© 2024 Evan D. Garner
Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video is available here.
It was a hundred miles. Not long after Mary learned from the angel Gabriel that she would give birth to the Son of God, she set off on a hundred-mile journey from Nazareth in Galilee to the hill country of Judea, where her relative Elizabeth lived. As a gift of consolation for a scared, young mother-to-be, the angel had told her that her pregnancy was linked to Elizabeth’s pregnancy. It didn’t take Mary long to realize that the only person on this earth who could understand her situation was her wise, old cousin, who was in the midst of her own unexpected pregnancy.
It was a hundred miles of walking the pilgrim’s road from the northern territory, where Mary lived, to a village near the capital city. It is almost unfathomable to us that a teenage girl would dare to make that trip alone, and she probably had company along the way. Caravans of travelers would often make the journey together, because, along the wilderness road, there was safety in numbers. Mary may have even walked with some relatives or close friends, but, in his description of her travels, Luke doesn’t mention anyone else. It was just her—if not physically alone, at the very least emotionally alone—an unwed pregnant girl, who couldn’t help but hear the whispers of those around her, as she sought refuge in the home of an understanding kinswoman.
Something powerful happened when Mary walked through the door—something besides what is recorded in biblical text. In that culture, elders were revered and respected, so, naturally, Mary was the first to offer a greeting—the younger, in effect, approaching with humility a woman old enough to be her grandmother. But, at the sound of her greeting, all of that changed. Any culturally anticipated distance between the two women collapsed in an instant as Elizabeth felt her own child leap in her womb.
Elizabeth had known for decades the societal stigma that comes with not being able to have children, but now she had experienced in her body God’s great reversal of her status in the eyes of the world. Mary had just begun to feel the shame that bubbled up whenever she caught a glimpse of others’ judgmental stares. She had come to see Elizabeth in the hopes that her kinswoman would understand what the angel had said about the child she carried within her. And Elizabeth’s response to her greeting told her that God was already at work in both of them, changing their humility and shame into strength and renown, in one unified act of salvation.
As an embodiment of the transformation that was already unfolding within them, the older mother-to-be began to honor her younger counterpart, effectively flipping their roles, as the revered one proclaimed with reverence the blessedness of her guest: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb!” As the words of Mary’s greeting rang in Elizabeth’s ears, the power of the Holy Spirit filled her. The one who had been asked to shelter this anxious expectant mother had become the one to welcome the Theotokos, the Mother of God, into her home. The blessing of receiving the blessed one was felt even by the child growing within her.
It is only in this peculiar context of role-reversal that Mary’s song can be uttered. Her words would be too much in any other setting. “My soul magnifies the Lord,” she begins, proclaiming with boldness a statement that, while ridiculous on its face, is as faithful on her lips as it would be arrogant on the lips of anyone else. How can it be that a frail human being could ever claim to magnify God’s surpassing greatness? How can it be that a girl whose pregnancy inspired ridicule could become the means through which God’s salvation comes into the world? From Mary herself, we hear both question and answer: “How can this be,” she asked the angel Gabriel, “since I am a virgin?”
The source of her shame becomes the channel for God’s glory. The very definition of her inability, which is to say the biological impossibility of her pregnancy, is the very means by which God acts. Had her womb been occupied by the child of another, she would not have had space in her body to carry God’s Son. Had her pregnancy been celebrated by those around her, she would not have had room in her heart to magnify the Lord. Only because of her poverty of spirit is Mary able to become the mother of our savior, even the mother of God.
In a world that is blind to what God is doing, Elizabeth can see it all. She has not only the wisdom of age and experience but also the insight of the Holy Spirit. A prophet in her own right, she identifies her young relative as the thrice-blessed mother of her Lord. “Blessed are you among women,” she names, celebrating the holiness of Mary’s womanhood. “Blessed is the fruit of your womb,” she declares, anticipating the holiness of the child within her. “Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord,” she announces, switching from the second- to the third-person in order to let us know that, like Mary, those who trust in God’s promises will be made holy.
Mary is, for us, an icon of faithfulness because she believed what God had said to her and, thus, became the mother of our salvation. She did not heal the sick or raise the dead. She did not defy an empire or slay Satan with a sword. Yet it was through her perfect faithfulness—her eternal “yes” to God—through which all those saving deeds were done. God’s great reversal of humanity’s plight is accomplished through the one whose perfect emptiness gave way to the fullness of God’s glory.
A young, unwed girl, betrothed to a man of David’s line, travelled a hundred miles to see her relative Elizabeth because Elizabeth was the only one who could understand what God was doing within her. As one in whom that great reversal had already begun to take hold, Elizabeth was able to see in Mary what the world was unable to recognize—its salvation coming to fruition. Only when that reversal begins to take hold in us—only when Christ dwells inside our bodies—are we also able to see it.
That salvation—your salvation—is not manifest in the victories, rewards, or accomplishments of your life. Those are gifts of God, for sure, but your true hope is not found in any of them. Our hope is found in our own emptiness. Our hope is in the one who has lifted up the lowly and filled the hungry with good things. Our hope is in the one who was carried in the womb of Mary and brought into this world by her faithfulness to God. Our hope is in Jesus, and, when we, like Mary, approach God with our own emptiness, believing that there will be a fulfillment of what has been spoken by the Lord, our souls will magnify the Lord, and our spirits will rejoice in the God of our salvation.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.