A Plan for the Fullness of Time

Ephesians 1:3-14
Christmas 2
January 2, 2022
William G. Carter

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,

who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places,

just as he chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world

to be holy and blameless before him in love.

He destined us for adoption as his children through Jesus Christ,

according to the good pleasure of his will,

to the praise of his glorious grace that he freely bestowed on us in the Beloved.

In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses,

according to the riches of his grace that he lavished on us.

With all wisdom and insight he has made known to us the mystery of his will,

according to his good pleasure that he set forth in Christ,

as a plan for the fullness of time,

to gather up all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth.

In Christ we have also obtained an inheritance,

having been destined

according to the purpose of him who accomplishes all things

according to his counsel and will,

so that we, who were the first to set our hope on Christ, might live for the praise of his glory.

In him you also, when you had heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation,

and had believed in him,

were marked with the seal of the promised Holy Spirit;

this is the pledge of our inheritance toward redemption as God’s own people,
to the praise of his glory.


The other day, I was talking with a friend. We were catching up on our kids, and then she told me that she’s no longer working where she was. “At first, it was hard to take,” she said, “but then another position opened up nearby. And then my husband and I decided to buy a property on a lake that we love.” Glancing toward heaven, she added, “Maybe that was The Plan.”

She said “Plan” with a capital P. Such reflection brings us into the mystery of God’s will, the recurring perception that, behind all the job changes, home purchases, and stories about our kids, there is a hidden scheme where all things unfold. It’s an enormous topic for the beginning of a new year.

The will of God. It came up for a fellow pastor on New Year’s Eve. Friday was a foggy night in the north Jersey woods. A deer wandered on the road, right in front of his Dodge Caravan. The unexpected collision demolished the vehicle. “We are OK,” he reports, “and with 345,000 miles, the van didn’t owe us anything.”

One of his friends said, “Everything happens for a reason. Wait six months and you’ll understand why this happened.” David replied, “No need to wait that long. This van was living on borrowed time.” He paused and added, “Aren’t we all?”

That’s all true enough, and the passing of time does add perspective. But I wonder what God’s plan was for the deer who wandered onto the road. It’s hard to imagine the Holy One, seated on a throne and decreeing, “OK, six-point buck, you have lived long enough. And David needs a new van.”

What is the will of God? We pray for it regularly in the words of Jesus: “Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.” It’s a striking phrase. It presumes that God does have a will, or at least a plan or intention. Otherwise the planet would stop spinning and the stars would fizzle out – unless, of course, that was God’s will.

In the prayer of Jesus, it sounds like there is complete obedience in heaven. Down here, not so much. “May your will be done on earth,” he prays, because there’s a chance that it might not be done. At least, not immediately. We live on a planet that resists its own well-being.

Like he said recently: “I’m not getting my covid shots. My time’s about up anyway.” His very wise son said, “How can you be so sure, Dad?” Good point.

Others ponder the will of God and ask, “Has God scheduled viruses and their continuing evolution?” Ever think about that? I’m not prepared to go that far. Yet if we step out of our present circumstances, we realize that viruses and pandemics occur and reoccur throughout history. Back in Bible days, a pandemic was called a pestilence. They’ve been around for a while.

All I know is that, in my own lifetime, smallpox and polio have been wiped out by the research of science and the development of vaccines. Which was the will of God? The origin of the disease or the development of the cure? You tell me.

These are cosmic questions for an unseen God. We can speculate. Any declarations will only be provisional. Is losing a job and buying a lake house the intention of God? Or smashing up a well-worn vehicle on a foggy road? Catching the inevitable virus or getting a vaccine? What is the will of God?

Picture one more scene, a young man in his early thirties. He kneels in a garden to pray, “Let this cup pass from me.” It’s young Jesus, facing his almost certain assassination. He has confronted more of his share of conflict. He knows the dark clouds swirl around him. He knows what he wants. So he prays, “Let this cup of suffering pass from me.” But then he’s wise enough to pray another phrase, “Yet not what I will, but what You will.” (Luke 22:42).

That’s the key. Setting aside our wishes, our plans, our manipulations, to welcome the unfolding script that we do not yet know. That’s the key – and it is so difficult. It punctures the illusion that we are in charge of very much. And it leaves us vulnerable to whatever is coming.

But Jesus did not pray, “Not what I will, but what my enemies will.” He was not waiting for what Caiaphas, Pontius Pilate, and the rest of them would do. He was looking through all the human intentions to see what God was going to accomplish. Jesus was lifted high on a cross, between earth below and heaven above, to bring heaven and earth together. This reconciliation is the will of God.

That’s what our scripture text is singing about. “In (Christ) him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses…” In his life, death, and resurrection, an orderly heaven and disorderly earth are united. This plan from heaven was not anticipated. This event of God’s will was not expected. Yet this one revelatory death – and its confirmation in the resurrection – was sufficient to “raise us from the deadness of our trespasses” (2:4-6) and “break down the wall of hostility (2:13-14).”

And why did God intend to do this? The church of the Ephesians sings all about it:

• “it was our destiny to be adopted into God’s family.” (1:5)
• “it was our inheritance” as new members of God’s household (1:11)
• it happened “according to the riches of God’s grace that he lavished on us” (1:7-8)
• And the bottom line: we belong to God now “through God’s good pleasure” (1:5, 1:9)

The church sings it again: “With all wisdom and insight he has made known to us the mystery of his will, according to his good pleasure that he set forth in Christ, as a plan for the fullness of time.” (1:9)

In these days after Christmas, Ephesians lays out the plan of God: “to gather up all things in Christ, things in heaven and things on earth.” As one of our favorite Christmas carols declares, “Peace on earth, and mercy mild / God and sinners reconciled.” This is what God has always wanted. The coming of Christ has made it happen.

But what this to do with us? With changing jobs, looking for new cars, and getting vaccines? The connection is best stated by the British scholar, N.T. Wright. He writes,

Paul’s great prayer at the opening of this letter is a celebration of the larger story within which every single Christian story – every story of individual conversion, faith, spiritual life, obedience and hope – is set. Only by understanding and celebrating the larger story can we hope to understand everything that’s going on in our own smaller stories, and so observe God at work in and through our own lives.”[1]

The smaller decisions, the risky moments, the tragedies, and the temporary accomplishments are all woven into the tapestry of all that God has done and continues to do. Our lives are part of a larger story that is still unfolding. Call it “a plan for the fullness of time.” Or think of it as “the purpose of God who accomplishes all things.” Our lives are a gift from the immense and eternal life of God. And the mystery of God’s will has been revealed to us in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Eugene Peterson may say it best, as he translated a line from our text: “It’s in Christ that we find out who we are and what we are living for.” (The Message, Ephesians 1:11)

So we move beyond Christmas and begin a New Year at the Table of our Lord, professing the power of his self-giving death in the light of his resurrection. We pray, “thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven,” and we look for that divine will to be done in us, among us, and beyond us. It is a gift to be here, to share this life together, to share this life in Christ.

May the riches of God’s grace bless you in this New Year. For this is the will of God, according to God’s good pleasure.

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

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[1] N.T. Wright, Paul for Everyone: The Prison Letters (Louisville, Westminster John Knox Press, 2002) 8.

The Power to be Born

The Power to Be Born
John 1:1-18
Christmas Eve 2021
William G. Carter

¹²But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, ¹³who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. 

Of all the occasions when I have read this text, I’ve never paid much attention to a phrase in the 12^th verse: He gave power to become children of God. As I read it tonight, the inference is clear: Christmas is for children. Not just the little ones, the chronologically advantaged. Not merely the ancient ones, either, who are now dependent on others for their meals and their care. Christmas is for anyone of any age who is becoming a child. 

It's a striking phrase, not only because it’s a metaphor. It’s striking because there aren’t a lot of kids in the Gospel of John. I could only find one, at the end of chapter four and he’s offstage. It’s a sick little boy in Capernaum healed by Jesus from a distance. He’s the only official child in John’s book.

By contrast, Jesus refers to his followers as children. In chapter 13, he says, “Little children, I’m going away (13:33).” In chapter 21, he returns to say, “Children, have you caught any fish?” (21:5). In the kingdom of God, there aren’t any adults. Only children.

Some say Christmas comes only for children. That depends on what you mean by Christmas. The holidays do become quieter as we age. Old folks like don’t miss the five AM wakeup shake, the shouts of excitement before a slug of coffee, the ripping of wrapping paper, the loud toys, and all of that. These days, my favorite Christmas memories come from sleeping in, having brunch before opening a single package, and sitting quietly by a well-lit tree before the shepherds show up.

The Gospel of John describes Christmas by declaring Jesus “gave power to become children of God.” Maybe he anticipates the words of G.K. Chesterton, the Catholic curmudgeon. Chesterton said, “The great majority… will keep Christmas with Christmas gifts and Christmas benedictions; they will continue to do it; and suddenly one day they will wake up and discover why. That’s what Christmas can do to us.

John calls it “becoming children.” He couldn’t announce it at a better time. The news organizations have written their annual Christmas article about how many fewer people believe in all of it. Self-affirmed Christians in our nation stand at about 63%. My professional opinion is that 37% have decided to be honest.

Becoming a child is challenging work, especially in a world that teaches us to claw your way to the top, hate our enemies, and consume everything we can get our hands on. It gets no easier when you discover the hypocrisy of those who wave their religiosity in our faces; but tonight is not the time to discuss that televangelist in Texas who pays no taxes on his $6 million mansion, or the salacious habits of the now-former president of a religious college, or those who spout pious platitudes but have otherwise lost their minds.

No, we’ll let that go… and explore what it means to become a child.

Admittedly it is a confusing notion, becoming a child. A couple of pages after John says it, he tells of a man who’s confused. He’s a lifelong religious expert, well respected, but something’s missing. Jesus says, “You have to be born from above.” Nicodemus says, “Can somebody like me climb into my mother’s womb a second time?” No, silly. Birth doesn’t happen through our climbing. Birth is a gift. A complete gift. A Christmas gift.

Nobody chooses to be born. Not one of us. Life is a gift. The life of eternity, which John describes, it’s a gift. You can’t strive for it. You can only open your hands. There is a seismic shift from perceiving life as an achievement to affirming life as a gift. It’s the move from something we do to something God does. Rather than achieve, we receive. When this shift is made, gratitude awakens. Trust is built. Love blooms. Life opens up. That’s the essence of how John understands faith: it’s trust, gratitude, love; an open hand, an open heart, an open mind – all of it open to what God is doing.

A good friend asked the Nicodemus question, “How can this be?” I smiled and said, “Yes.” He protested, “But what must I do?” My Gospel of John response: “Let God do the doing. Hang on. Trust that. Receive that.”

See, that’s the essence of Christmas. You and I weren’t waiting for a Messiah, and then God gave us one. And he came to his own folks, the ones who would know him best, and they decided they didn’t want him. But he came to them, they got rid of him, and he came back after they got rid of him, and he’s still around, patiently waiting for us to receive him as a gift. This is all God’s doing; we haven’t initiated any of it.

And it returns us to what it means to become a child. Trust – that’s the true meaning of “belief.” That Latin word “credo,” from which we get the word “creed,” it means “I give my heart.” I give my soul, my mind, my strength. It’s all that God asks of us. And if we listen, it’s all that God is working in us. This is the “power” to become a child of God.

So lean back and let Christmas happen to you. Let the music surround you. Let the joy lift you. Let the love reach you. And then, pass these gifts along. Tonight, the fullness of God’s life comes to this time and this place. It’s for you. It’s for all.

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

The Littlest Shepherd: A Christmas Eve story

Christmas Eve for Children of All Ages
December 24, 2021
William G. Carter


It was a cold night in the hills outside of Bethlehem. Ezekiel stirred the fire with his shepherd's staff. His brother Shemuel yawned and said, "It's getting late."

"Yes," Ezekiel agreed. "One of us will watch over the flock while the others take their rest."

"Oh let me stay up," said the youngest of the three. His name was Yitzak. He was the only son of Ezekiel. This was the first night that his mother allowed him to join his father and uncle for the night watch.

Ezekiel turned and smiled broadly. "Little one, you can barely keep your eyes open. I give you only a few minutes before you nod off to sleep."

"But Abba - Poppa - if I stay awake, maybe this is the night I will see an angel."

With that, Ezekiel and Shemuel looked at one another. They sat in silence. After a long pause, Shemuel said, "Child, that was a long time ago."

"Yes," said the boy, "but the way you describe it, it could happen at any time."

Ezekiel nodded. "We were startled. There was a burst of light, at first a fierce, frightful light, but . . ." His voice trailed off.

"But Abba, you were there."

"Both of us were," said Shemuel, "along with a few others. If one of us had been alone, the others would have dismissed it as a dream. Or a fantasy. But no, it wasn't a dream. It was an angel."

The fire crackled. Ezekiel stirred it again.

"Abba, something about the story is hard to understand. I thought God didn't like shepherds."

Ezekiel laughed. "Where did you ever hear that?"

"In Jerusalem, when I was young."

"You are still very young."

"When I was much younger. Our family delivered three lambs to the temple. For the sacrifices. They were spotless. And the man in the dark robe was angry. He was mean, and said, 'Get out of here, shepherd.' He wanted our lambs, but he didn't want us."

Shemuel growled. "That stupid man had a short memory. David, our greatest king, tended the sheep. So did Amos, one of the greatest of our prophets. And Ezekiel, the prophet for whom your father was named - he knew the true leader of God's people is a shepherd."

Ezekiel touched his brother's sleeve and motioned for him to be quiet. "Son," he said, "It's a recurring property dispute. We follow wherever our flocks will nibble. The sheep know the land belongs to God. The grass of the fields has been planted by God and given to our flocks as a gift. But the city people, who spend money trying to claim land as their own, they complained and complained. So, some years ago, the leaders of the Temple wrote our names on a list. The list said, 'You are not welcome in our Temple. Not unless you atone for all the sins of your sheep.'"

The boy replied, "Is that why we do not attend the festivals or offer the prayers?"

"No, we don't go to the festivals," said the father, “especially if we are not welcome. But we pray everywhere. We pray in the fields. We pray when the sun comes up, we pray at night when the moon replaces the sun. Our work is hard. We need help, so we pray."

Yitzak sat by the fire. It was warm. He was starting to grow very tired. But a new question was making its way to the surface. "Abba," he said, "did the angel go to the priests in the Temple?"

"I cannot say," said his father. "All I know is that the angel came to us, out here, far off in the fields. The angel knew where to find us. He knew because God the Almighty knew. He knows where we are and who we are."

"Yes, indeed," added Shemuel, nodding his head. Now he was smiling, too.

Yitzak said, "What was it like?"

"What was what like?"

"The angel!"

Shemuel said, "Terrifying. Confusing. Hard to take it all in. The angel spoke in a song. We didn't know all the words."

"Oh stop," said his brother, "we could understand. The angel sang that the Messiah is with us, out here, in the fields. It was so compelling. All our hopes, all our memories, all of the promises are in God's hands. That fierce song began to sound sweet. When we blinked, there were hundreds of angels - above us, around us, before us and behind us - all of them singing the same song. Then suddenly they were gone."

A log in the fire sparked. Then another. Yitzak asked, "Abba, is that when you left to see the baby?"

"Oh yes." Both men were nodding, smiling.

Yitzak said, "What did he look like?"

Shemuel said, "That's the point of it all. He looked just like us. And that was enough for me."

"Me too," said Ezekiel. "When I saw him, and the humble place where he was born, I knew that God had truly found us. The Temple may not want us, but God does. The angels may have vanished, but I can still hear their song. God has come among us. God is still here. So go to sleep, little shepherd."

Yitzak yawned deeply, then protested with a small voice, "But I want to stay up and see the angel."

His father pulled the blanket up around his son. Then he said, "We don't have to see everything in order to trust that it's true. It is enough to remember the song."

(c) William G. Carter. Share the story with those you love!

Sitting in Darkness

Luke 1:68-79
Blue Christmas
December 21, 2021
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 my friends recently announced he has a perfect Christmas tree. Is it real or artificial? He didn't say. Is it perfectly shaped? He hasn't told us that either. "It's a perfect tree," he says, "as all of my trees are perfect?" What is his criteria? "It lights up when I plug it in."

"At this busy, frantic, demanding time of year," he says, "I like to conclude my day by sitting in my darkened living room and looking at the well-lit tree."

It's a wonderful image on this darkest night of the year, and one that many of us can immediately understand.

We know how it feels to sit in the darkness. If we lose a loved one and the sun goes out for a while. Lose a job and the stars disappear from the sky. If your marriage concludes, or your child does something destructive in an attention-getting way, or you get really sick, the "gloomy clouds of night" may descend. And it's multiplied by all the demands that this season puts on our souls - or the demands that we put on ourselves.

A blue Christmas is often a dark Christmas. Around us, there are amplified invitations to spend more or to decorate like the neighbors do. The most sinister invitation of all is to "get busy" or to stay busy. The well-meaning friends of Job circle around to tell us to "snap out of it." Some of them point fingers in blame or shame. Yet if we have any experience in grief, we know blame and shame are dead-ends, a forced smile is not helpful, and busyness is merely a postponement. We cannot outrun our sadness; it waits for us.

And it comes with life. This is why the venerable Charlie Brown Christmas is so poignant with so many of us. As Charlie Brown said famously in the opening lines of the show, "I think there must be something wrong with me, Linus. Christmas is coming, but I'm not happy. I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel." A lot of TV producer-types were nervous about those words. They thought they were too honest.

Well, there's nothing wrong with honesty. Darkness is real. If you're feeling it, you are not alone, and that is the first gift of a Blue Christmas. We are in this together. And together, we are not abandoned. There's a striking text from the prophet Isaiah, written during a gloomy season in his nation's history. In the 45th chapter, he hears God say, "I am the Lord, and there is no other. I form light and create darkness." (45:6-7) God is in the darkness because God made it - just as God made the light.

Tonight we hear the Song of Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist. As he gets back his voice after a nine-month spell of muteness, he recalls the faithfulness of God that has gotten him - and his people - through a lot of bumpy days and nights. He looks forward to the coming Messiah, and praises God that his own little boy will point the way and prepare the way.

Then comes the concluding promise:

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.

In the middle of the darkness, there is light. It comes, also, as a gift from God. We receive just enough light to keep from stumbling. It provides necessary illumination for the shadows of all the losses we have known. And one thing more: Zechariah uses a most unusual verb to speak of this illumination: he calls it an "epiphany." It's not merely a visual gift -- it's a gift of insight. An awakening - or better, a re-awakening. We are reminded that we will get through the darkness - because we have gotten through it before. The darkness must be respected. It must be honored.

But the epiphany is remembering that light and darkness coexist. They balance one another. That's why my buddy sits in front of the lit-up Christmas tree in a darkened room. As he puts it, "It's my reminder that there's more to my life than darkness. The light is there, too. When darkness falls, it feels inescapable. But the longer that I befriend it, the more I notice the light." He didn't use the word, but it sounds to me like an epiphany.

The late Ann Weems was the closest we ever had to a Presbyterian poet laureate. She wrote a lot of cheerful poems, about balloons on Pentecost and children with chocolate-covered fingers. One of her final books was her most personal. She wrote it as a way of working through the loss of her son Todd, who was killed on the evening of his 21st birthday.

With the encouragement of a Bible scholar, she started composing some psalms of lament. That's the biblical form of a complaint, naming the pain and trouble, and lifting it into the face of God. These were unfinished prayers, she admits, some of them yet unanswered. She endured long silences in her soul, and then perhaps in a burst of energy, she would scribble on down and then put it in a drawer.

It was hard work. Grief always is. As she described it, "Anger and alleluia careen around within me, sometimes colliding. Lamenting and laughter sit side by side in a heart that yearns for the peace that passes understanding. Those who believe in the midst of their weeping will know where I stand."[1]

In her darkness, the light that crept in came in the form of a promise from Jesus, "Blessed are those who weep, for they shall be comforted." And then one more prayer found its way onto her page. Goes like this:

 

In the godforsaken, obscene quicksand of life,

there is a deafening alleluia

rising from the souls

of those who weep,

and of those who weep with those who weep.

If you watch, you will see

the hand of God

putting the stars back in their skies

one by one.

The darkness is real. But so is the Light.

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

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[1] Ann Weems, Psalms of Lament (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1995) xvi

Insignificance, Redeemed

Luke 1:39-45
Advent 4
December 19, 2021

In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country, where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth. When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth 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. And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me? For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy. And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.”


When I was younger, I tended to tune out whenever women talked about their pregnancies. I am the wrong gender and knew pregnancy could never happen to me. Or I regarded the entire process of childbirth as a mystery, particularly after it’s been initiated. Certainly, I grew up in a family where biological matters were never discussed in mixed company; we could learn a lot in high school health class, but never discuss these things at the family supper table.

So I’ve always marveled at this brief account of Mary and Elizabeth. It’s out there in the open. The angel Gabriel had announced to Mary that she would bear a child. After she gulps and nods acceptance, she rushes off to another town in the hills to visit Elizabeth, who’s related to her somehow. Even though Elizabeth is up in years, she’s six months pregnant. She and her husband kept it quiet. Now the pregnancy was far enough along that it couldn’t be hidden any longer. That’s when Mary knocks on the door.

The Bible story tells of two generations intersecting. The first was pregnant Elizabeth, wife of a Jerusalem priest. Not only was she old – she was old enough to step out of the Old Testament. The Jewish scriptures tell one story after another about barren women who were surprised by a pregnancy. When we hear Elizabeth is bearing a child, the Bible is waving a flag to say, “God is doing this again.”

Like Hannah, who also lived up in the hill country. One of the two wives of Elkanah, her rival taunted her because she was barren. This happened “year after year” – as the years started piling up. One day, the priest at the local chapel tried to shoo her out of there. Hannah protested, said she was praying, and Eli the priest said, “OK, may God grant your prayer. Now, go in peace.” In time, she conceived and bore a son (1 Samuel 1:1-20).

Before that, there was the unnamed wife of Manoah. An angel of God appeared to say, “Even though you have no child, you shall conceive and bear a son. Just one thing: don’t ever cut his hair.” She told her husband. He said, “I didn’t hear any angel. Maybe God will send the angel again.” And God sent he angel again – to the wife, not to the husband, so she had to introduce him to the angel. Manoah was impressed and said, “Let me cook you up a goat.” While he lit up the fire, the angel rode the smoke back up to heaven. Soon after that, Manoah and Mrs. Manoah had a child. His name was Samson, and they never did cut his hair. (Judges 13:4-24).

Before that, Rachel, the wife of Jacob was barren – until after years of stress, God opened her womb. (Genesis 30:22). 

Before that, Rebekah, the wife of Isaac, could not have a child. And then God granted the prayers of father and mother (Genesis 25:21)

The quintessential story was that of Sarah, unable to create a child with her husband Abraham (Genesis 11:30). God promised them more children than they could ever count – but now they were well up in years. And you remember what happened: Sarah conceived in her advanced age. She gave birth to Isaac and Medicare picked up the tab.

This was a recurring story in the history of Israel. It became the sign that God could do what we could not. After the Babylonian Exile, the prophet Isaiah surveyed his desolate country. Filled with the Holy Spirit, he lifted his head to cry out,

Sing, O barren one who did not bear.

burst into song and shout you who have not been in labor.

For the children of the desolate woman will be more

than the children of her that is married, thus says the Lord.

Enlarge the site of your tent…

for you will spread out to the right and to the left.” (Isaiah 54:1-3)

The point of these recurring stories is that God alone gives life. God can populate what seems like barrenness. God can fill what appears empty. And there is no expiration date on the grace of an eternal God.

And so, Elizabeth was old, incredibly old, and she conceived a son. She never gave him a haircut, either.

By contrast, Mary was young. Very young, barely old enough to produce a child. The angel Gabriel surprised her and the rest of the world by announcing her pregnancy. She didn’t know how that could be; no man had ever touched her. He mentioned the mystery of the Holy Spirit “overshadowing her” – she didn’t know what that meant either. Yet conceding all of it was possible, agreeing God is the source of life, she nodded a quiet “yes,” and then said, “Let it be.”

In the account for today, Old and Young coincide. Young Mary bursts into Old Elizabeth’s house. The baby in Elizabeth’s belly is startled. Filled with the Holy Spirit, she determines that means the mother of the Messiah has entered her home. Then she fills the air with three beatitudes – three blessings:

Blessed are you among women!

Blessed is the child that you are carrying!

Blessed is she that believes the promises of God!

Now, let’s pause here for a minute This is no longer a story merely about pregnancies. This is a story about blessing, about the unexpected but very real presence of God. It happens in a house, not a temple. And it happens in conversation, not during a speech. And it happens between two women. Blessed, blessed, blessed!

In a way, this will not surprise us. Luke is the gospel write who gives us this story. Of all the documents in the Bible, the one most affirming of women is the Gospel of Luke. Luke repeatedly sees women in the shadows and brings them into the spotlight.

When Matthew tells his version of the Christmas story, he never says much about Mary, and never mentions Elizabeth. The Gospel of Mark mentions her only once (6:3), and says her son was a carpenter. When John tells the story of Jesus, he never actually mentions Mary’s name; she’s merely called “the mother of Jesus,” as if his birth is what defines her.

But not so Luke. Mary is the first Christian believer, trusting what God promises through her son. When Elizabeth overflows with the Holy Spirit’s blessings, she is the first prophetess in the book. It is Luke’s book where we meet Martha and Mary, the sisters of Lazarus. It is Luke who says faithful women financed the work of Jesus out of their own purses. And it is Luke who says the male disciples tried to dismiss the women’s report that Jesus had been raised from the dead – yet the women still persisted.

In Luke’s second volume, the Book of Acts, he names Mary as a key figure in the resurrection community. And when he begins all of it by reporting how he had chased down accurate information to get the story straight, we have every reason to assume that he listened to Mary. Who else could have told him mangers, angels, and shepherds – but the mother who was there?

All of this fits the grand view of how Luke understands the Gospel: God’s work is about redemption. It’s about buying back what has been set aside. It’s about reclaiming what has been lost. It’s about bringing into the light of glory what was dismissed to the shadows. It’s about perceiving the saving work of God in household conversations, every-day routines, and the rhythms of pregnancy.

One of Luke’s most revealing stories gets overshadowed by the story that follows it. In chapter 15, we hear Jesus tell about a man with two sons, often titled the parable of the prodigal son. It’s a powerful story, large and explosive.

A much smaller story precedes it. Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is like a woman who lost a nickel.” Picture all those Pharisee men, rolling their eyes and poking one another with their elbows. “She lost a nickel? That’s it? A nickel?” And one of them bursts out, “Of course she did. She’s not one of us. Good thing she only had a nickel.”

Jesus winces and continues, “The kingdom of God is like a woman who lost a nickel. And she turned over all the furniture and swept the floor until she found it. Then she called out to her neighbors, ‘Come on over. I’m throwing a party. What was lost is found.’ And I tell you (said Jesus), there is more joy in heaven over one lost soul who turns around and is found by God.” (15:8-10)

The point is in the finding. God pays attention to what the world dismisses as insignificant. God magnifies what seemed so small that nobody was paying attention. God has been busy in our midst doing what others have overlooked.

And Elizabeth said, “Blessed are you, the young unwed mother, for you are the mother of our Lord.”

This is one of the scandals of the Gospel. God is working in a pregnancy, two pregnancies in fact. God speaks up to put blessings in the air when others would be quick to dismiss. God evokes a song from women silenced by their culture, their community, their religion. God declares the priorities of heaven are to remember those forgotten are now remembered and to cast off the proud and obnoxious from their thrones. This is the work of God, revealed in a conversation between two pregnant women, one old, one new.

We sing this truth every Christmas. In a minute, we will sing the words of the prophet Micah: “O you, little Bethlehem, little sleepy town where nothing significant happened for a thousand years: you are the hometown of our Savior.”

At our best, we translate our Christmas energy into gifts that reach those otherwise forgotten. Our Deacons delivered over forty poinsettias this week. Two teams of our church volunteers packed 656 boxes of food to distribute to our hungry neighbors. Pajamas were donated to children. Gifts were offered to strangers. These are just a few ways God offers light to the world through us.

That is the continuing work of Christmas – to shine light into the dark corners, to call out the obscure and the overlooked, and to announce through word and deed that God has found us. And blessed are you, if you believe and do.

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