“Children of the Light”

First Congregational United Church of Christ

December 11, 2011

The Rev. Sharyl B. Peterson

 

Scripture Reading:  Luke 1: 39-56 (The Message)

 

This Advent season, we’ve been thinking about themes of light and dark – and how those are related to the Advent and Christmas story – and how they, and the story, are related to our lives. 

The first week of Advent, we focused on the world part of the story.  We considered some of the places of darkness in the world, both in the world into which Jesus was born, and in our world now, and reflected on how, while darkness is painful and frightening, light can only be seen when it is dark. 

            Last week, we talked about the God part of the story.  About God’s gift of Jesus as the light that comes into the darkness of the world, even though we don’t always completely, rationally, intellectually understand all of the hows and the whys of that mysterious event. 

            And today, we turn to our part of the story – to what we are called to do with the light that we receive in our world today.  And the old, old story that we heard part of this morning – that Gospel story about Mary and Elizabeth – offers us some hints to the answer to that question of what our call is to do with the light we receive through Jesus. 

            You may recall that last week, we left the Advent/Christmas story at the point of the angel’s appearance to Mary (however we understand that event), and Mary’s assenting trust in God, to “let it be with me as you have said.”  Today, the story goes on, and we are told:  “Mary didn’t wait a minute.  She got up, (packed her suitcase), and travelled to a town in Judah in the hill-country,” where her cousin Elizabeth and her husband Zechariah lived.

            We don’t, of course, know precisely how long elapsed between the angelic visitation and Mary’s getting up and going, but every Biblical translation of this text suggests it was not very long.  In the New International Version, we read:  “At that time Mary got ready and hurried to a town in the hill country of Judea.”  The Good News Version says “Soon afterward Mary got ready and hurried off to a town in the hill country of Judea.”  In the J.B. Phillips New Testament, we read: “With little delay Mary got ready and hurried off to the hillside town in Judea where Zacharias and Elisabeth lived.”

            The story-writers are pretty clear.  Mary received the news – she experienced the light of God’s call/proclamation/promise – and she immediately got up, and took action.  She probably packed a little food for her journey, perhaps bundled a few items of clothes together, and set out (almost certainly on foot) for the 90-mile arduous trek to her cousin’s home (and remember, this is in pre-GPS, pre-cell phone, virtually even pre-map days).

            Now, if you think about it, Mary’s choice of action is somewhat curious.  Mary has just had this extraordinary experience – an extraordinary encounter with a messenger from God – and has just been told that she is (or is about to be) with child by the Holy Spirit.  But instead of hollering for her mother as loudly as she can, like most of us might do, “Mom, help, come quick, I have to tell you what just happened,” and sharing the amazing story … instead of calling her best friend Tovah, and telling her what has happened … instead of running to her fiancé Joseph’s house, and letting him in on the plan … Mary packs up, and leaves her home immediately, and heads for her cousin’s house, up in the hill-country of Judah.

            Now, Bible scholars have suggested, of course, that Mary did tell her mother – that she did tell her family – what had happened, and was going to happen.  And they have also suggested that her family was either so appalled by her out-of-wedlock pregnancy, or so fearful for Mary’s safety (since Jewish law supported death-by-stoning in cases like hers), that they immediately sent her off to her far-away cousin’s home. 

            And those among us who have dealt with similar experiences in our families (although without the “conceived of the Holy Spirit” part) can certainly understand all of the feelings that would have swept through them.  Shame.  Embarrassment.  Fear that they would have to repay whatever bride-price Joseph might have given them.  All those feelings of “we didn’t raise her like this!” that some of us here know about.  And so we can certainly understand their possible intense desire – or need – to get Mary out of town for awhile. 

            Whatever the facts, and whatever the reasons, the new and holy light of God had just appeared in the world in a new way, and it called for immediate action.

            And not just for any immediate action.  Like Mary not throwing herself immediately down a well and drowning herself out of despair.  Not calling for the local herbalist to come and see if she could “do something” about the pregnancy.  But the action of seeking community.  The action of remembering how Mary and her family are connected with others, with family, and then reaching out to those others for help and support in a time of uncertainty … in a time of need … in a time of darkness, if you will.  Mary goes to her cousin Elizabeth because she knows her cousin is older, wiser, more experienced, and because she knows that Elizabeth can be trusted to welcome her, to take her in, to offer her shelter and love and help through this mysterious thing that is happening.

            And the taking-action narrative – the seeking-of-community – doesn’t end with Mary’s arrival on Elizabeth’s doorstep.  Because we hear that Elizabeth greets her with joy, and affirms Mary’s faith and trust in God, and that Mary responds with an exultant song about God’s goodness not just to her personally … but to all the world. 

            She sings out that God is going to transform the entire human community.  That God is going to change the prevailing power-status in human communities, so those in charge will be “brought down,” and those with little or no power will be “lifted up.”  That God is going to care for those in want, those who are hungry.  That God is going to merciful, and to help the people, with whom God has been in covenant since ancient times. 

In the words of The Message which we heard this morning, “God’s mercy (will) flow in wave after wave on those who are in awe before him.”  God is going to shed new light on the dark places of the world, and God is going to call into community – to call “sister,” to call “brother” – to embrace with love – even those living the very darkest, and loneliest, and most difficult lives.  And Elizabeth enacts that promise in the flesh (up-close and personal), by inviting Mary in, literally embracing her, and caring for her for the next several months, until “Mary went back to her own home” where presumably they too were ready to receive her with a loving embrace.

            Now, as modern people of faith, if all we had was this old, old story – as beautiful as it is – while it might warm our hearts with its sentimentality, I’m not sure it would be very useful for much else.  I’m not sure we would indeed long to hear the old, old story over and over again, as we do this time of year, and as we do all through the year, even if it is told in new, new ways.  Instead, we could just write our Christmas cards, and bake our Christmas cookies, and arrange our resin-cast nativity sets on our tidy tables, and smile and think “That’s nice.”  “That’s a nice, old, almost fairy-tale-like story.”  “And it makes my heart feel warm and good.”  And perhaps not-so-consciously we might also think, “and, so what?”  “What, if anything, does this old story have to do with me and the way I live today?” 

            But instead, we do tell the story – and read the story – and sing the story over and over again, because it does connect in real and meaningful ways with our own real, lived experiences.  And it connects in ways that are becoming ever more precious and valuable in our dark world. 

            For the first people who heard this story, it may not have seemed very remarkable that this pregnant girl goes to her cousin to seek solace and help.  That’s what people did back then. 

            But in our world today, the fact that she does this is almost as remarkable as the angelic visitation.  We live in a world now in which “community” – even the community of families –

is increasingly breaking down.  Where family members may be so far-flung that we don’t see each other for months – or perhaps years – at a time.  Where pregnant mamas, and new babies are much more likely to be cared for by hired professional staff than by their grandmas, and aunts, and all those other family folk who used to see young women through their pregnancies, and births, and early motherhood.

            We live in a world where the clarion calls of individualism, of the “but what about me and my needs?” ethic sound louder than any old, old story our faith – or any other tradition important to us – may offer us.  We think – and talk – and act – about “me,” instead of about “us.”  We rely on electronic “connections” and “relationships” instead of real person-to-person ones, and especially among the under-35s in our culture, are more likely to have virtual “friends” than actual flesh and blood friends.  We live in a world where “community” is become ever rarer, ever more endangered.

            And yet – as people of faith – or at least as people of would-be faith – stories like this one – taken alongside Jesus’ countless stories and teachings about our call – above everything else – to create, and nurture, and sustain healthy communities – remind us that other ways of living are possible.  They remind us that we don’t have to give in to the darkness of isolationism.  That we don’t have to give in to the darkness of “me-first” thinking and doing.  That we don’t have to give in to the darkness of “everyone for oneself” living.

            Instead, in the face of all that darkness – we can choose the light that calls us to remember:  we are all connected.  That we are not separate, isolated beings.  That we are not islands unto ourselves.  That in truth, there is no utterly separate and unrelated “me” and “you.” 

Our faith-story tells us that we can choose to remember:  we truly do need one another. 

We are not self-sufficient.  We are spiritual beings, created in the image of God, created to love others, and to be loved back.

            Now that can sound pretty abstract or idealistic.  But this past Tuesday morning, I saw how all these lovely-sounding notions actually look in carne – in the flesh. 

            I suspect that in part because our church raised a huge amount of money with our Shrimp Boil in August to help build the new St. Martin apartment complex for homeless veterans, I was one of the clergy in our community who was asked to come and help bless the new apartments.  You may remember it was bone-chilling cold that morning, and even so, about 100 of us – some of the Catholic Outreach folks, some of the V.A. staff, some clergy, some of the construction folks, some supportive people from our community – sat or stood in the cold while a variety of speakers reminded us how our community … not just wealthy individuals, not just generous business-people … but our community … ordinary folks including you and me … had come together to make this project possible. 

How you, and I, and hundreds of other people just like us pooled our money, pooled our resources, pooled our hearts and our compassion and our care, and built 15 beautiful, warm, safe homes where formerly homeless men, many of them ill, many of them wounded physically and emotionally from serving their country, can now cook a hot meal for themselves, can visit with a friend, can lock their doors safely at night against danger.  As Roger, the man whose new home I was invited to bless said, “that is an unbelievable blessing.”

            And last Tuesday’s celebration is not an isolated, once-in-a-lifetime event.  Because one of the great joys of living here in the Grand Valley is that many, many, many of us who live here do still remember that we are connected to one another.  We remember how we are connected with the folks who go to church with us, and the ones we play bridge or golf or go to book club with, and how we are connected even with those folks we’d sometimes just as soon didn’t exist, or at least just as soon they didn’t appear in public, dirty and ragged, sometimes talking to themselves, embarrassing us – or angering us – with their inability to care for their own needs.  We remember that we are one community, with the diversity and challenges that brings. 

            And for us gathered here in this congregation, we remember that through all of the ways that we – each of us, individually, us, as a gathered body of faithful people – do create, and nurture, and sustain community, we also deepen our connections with God, with Jesus Christ, with the Holy Spirit.  That when we offer a warm, safe home to homeless veterans … when we offer a hot meal to clients at the Homeless Shelter or at the Soup Kitchen … when we bring in jammies for kids for the Angel Tree, or food items for the food-cart … we are not just doing a good deed, we are also living out our faith, and we are nurturing our community with one another, and with God.

            And isn’t that what is at the heart of this season?  Remembering how God came to us in the flesh centuries ago, so that we might continue to see – and to touch – and to embrace – God

when God comes to us now, today, in the bodies of the people with whom we bump elbows, and in the bodies of the people with whom we try not to bump elbows, day after day, right here and now?  Isn’t the story about God using us – about God needing us – to extend God’s mercy … God’s love … God’s care – to one another? 

            In this season, may we become ever more open to that possibility.  May we become ever more willing to bring our own gifts to the manger, and to take out from it the light that we receive.  Our deacons are going to pass baskets around now, containing candles, that you are invited to take with you, to remind yourself both of the promise – of how Jesus comes into the world as new light – and as our call – to carry that light forth.  May we do so with new hope, and new joy.  Amen.