Pure, Unadulterated Joy Preached on December 17th, 2017 At Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: Luke 1:46b-55 When was the last time you experienced pure, unadulterated joy? As a child, maybe, at the magic of Christmastime, lights twinkling on the newly decorated tree, all ready for Santa to place something special underneath. Or, perhaps as an adult, you have found that something that brings you pure joy. A flawless, breathtaking ski run … the conditions perfect, snow just crisp enough, the sun at just the right spot in the sky. Or perhaps in a concert, the music lifting you up out of your seat, your body swaying, your arms lifted. A walk with a loved one, or alone, on a pure winter day, craning your neck to admire the flocking birds above calling to you. Or perhaps the day you held a newborn welcomed to your family, your child, a grandchild, niece of nephew? The tiny fingers wrapped around yours, you gazed into the new to the world face, taking in each detail. Pure joy. The Song of Mary, the Magnificat, is a response of joy. It comes pouring from her mouth at the moment that her cousin Elizabeth confirms what the angel said. There is a seed planted deep within her, she is to give birth the savior of Israel. The announcement of a pregnancy is often wonderful news, especially in families who have been hoping and trying for some time. The stick shows two blue stripes or a cross, making the “positive” sign. There’s hugging and weeping, but also the holding of breath. Even today, 2017, that first hint of life-to-come cannot be welcomed with entirely unadulterated joy. Miscarriages in the early weeks are common. Birth defects and complications have not been eradicated. Pregnancy and birth are still come with risks. Most parents will wait to announce the news, sometimes waiting for the results of medical tests. While pregnancy can be risky today, the chances of complications in 1st century Palestine must have been comparatively off-scale. Add to that, Mary’s status as an unwed young woman who traveled through rough country to stay with her cousin who was also pregnant. Add to that the possibility that her betrothed might well abandon her, to face the rejection and even stoning given to unmarried women found to be pregnant. Add to that the alarming responsibility of birthing and protecting this new life, for God’s purpose of redeeming Israel, and indeed the world. I am astounded that Mary could possibly respond with pure joy. And yet Mary’s song is not only joy for the blessing of a child in her womb. Mary’s song is a song of joy for what God, the Mighty One, “has done.” Her song continues in this strange past/present/future tense. This is known as the aorist tense … past, but without reference to duration or completion of an action. Perfect for describing God’s activity in the world. And especially perfect for describing God’s activity in this moment. The seed has already been planted, growing within Mary’s womb. The act has been done, and yet is has not been completed. The child is yet to be born, to live and grow, to reach maturity and teach and preach and heal. And, even in our times, the Christ is yet to come in fullness. Mary is rejoicing at God’s actions in history and in the world. These are dramatic actions. They involve upheaval and reversal of the status quo. Mary anticipates that with the birth of her child, God will scatter the proud, bring down the powerful from their thrones, lift up the lowly and fill the hungry with good things, all while sending the rich away empty. Mary lives in a world in which she, a poor unmarried young woman, is in a lowly position. The actions of the proud and powerful dictate the circumstances of her life. As her pregnancy progresses she will be required to make the dangerous journey to Bethlehem, simply because the occupier requires it. She will give birth in a stable, because poor travelers will be overcrowded in that outlying Jerusalem neighborhood. She will be separated from the traditional support system of her family, because of the Roman Empire’s whims. No wonder Mary rejoices at the possibility of the reversal of this situation. And yet, I wonder, does she not have the least sense of foreboding? Isn’t her joy tinged with just a little fear? Doesn’t the enormity of what she is going to do cause her to shudder just a little? For Mary, in this moment at least, the answer is “no.” But I suspect for any of us the answer to all of the above would be a firm “yes.” Unadulterated joy is rare these days, except in the very young. In her book “Daring Greatly”, Brené Brown says, “in a culture of scarcity, joy can seem like a setup.” Do you feel, sometimes, that things seem to be going too well. You are feeling so happy that there must be a catch? So often, when we feel joy we also fear that disaster is coming, perhaps in the shape of a terror attack, a terrible car accident, or other tragic event. [1] What Brown describes as “foreboding joy” comes from the fear that we cannot trust when things are going too well. She says that many of us use foreboding joy as a shield to protect ourselves from becoming too vulnerable. In her research she learned that people describe themselves as most vulnerable when they
All of these things seem like reasons for joy, and yet, they make us feel so vulnerable, vulnerable to pain and the possibility of loss. I know for myself, motherhood brought my vulnerability to the surface. The blessing of the most beautiful children I could have imagined could have brought about pure joy. But the vulnerability was almost unbearable. I put off bathing our first child, fearful that I would scald him or drown him. The responsibility of driving our children in the car on icy days panicked me. Like many moms, I felt an irresistible need to mitigate the joy of my children. I’d scold them (and their dad) when I thought that they were getting too rambunctious and silly, using the excuse that an accident might happen. I so regret the part I played in teaching my children to distrust joy. My protection of them was really a kind of self-protection. “Mark my words, there’ll be tears before bedtime” was a family motto I’d learned years before from my grandmother, aunt and my own mom. We did not like to admit that we feared they would be our own tears. And so, you see, joy and vulnerability are deeply connected. To feel pure joy, we must be willing to be vulnerable. No wonder we see pure joy in Mary. She must be one of the most vulnerable young women in human history! Mary sees the consequences of saying “yes” to this heart-opening moment of joy. She is not simply waiting to give birth to the baby she will cuddle and play with. She has no doubt that there is a deeper meaning to this baby’s birth. She knows that the reversals that Jesus is supposed to bring about will also bring danger upon himself. And yet, her joy is full. One reason why I think we struggle with joy as adults is that we know too much. While we feel gratitude for home, food, and shelter, we know that others suffered for our material gain. Migrant workers, living far from home in miserable conditions, have harvested the fruit and vegetables we eat. Slave labor is used to produce the clothes in our most popular stores. This is a part of our growing up experience. When we were young we may have delighted in a simple plastic toy, or the latest technology. But as we grew up we learned the realities of the sweatshop workers that assemble our cell phones and the pollution of plastics in the environment. Remember how Harry Potter delighted in the sumptuous Christmas feasts that seemed to appear at Hogwarts? It was later that he learned about the plight of house elves like Dobby, slaving to produce the food for him and his fellow students. The root of Mary’s joy is in the reversal she anticipates for the world. The reversal that will put these things right. This reversal will be birthed by the Christ whom she bears in her womb. Her joy is in the role she will play in this in-breaking of God into the suffering of the world. Her role, in this moment is simply to gestate that hidden seed of Christ’s coming. The invitation to lean into Advent joy includes becoming vulnerable enough to delight in our closest relationships. But it also includes embracing joy in the role that God has for us in the coming of Christ to the world. And so this week, as we seek Advent joy, let’s imagine that third pink candle shedding its light on the hidden ways, the seeds, in which God enters the world and the role that we will play. This weekend, at Wollaston Congregational Church, we resumed hosting of a group from Ohio State University who are going to be serving the poor of Boston this week. A seed. And a car load of coats, mittens, hats, shoes and longed-for toys, were/will be taken to Interfaith Social Services for our “snow ball” family this year. A seed. This week I received a message of great gratitude from our friend in Africa, telling us that our gift for him was safely delivered last week by a brave woman. A seed. Friends, this side of the coming kingdom of God, our joy will be like tiny seeds … momentary glimpses. Mary has a hard road ahead of her. There will be pain, sadness and grief. But, in this moment, her joy is pure and unadulterated. And so, my prayer for you is that in this season you would find the same moments, the same seeds, of joy, pure and unadulterated. Amen [1] Brené Brown, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead, (Penguin Random House, New York, 2014)
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