December 22, 2013
1.
Here’s a story that
gets lost sometimes. Lost in the shuffle
and bustle of December. Mary and
Elizabeth in the Judean hills. Practicing
a kind of communion together: a communion of hope, a communion of solidarity, a
communion of song. It gets lost
sometimes—but Luke sets this sweet scene at the very heart of our Christmas
celebration, every year. Mary and
Elizabeth shining like icons of grace and courage, signs of what Christmas is
really all about. The two of them
together. Praising God. Singing songs. Imagining a whole new world.
You know how it goes. Mary makes haste—scripture says—to the Judean
hill country. And that means, she knows
what she needs, she knows where she needs to be. And she wastes no time with old routines and
yesterday’s habits. Mary makes haste. Eager to touch Elizabeth’s face, eager to
hold Elizabeth close, eager to sing the old songs and remember the old stories
and say the old prayers.
And from a distance,
even from a distance, Elizabeth hears Mary’s greeting. Mary’s flesh and faith are one and the
same. She’s bounding up the path, legs
and arms and God in every muscle, bursting through the door, hardly waiting to
knock. “Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth,
I’m here!” And the child, Elizabeth’s
child leaps in her womb. And Elizabeth’s
filled, filled with the Holy Spirit, animated by love, and she cries with joy. It’s communion time in the Judean hills.
Is there a more
intimate moment, a more thrilling human connection in all of scripture? I don’t know that there is. Mary and Elizabeth together. This, my friends, is what Christmas really
looks like. The word made flesh. Faith embodied in relationship and community. For three months they laugh and cry. For three months they mark the changes in
their bellies. For three months they
commune over warm bread. And in these
three months, the kingdom of God, the kin-dom of love and mercy, the peace of
Christ is born. Their friendship is the
New Testament’s very first church: a communion of spirit and courage.
And so it is that Mary sings her song: a defiant song of prophetic faith and divine reversal and justice for the poor. The magnificat. “You have brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; you have filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.” This is prophetic stuff. This is King at the Lincoln Memorial. This is Mandela emerging from Robben Island. This is Romero in El Salvador. Mary sings this song, this magnificat, but Elizabeth creates the space. It’s their friendship, it’s their community, it’s their communion in ordinary time that makes Mary’s courage possible. That transforms her private delight into prophetic promise. In so many ways, it’s a song they sing together.
2.
The writer Judith Dupré suggests that “life is organized by both steps and
belief.” She says we get to these steps,
these key moments along the way, when someone else has to believe us onto the next rung.
There’s just no other way to grow.
“We have to leave the safety of what’s familiar and take that leap of
faith.” And it’s then, she says, that
someone opens a door to friendship, someone shows us the light, someone believes
us onto the next rung.
Isn’t this
exactly how it goes with Elizabeth and Mary?
Mary is discovering her capacity for wonder, her vocation as a prophet,
her joy. And now she needs someone—someone
like Elizabeth—to believe her onto the next rung. Someone like Elizabeth to open a door, show
her the light, warm the bread and prepare communion. It’s that communion—a three-month practice of
communion—that prepares Mary for everything else in her life. For the birthing of hope and joy and
peace.
You know, we talk
about communion almost every Sunday, as a sacrament, as a ritual the church has
passed down from generation to generation.
But what about communion as a practice carried from this table into the
rest of our lives? What about taking the
energy, the grace, the power of God—from these holy moments—from these sacred
stories—and multiplying this communion in the kitchens where we cook and the
fields where we work and the backyards where we sit and talk and hang out?
I’d like you to think
about someone in your life who’s something like Mary. Someone with energy, maybe a new dream, maybe
someone going through a huge transition, a big change. Think about what it might mean for you to believe this friend onto the next rung, to believe her into the next act of her
life. Think about what kind of communion
you could offer her. Does it begin with
a long conversation over coffee? How
curious are you about her passion, her dream, her hunger? Might you even invite her to church, to
commune here with similarly passionate, hungry, dreamy folks? Whatever.
Think about the kind of communion you might offer, the kind of communion
you might create together. Like
Elizabeth does for Mary. A communion in
ordinary time.
The beauty we create
around this table, every Sunday, is its capacity to inspire vital spiritual
practice all the other days of the week.
We praise God for the extraordinary grace in ordinary elements—and we
leave this place with praise ringing in our ears and power expanding in our
souls. We break bread and share it
simply with friends—and we leave this place commissioned somehow to be broken
servants in a lovely world. Christ’s
disciples, healing the planet and blessing its people. We commune here—that we might commune in all
the other places of our lives. With Mary
and Elizabeth. Out there.
3.
Long ago, in the fourth century, there was a renegade bishop in Jerusalem whose name was Cyril. Cyril of Jerusalem. And Bishop Cyril added something to the communion ritual, something that’s always struck me as lovely, provocative and just right. When you have taken your sip from the wine, Cyril told his people, touch your fingers to your wine-moistened lips and then press those same fingers to your forehead and ears, eyes and nose. The idea, Cyril said, is that Christ comes to open our senses to the presence of the divine. Christ comes to open our eyes, ears and heart to the wonders of grace. Here and now. In this place. With these friends.
This strikes me as the
kind of communion Mary and Elizabeth have in the hills. The kind of communion that opens eyes and
ears and senses to the divine. The kind
of communion that releases Mary’s song in the most provocative and powerful way
imaginable.
So give it a try this
morning. As you break bread and dip that
bread in the common cup. Touch your lips
and then press your holy fingers to your forehead and ears, eyes and nose. Know that Christ comes this Christmas, again,
to open every sense to the presence of the divine, to the wonders of
grace. Christ comes for you.
And I hope you
remember this story, this story of Mary making haste to Elizabeth, this story
of two women praying and singing and communing together in the hills. It’s a Christmas story, to be sure. A story of friends open in every way to the
love that transforms, to the peace that heals, to the God who calls us
out. Let us be as open as they are. Let our communion be every bit as sweet, and
every bit as revolutionary. And let our
souls magnify, magnify, magnify the Holy One!
Amen.
