorites, probably one of yours. “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie! Above they deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.” I can still remember singing it as a kid, snapping out of my own dreamless sleep and imagining the little town. It was magical. I could picture it, even see the humble place where Jesus was born. I wouldn’t see Bethlehem until I was forty years old, but I could imagine it in my mind. Through the Christmas carol, the ancient story became real to me right then and there.

Years later, I learned the story of how the song was written. It wasn’t written in Bethlehem, but in Philadelphia, in an Episcopalian church on Rittenhouse Square. The Rev. Phillips Brooks wrote the words, then handed them off to the church organist Lewis Redner, who dreamed up the tune. The original manuscript is framed in the narthex of the Church of the Holy Trinity.

Brooks wrote the words, remembering a Christmas journey to Bethlehem while he was taking a sabbatical from his church. He had sat on horseback, gazing at the fields where the shepherds had heard the angelic choir. He took his place in a pew and worshiped at the church that had been built upon the traditional site where Jesus was born. Here’s the thing: he composed the poem in 1868, three years after he had returned from his trip. And he wasn’t only remembering the journey from three years before. He was remembering back over 1868 years.

This is how a lot of Christmas carols work. They travel back in time and take us with them. That’s how the song of Zechariah works. He sings of Christmas in the past tense: “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them. He has raised up a mighty savior for us in the house of his servant David.” The mighty savior is Jesus, of course. Never mind that Luke puts these words on his lips before Jesus was even born. Zechariah sings on behalf of all of us who look into the manger with believing hearts and see the child who redeems us as a sign of God’s favor.

In turn, as Zechariah celebrates the birth of Jesus, he also looks backward. He remembers the ancient promises of the holy prophets. He recalls how God promised to rescue him and his people from trouble and hatred. Then he remembers that God also remembers. God looks back to the holy covenant made with Abraham and Sarah, that, “You shall be my people, and you shall multiply like the stars in the sky.”[1] God remembers and makes good on that promise.

Whatever else we say about it, Christian faith is the practice of memory. Can you remember Bethlehem? Can you see it? Not with the eyes in your head but with the eyes of your heart. That’s the faithful practice of memory.

I tell you, if we only looked at Bethlehem with the eyes in our heads, it could be a disappointment. The shepherds’ fields are full of condominiums. The original manger is covered by a basilica, massive and overbuilt. The site is managed by Catholics, Armenians, and Greek Orthodox, who regularly squabble among themselves. Sometimes the Coptic and Syriac Orthodox join in the arguments. The neighborhood is subject to violence. The Israelis lock it down on a moment’s notice. And when the mood is peaceful, there are more gift shops than there are fleas on a camel. In his Philadelphia Christmas Carol, Phillips Brooks spoke of “dark streets.” They are still there.

And yet, can you remember Bethlehem? Can the Holy Child of Bethlehem, born so long ago, “be born in us today”?

I ask because Christmas, for a growing number of people, is a flat memory, not a living one. Maybe it happened, maybe it didn’t. If the story happened, the retelling of it may have been enhanced. It is not enough to have an unwed couple placing their newborn infant on a bed of straw. We must add a drummer boy and friendly beasts, and a talking snowman, and eight reindeer, and then a ninth reindeer with a bright red nose.

Certainly, the simple story of Christ’s birth has expanded into a cast of thousands, including the North Pole workshop, the Island of Misfit Toys, and the Radio City Rockettes. The guy around the corner from me seems to have spent thousands of dollars on artificial stars, inflatable elves, and a ten-foot-tall Halloween monster who is now wearing a Santa hat. I am not sure he’s remembering his redemption, but he’s spending a lot of money. A lot of people do.

In the thick of all the commercial pressure, family expectations, and the demands of the cold weather, can we remember Bethlehem?

Some help for us comes through Zechariah and his Christmas carol. For one thing, he is not only singing of Jesus before his birth; he also sings of his newborn son John. John, who we will later know as John the Baptizer, comes to prepare the way of the Lord. That is, he prepares the way by which God will come to us.

We remember John. He has come to clear God’s highway by cleaning out the spiritual underbrush. He works by speaking, announcing as loudly as he can that our mistakes and miscues are cancelled. Our sins are forgiven. God comes to straighten out the things we have twisted out of shape. John speaks the liberating wisdom that we do not have to remain captives to our foolishness. There is nothing we can do to remove us from the presence of God. This is John’s message of preparation. His father Zechariah sang about it in the future tense. It is going to happen. God’s coming is a sure bet.

And then Zechariah sings of here and now. The coming of the Savior is God’s rescue. It is here now, as surely as it has happened. The impact of it all is to serve God, to not be afraid of God, and to live in “holiness and righteousness.” Did you all write that down? Don’t be afraid of God. Instead, live in holiness and righteousness.

Now, I can imagine the cackling in coffee hour if I wander over to your table and refer to you as God’s “holy and righteous” ones. To a one, you’d say, “We’re not worthy.” True enough. Of course we’re not worthy. But in the New Testament, “holiness and righteousness” are not human achievements. They are God’s affirmations. We are called saints because God is doing the sanctifying. We are holy because God has taken away all our excuses. We are declared righteous because Christ is our righteousness. To remember Bethlehem is to remember all of this and live as if it is true. We are loved, we are called, and we are commissioned to make a difference in the name of the One who loves us all.

This is Zechariah’s Christmas carol. Grammatically, it moves freely between the tenses. It looks back to the past, scans ahead to the future, while remaining planted in the present. The story of Christmas is sung again, in our time, in our place. Those who were dwelling in darkness discover light shining upon them.

That reminds me of a man named Brooks. Not Phillips Brooks, but David Brooks. Those who have read his columns in the New York Times in recent years may have detected a shift in his spirit. On Friday’s column, he offered a complete confession of what has been going on in his spiritual life. And it is remarkable. Brooks writes: 

When faith finally tiptoed into my life it didn’t come through information or persuasion but, at least at first, through numinous experiences. These are the scattered moments of awe and wonder that wash over most of us unexpectedly from time to time… In those moments, you have a sense that you are in the presence of something overwhelming, mysterious. Time is suspended or at least blurs. One is enveloped by an enormous bliss…

He had some moments. They did not answer his questions. Rather, they opened him up to enormous mysteries. One April morning, he was riding a subway car in New York. He says,

I looked around the car, and I had this shimmering awareness that all the people in it had souls. Each of them had some piece of themselves that had no size, color, weight, or shape but that gave them infinite value. The souls around me that day seemed not inert but yearning — some soaring, some suffering or sleeping; some were downtrodden and crying out.

These thoughts prompted him to reflect on his job as a journalist. The people he writes about have souls, a spark of the divine, while simultaneously fallen and broken. And then he thought, if people have souls, maybe there is a soul-giver. Not long after that, he was hiking in Colorado. Stopping at a mountain vista, he paused to read from a book. It was a volume of Puritan prayers, of all things. He read these words:

Let me learn by paradox that the way down is the way up,

That to be low is to be high,

That the broken heart is the healed heart,

That the contrite spirit is the rejoicing spirit,

That the repenting soul is the victorious soul.

The upside-down logic startled him. He sensed a goodness greater than anything he could have imagined, a goodness that sounds like the beatitudes of Jesus. It hit Brooks with the force of joy. “I wanted to laugh (he says), run about, hug somebody. I was too inhibited to do any of that, of course,” but he found some happy music to listen to as he smiled his way down the mountain. Something had clicked into place. It was like falling in love.

I like how he concludes:

(More than a conversion), the process felt more like an inspiration, as though someone had breathed life into those old biblical stories so that they now appeared true. Today, I feel more Jewish than ever, but as I once told some friends, I can’t unread (the Gospel of) Matthew. For me, the Beatitudes are the part of the Bible where the celestial grandeur most dazzlingly shines through. So these days I’m enchanted by both Judaism and Christianity. I assent to the whole shebang. My Jewish friends, who have been universally generous and forbearing, point out that when you believe in both the Old and New Testaments, you’ve crossed over to Team Christian, which is a fair point.[2]

Hear what he said? “It felt like someone had breathed life into those old biblical stories.” That is what Zechariah was singing about. The past becomes the future, which is now woven together in the present. In that eternal moment, we know it is all true. There and then. Here and now.

That hearkens back to the other Mister Brooks, not David Brooks but Phillips Brooks. Here is one of the stanzas we are about to sing: 

How silently, how silently, the wonderous gift is given!

So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven.

No ear can hear him coming, but in this world of sin,

Where meek souls will receive him, still the dear Christ enters in.[3]

(o) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Genesis 15:5

[2] David Brooks, “My Decade Long Journey to Belief,” The New York Times, 20 December 2024.

[3] Phillips Brooks, “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

God, Magnified

Luke 1:46-55
Advent 3
December 15, 2024
William G. Carter

A third Christmas carol is placed on the lips of young Mary. She has gone to a certain town to visit her cousin Elizabeth, after learning Elizabeth is great with child, se she will be. Both pregnancies are extraordinary. Elizabeth is as old as the Old Testament. Mary is young and not quite married. You might think two pregnant women would compare notes about stretch marks and other medical details. Yet this is the Gospel of Luke. Luke says both women are full of the Holy Spirit, so we are going to hear some theology.

And Mary said,
‘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.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.
His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy,
according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever.’

Those are big words for a young girl from a small town. They are structured like an ancient hymn, so it is easy to call this a Christmas carol. Indeed, her burst of praise has been set to music in every subsequent generation of the church. For those parts of the Christian family who pay a lot of attention to Mary, it has become a celebration of her pregnancy and all that has been imputed about it, even though it doesn’t mention a baby at all. Did you notice that? 

She sings of God. She rejoices in God’s saving power. She affirms the great grace she has received as God’s lowly servant. With great certainty, she states everybody in the future will bless her. All of that is true. Yet Jesus is never mentioned. His birth is never specified. There’s even a question that Mary actually sang the song; if you look at the footnote for verse 46, it mentions that a few of the handwritten versions of the text assigned the song to Elizabeth, not to Mary.

Ultimately, the singer doesn’t matter. What matters is the song itself. It’s a really big song, enormous in fact. For what we have today is an overture to the Gospel of Luke. Or as Luke calls it, “the Good News of God.” Everything that will happen in the next twenty-three chapters of Luke’s book is foretold in this Christmas carol. And everything in this Christmas carol has already been declared in the promises of the Jewish Bible.

Now, Mary didn’t need to make up these words. She already had the words. Over on my bookshelf, there are a couple of thick books that tell us every line in her Christmas carol comes from somewhere else. If Mary were in school, she might get reprimanded for plagiarism. But she is not in school. She’s in the Psalm Making Tradition of Israel. She lifts phrases from the prayer book. She quotes the Song of Hannah, from the second chapter of First Samuel.

Like a jazz saxophonist, she is singing new variations on an old song, while keeping continuity with that song. We hear the reference points, the rhythms, the resonance with the original. Hannah did not have a child until God said a baby’s coming. She says, “My heart exults in the Lord; my strength is exulted in my God.” (Sound familiar?) She says, “God brings down and God lifts up.” (Uh huh!) She says, “God raises the poor from the dust, and God cuts off the wicked and the proud.”[1] It was true for Hannah, it will be true for Mary, it will even be true of the ministry of Jesus.

For Jesus would say, “The last shall be first and the first shall be last.”[2] Sounds like his mother. He would teach the people saying, “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Woe to you who are rich, for you have received all the consolation you’re going to receive.”[3] That is in his mother’s song, too. “The hungry will be filled, those who are satiated will go hungry.” That’s the grand reversal of God’s kingdom, by which God remembers those in need, and God reminds those who think they have plenty that they also have needs. Everyone is addressed. Everyone is reminded of God.

What I notice about this Christmas carol is how Mary universalizes the particular. By other evidence in Luke’s story, we know she is poor, yet she knows God loves her, and therefore God loves the poor. As a young maiden of that time, she had no social standing, yet she celebrates that God lifts her up. She has nothing but a song; therefore, God fills her with all good things. She has done nothing to deserve God’s honor. Therefore, she is worthy of God’s honor, the very definition of God’s grace.

What I also notice about this Christmas carol is that what Mary is singing about is not visible to the multitudes. It is not obvious to the powerful, the mighty, and the rich. Yet she sings about being seen, noticed, cared for, and lifted up. For this is the small work of God, and it is magnified. Magnified. It’s how Mary begins the song, “My soul magnifies the Lord.” That’s a wonderful word: magnified.

As I age, I am finding support by having magnifying glasses all over the house. My wife, who’s a few years older than me, taught me that. The optometrist says my eyesight is still good if my glasses are on. But these days, the small print seems smaller.

Out of increasing need, I was delighted to find magnifiers available online at Temu.com. They are cheap, probably made in Chinese sweatshops, but they do the trick. I ordered a few. When they arrived, they seemed smaller than they appeared on the website. But they do make small things a lot bigger. A third grader might use one of these to get a closer look at a bug. I use them to view the four-point font of my Bible footnotes. Or the tiny liner notes on the back of a recording. A magnifier shows you what is always there but has remained too difficult to see.

And we hear Mary sing, “My soul magnifies the Lord.” It’s a curious phrase, isn’t it? What she is telling us is that what’s going on in her inner being (her soul) is making God bigger in her understand. I get that. I’ve never had a baby, and I’ve never given birth to the savior of the world. But I understand. God is frequently hard to see, so much so that many doubt that God is even there. Yet when a miracle happens – and especially a miracle like childbirth – it brings God’s power and grace into clearer view.

When you get a sense that God is lifting you up, it affirms that you have value even if you have felt unseen. When you get a view that God is knocking the arrogant down a few pegs, it confirms there is justice in the universe. When the hungry are fed, it clicks that this has been God’s intention all along. When the greedy are held accountable and given limits, we can nod in recognition that God wants everybody to have what they need and not closets stockpiled with extras.

This was one of the apocalyptic revelations of the pandemic a few years ago. Remember when a few people were stockpiling all the toilet paper for themselves? There was a lady in town who had two pallets delivered in her driveway. What was she thinking? What was she full of? Full of herself, most likely, at the expense of others. Just that little greedy click of the mouse, so she could grab what others could not. What a magnification of the smallest human impulse! It revealed a heart full of selfishness, to which God says, “No!”

You see, I know Christmas is coming. But Mary is not singing about the birth of a baby, her baby or anybody else’s. Mary sings about God. God is the subject of every one of her sentences:

God shows mercy.

God shows strength. God scatters the proud.

God brings down the powerful. God lifts up the lowly.

God fills up the hungry. God sends the rich empty.

God helps his people. God remembers those who remember him.

These are God’s values, the values of a kingdom governed by mercy, not greed. And are these values political? Well, you tell me. It pushes the question: what kind of a world do we hope for? What kind of world is worth working for? Is it God’s kind of world – or our kind of world?

Did you know, Mary’s Christmas carol is so revolutionary that it was outlawed in India before British rule ended? Or that in Guatemala, if you sang the Carol in the 1970’s and 1980’s, you could be jailed without a trial. Or that during the military dictatorship in Argentina, the mothers of those who had “disappeared” sang the Magnificat as a protest? They did so at the risk of their lives. And they did so because they believed in a God who makes things right, rather than keeps things crooked.

And this God does not work on pure air, sitting on a cloud somewhere. This God works through people with their feet on the ground, people who take on God’s holy values, people who practice truth-telling rather than lying, people who believe in openness rather than oppression, people who feed others rather than hoarding food for themselves, people who work for the benefit of their neighbors rather than manipulating people’s ignorance to work against their own best interests.

This week, I’ll bet somebody is singing Mary’s Christmas carol in Syria, where fifty years of a torturous regime has suddenly come to an end and the torturer ran off to hide in Russia. Who knows where Mary will sing it next?

The Gospel of Luke will keep reminding us that Christmas is about far more than the birth of a little boy. Christmas is about God’s intention to recreate a broken world through that little boy. He is the boy who grew up, who did good and suffered as a result, and who came back and is still working. Mary sings of nothing less than a new heaven and a new earth.

-        The new heaven is the heaven of God’s mercy, forgiving our sin and calling us to turn away from it. Heaven says God has restored our broken relationship to him through no help from us. It is a gift to be accepted. A grace to be received.

-        The new earth is obvious: it is the earth where every one of God’s creatures is treated with dignity, respect, and fairness. It is the earth where justice and righteousness are interchangeable words. It is the earth of welcome, inclusion, and embrace of all, where we are alternately knocked down or lifted up until all of us fit. 

So, listen to Mary sing. Listen to her sing of God’s great vision for us and for all. Listen to her sing of love enacted, of grace turned into graciousness, of brokenness healed, of shalom restored. Listen to her sing until you can sing along. Listen and sing. It is the song of God, magnified.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] See 1 Samuel 2:1, 8-10.

[2] Luke 13:30.

[3] Luke 6: 20, 24.

Perplexed By Grace

Luke 1:30-37
Advent 2
December 8, 2024
William G. Carter

But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. The angel said to her, ‘Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. 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. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.’ Mary said to the angel, ‘How can this be, since I am a virgin?’ 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. 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. For nothing will be impossible with God.’

A few years ago, I visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art with one of my adult children. We climbed the Rocky steps, paid our admission fee, and proceeded to be overwhelmed. There’s so much to take in: paintings, sculptures, photographs, tapestries, and suits of armor.

But I was there to see one particular piece. It’s a painting by Henry Ossawa Tanner. I had first seen it on a postcard. On a previous visit, it was unavailable for viewing. This time, I made sure it was there. I pitched the case to my daughter. She said, “Sure, let’s find it.” Grabbing a map, we located the painting – in a gallery at the far end of the building. We took a brisk walk. Suddenly, there it was.

Tanner painted our Bible story. It’s called the Annunciation, a portrayal of the Angel Gabriel announcing to Mary that she would bear a son. The painting is large, about six feet wide by five feet tall. As I expected, it stopped us in our tracks.

Gabriel is portrayed as a shaft of light, burning with energy. If you didn’t know the story or the connection to it, the angel would be unrecognizable. By contrast, Mary sits on the edge of her bed. There’s no halo around her head. The young woman wears a peasant’s tunic, a little rumpled. Her head tilts to the left. For me, what makes the painting is the look on her face. Without speaking a word, she says, “What am I getting myself into?”

Now, angels announce. That’s what they do. They appear to declare what God is going to do. Last week, we heard of the angel telling the old priest Zechariah, “Your prayers are answered. Your wife will bear a son.” Today, we hear of the same angel visiting the young maiden, Mary. Gabriel says, “You are also going to bear a son – and you weren’t even praying for this.”

No wonder Henry Ossawa Tanner captures the unspoken response from the young girl, “What am I getting myself into?” The Gospel of Luke says she was perplexed. That’s the polite translation. The more accurate translation would be to say she was totally blown away.

Now, let’s give Gabriel some credit. He doesn’t roll out the news all at once. He comes with a joyful greeting, kind of like a “Good morning!” or a “Happy day!” It’s the same greeting Jesus offers to the women outside the Easter tomb,[1] kind of a mix between “Howdy” and “Hallelujah.” Gabriel says, “It’s a great day!”

Then he goes on: “You are blessed. You are filled with the beauty of God. The Lord be with you!” Rather than say, “and also with you,” she tilts her head, looks at him, and wonders, “What’s this all about? What am I getting myself into?” It’s a good question. She had a lot of good reasons to ask.

Around that time, there was a popular folk tale in Israel. It’s the story of Tobit, a legend that didn’t get into the Bible. The book of Tobit tells about a young woman who was about to be married. On the verge of her wedding night, a jealous angel appears and strikes down her bridegroom. In that popular legend, this happened seven times to seven different bridegrooms. The bride, a woman named Sarah, got tired of an angel appearing before her wedding. If Mary knew the story (and a lot of people knew it), she wouldn’t be too happy about an angel appearing.

She was promised to Joseph. In that time, the marriage would have been arranged by her father. She would live with her parents for a year after the betrothal, until the day would come when Joseph arrived to take her into his home. And here is an angel, appearing to say, “Hail Mary, full of grace!” What was this about?

We rush too quickly into these stories, reaching for their conclusions, and speeding by the certifiable confusion of this young woman. Why is the angel coming to her? What does the angel have up the holy sleeve? What does all this mean? Because angels do not normally show up, much less show up to say, “You’re full of beauty, you’re full of grace, you’re full of blessing.” Come to think of it, nobody ever shows up out of the blue to say, “You’re full of beauty, you’re full of grace, you’re full of blessing.” Not unless they want something!

My teacher Fred Craddock tells of sitting in a diner late one night. He ordered a hot dog and a Coke. While he waits, the door blusters open and an old man takes a seat at the counter. The waitress knows him. She puts down a cup of coffee in front of the man and he says, “You almost done for the night?” The waitress nods toward Fred, as if to say, “He’s my last customer.” The cook brings out the hot dog, she delivers it with the Coke.

The old man says, “Are you closing up soon?” She nods yes. He says, “How about if I walk you home.” She says, “You are not going to walk me home.” He says, “I’m happy to do it.” She said, “No, you will not. If I let you walk me home, soon I will be great with child.” At that, Fred looked up from his hot dog.

The old man said, “What do you mean?” The waitress said, “Haven’t you heard about Sarah?” Sarah who? She said, “Sarah in the Bible.” What about her? “She was old like me, and she conceived a baby.” How did that happen? And the waitress said, “She believed in the man upstairs.” He said, “Well, I could still walk you home.”

The waitress said, “You will not walk me home. Haven’t you heard about Hannah?” Hannah who? “Hannah in the Bible. She could not have a baby, but then she conceived and bore a son.” He said, “How did that happen?” Again: “She believed in the man upstairs.” The man at the counter sat quietly, then said, “I can still walk you home.” At this point, Fred said he had forgotten about his hot dog.

Then the waitress said, “You will not walk me home. I suppose you have heard about Elizabeth.” Elizabeth who? “Elizabeth in the Bible. She was old like me, but she conceived and had a baby.” He said, “How did that happen?” She said, “She believed in the man upstairs.”

He took a slug from his coffee, winked at her, then said, “Well, if I were a woman, I wouldn’t believe in a man upstairs.” Whew, the stories you hear when you step out of church.

Now, no amount of sweet talking will do. Yet it sounds like that is exactly what the angel does. Listen to what the angel sings:

You are going to have a son, Mary.
He is going to be great. He will be the greatest.
People will know him as the Son of the Most High God.
He is going to be king. His kingdom will be forever.
He will sit on his ancestor David’s throne. He will rule over Jacob’s people forever.

With this, she looks at the angel Gabriel and says, “How can this be?” She has a point. The biology does not add up. She is still living in her parent’s house. Her future husband has not come for her yet. The town of Nazareth will not look with favor upon a young woman who becomes pregnant out of wedlock, especially if she has not yet joined with her future husband. It’s not what you do in a Middle Eastern village, where cultural values are reinforced by shame.

And, as you and I know, the angel Gabriel has left a few details out of his announcement. He has not mentioned that Mary’s future son will not only do a lot of good, but he will also face a lot of trouble because of the good that he does. The angel doesn’t tell her the boy will run afoul of the religious authorities. Or that the Roman empire would execute him as a criminal. There is no mention that her son will be betrayed, arrested, abused, whipped, or crucified. That got left out of the Christmas carol; it usually does.

The reason for that is we tend to sing the conclusions, not the stories. Everything Gabriel tells her will be true. Jesus will be the greatest, the Son of the Most High God, the king who rules forever. Yet the angel sings of the end of the story, not the story itself. And we cannot blame him for this. Angels are eternal. They live with God who resides concurrently in past, present, and future, all at the same time.

So, the angel knows ahead of time how the end of the story will turn out. Mary, young Mary, bound to her time and place, can only ask, “How can this be?” It is too big to take in, too enormous to comprehend. In the grand screen of eternity, she cannot see that the whole announcement is about grace.

What is grace? It’s the news that God so loved the world that God sent Jesus into the world. Today we hear about Gabriel coming to Mary. We hear about Mary hearing the news of what’s coming to her – and to the world. Yet the story is not about Gabriel or Mary. It’s about God: God who believes we are redeemable, God who affirms we are forgivable, God who thinks all of us are worthy of love, mercy, justice, and peace.

Gabriel’s Christmas carol today is all about God who decrees the conclusion: that Jesus will be great and will rule over all, that he will rule forever. And it’s about God who is willing to work with us, through us, and in spite of us to accomplish his will by sending us Jesus, first in person, and then through his Holy Spirit.

This is the Gospel, the work of God that reveals the heart of God. And it’s so much to take in. It’s no wonder that Mary asked, “How can this be?” Or that we wonder what we’re getting ourselves into by believing all of it. But this is what I’m telling you today: it’s all Good News. Everything that God is going in Jesus is blessed good news. It’s full of grace. And so are we. Not because of who we are, but because, as Jesus tells us, “God is kind, even to the ungrateful and the wicked.”[2]

That, as they say, is something to sing about.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Matthew 28:9

[2] Luke 6:35