Gospel: Luke 1:39-55
My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.
On the campus of Virginia Theological Seminary in Alexandria, next to a worship space created amid the ruins of the old chapel that burned down in 2010, there stands a remarkable sculpture. Brought to life by the artist Peggy Parker, it depicts two pregnant women: one much older and slightly stooped, the other very young and a bit taller. Each is holding one hand against their own womb. The younger is holding her second arm across her, giving the impression of not knowing exactly what to do in the moment. The older reaches out with her free hand to touch the arm of the young girl standing before her. It’s a touch of reassurance. It’s a touch of acknowledgment. It’s a touch of reverence.
The sculpture, entitled “Mary the Prophet,” captures the moment when Mary and Martha encounter each other. For me, the beauty of the sculpture mirrors the beauty of the language in today’s Gospel reading from Luke. I would argue that these verses are some of the most remarkable – some of the most beautiful – anywhere in the Bible. I’ll even go a step beyond that: they’re easily some of the most beautiful ever written.
Here in these verses we read of the meeting of these two women: one a teenager, the other long past the typical age of childbirth, each carrying within them signs of the miraculous power of God. One bears the prophet who will one day walk into the wilderness and call out to the world from that barren and desolate place, crying out for all to prepare the way for the Messiah. The other bears the one whose name will be Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. She is theotokos, the God-bearer … the Mother of God.
This meeting and the knowledge that each will give birth are glimpses of joy. But even in these moments of joy, both women must have been incredibly frightened. Elizabeth, the wife of Zechariah, was childless. Undoubtedly, she thought she was at a point when childbirth was impossible, her age surely preventing her from ever experiencing such a wondrous moment. Then we have Mary, the young girl (presumed to be around the age of 13 or 14) engaged to a carpenter, Joseph, but to whom she wasn’t yet married – and yet somehow, she was pregnant, the incredible news of impending birth received during a visitation from the archangel.
These two mothers had every reason to be terrified, yet in this passage we see nothing but joy, praise, and thanksgiving. Rather than being frightened by what life held in store for them, they rejoiced in it. They offered praise to God … and in the case of Mary, there was singing. These verses don’t reflect something she simply said; I firmly believe that the praises she lifted are very appropriately entitled “The Song of Mary.” Long before the beautiful settings of the Magnificat in our hymnal and the countless choral masterpieces composed around these words were set down, Mary sang.
What to me is one of the most remarkable things about the words of the Magnificat is that they were impromptu. Mary, swept up in the moment of celebration with her cousin, opened herself up to the Holy Spirit – and these words are what came forth. There was no preparation; she didn’t sit down in advance and write them on a slip of paper, holding on to them until the time was right to deliver them. They’re the sort of powerful words that erupt from within someone who is not their source but simply and powerfully their conduit.
These too aren’t the words of a scared teenage girl uncertain of what she or her child would do or experience in the coming years. These are instead very much the words of one strengthened by God and sure in the knowledge that the blessed son she carried would change the world. Her child would cross boundaries, disrupt norms, and tear down walls, reaching his hand out to those ignored by society and cast to the margins.
Her child would, time and again throughout his ministry, remind the poor in spirit … the hungry … those in mourning … the meek … the peacemakers … the merciful … the pure in heart … the persecuted – all of them – that they were blessed. He would reassure all despised by society, all who lived their lives just out of the view of many in their world, that they were blessed.
Just as in this impromptu moment of song, her child would remind all he encountered in his mission and ministry that regardless of the circumstances, they had reason to sing. In the moment captured in passage from Luke, none of this has happened … yet. The ministry of the child of Mary was many years in the future. Yet on that day, in those precious moments with her cousin, the young mother of God – this frightened and uncertain girl – sang.
How often, when we find ourselves dealing with fear or uncertainty, do we take time to celebrate? When we find ourselves amid incredibly difficult circumstances, how often do we choose to stop and sing? Without question it seems counterintuitive. But in this passage, in this moment when Mary has left her home to travel to the home of her cousin to share news … and indeed, to share fear and uncertainty … we find a model of what we can do.
As this season of Advent draws to a close and we approach the miracle of the Nativity, Mary demonstrates for us how to counter our fears. Amid the uncertainties in our lives, in those moments when difficult circumstances seem to constantly shift the ground beneath our feet, we’re reminded not to fear but to give thanks. We’re reminded that we’re blessed. Like this young mother thousands of years ago, we’re asked to stop trying to bear our burdens alone and instead allow our souls to reach out to God.
We’re asked to magnify the Lord in our own lives. In difficult times we’re asked to rejoice in God our Savior.
At all times and in all places, we’re encouraged, no matter how hard we’re pulled away from the urge to do so, to sing.
My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.
Amen.