Luke 1:26-38
1.
Sarah Ruden’s translation of the Gospels is perhaps the most recent, and easily one of the most compelling, to emerge from contemporary biblical scholars around the world. This morning we have a familiar tale—but in Sarah Ruden’s translation even this familiar tale sizzles with possibility.
Mariam and the messenger. “Mariam, the holy life-breath is coming over you.” Are you ready for this? “Mariam, the holy life-breath is rising in your heart, and rising in your soul, and rising in your body.” Are you ready for this? “Mariam, the holy life-breath is bringing blessing to the earth through you and your perfect imperfections, through you and your formidable fragility.” Are you ready? For this?
Now, it’s undoubtedly an ordinary little town, Nazareth; and hers is undoubtedly an ordinary little house, Mariam’s house off the main square. But grace lands on her doorstep, just the same. The messenger enters unannounced, right there, just then. And the moment between them is anything but ordinary. You see, every Jewish storyteller in Israel, every Jewish teacher in Nazareth would remember that it’s God’s “life-breath” that first stirred upon the face of the deep. In the beginning of all beginnings. Genesis, right? It’s a tale passed along from generation to generation. It's a myth, yes, but true in every way that matters.
God’s “life-breath” first stirred upon the face of the deep, then hovered over the crazy chaos, then breathed life into roaring oceans and mountain ranges and creeping creatures and winged sentinels; and light and dark and day and night. And creation itself became a communion of energy and motion, a symphony of sound and beauty. The world of God’s blessing. So that’s what God’s “life-breath” does. And every Jewish storyteller, every Jewish teacher would know this. Would get goosebumps saying this out loud. “Mariam, the holy life-breath is rising in your heart, and rising in your soul, and rising in your body.” Are you ready for this?
2.
You know, for Mariam, for you and me, for every beloved community, mission is awakened in a message. That’s one way of thinking about what’s happening in the story today. Mariam’s mission is awakened in this message. Now I’m talking about mission as vocation, mission as purpose, mission as a sense of meaning. As in your life is not a random occurrence. As in your life among us is a particular expression of a particular grace that is particularly important to the rest of us. And to God. Your life is a gift to be treasured. Your life is a blessing to be discovered. Mission plays out in all kinds of ways, among all kinds of people. But at its core, it’s about treasuring the gift. And discovering the blessing. Of your life.
And that kind mission is awakened in a message.
Could be a prayer you heard in the wind in the forest in the gloaming of a winter’s day. Could be a cry for help, or an article in the news, or a favorite podcast. Could be a friend’s encouragement or a sacred text or, frankly, just a hunch. But mission is awakened in a message. Faith has something to do, maybe everything to do, with radical receptivity. Yours, mine, and hers. “Mariam, the holy life-breath is coming over you.” Your life is a gift to be treasured. Your life is a blessing to be discovered. Are you open to the possibility? Are you willing to serve a higher purpose?
Now Mariam’s under no obligation to take this on. This message. This mission. And neither are we. We can hit the snooze button one more time. We can assign God’s intentions to wiser souls, or brighter lights, or braver spirits. Mariam has just about every reason to walk away. Particularly since she’s being asked to step out on her own, without the conventional protections of husband and family, without the customary credentials of marriage and union. She’s well within reason to hit the snooze button, close her eyes, and wish the message and the messenger away. Haven’t we all—every one of us—been there! Forget about all this blessing business; and just let me sleep.
But this is grace, this is gospel, this is good news. It’s Advent, friends. And radical receptivity is the one gift, the one and only gift that keeps on giving. And Mariam shows us the way.
She says, “Look!” She doesn’t close her eyes: she opens them wide. She says, “Look!” She doesn’t shrink small: she goes big. Radical receptivity. “Look, I am God’s servant.” “Let it be. Let it be. Let your message be so.”
So here’s the thing: about Advent, about Christmas this year, about Christianity always. This is a God who intends to open our eyes, your eyes, mine. To the wonders of creation. To the mysteries of spirit and grace and human communion. This is a God who partners with Mariam, and with Elizabeth her cousin, and with every other woman and man willing to entertain hope and willing to step out and willing to go big in blessing. We return to this story every December, to Mariam and Gabriel, and the promise of God’s incarnation in us: we return to this moment every December. Because this is where Christmas begins. Because this is where discipleship takes off. This is where the Word is made flesh. In Mariam’s radical receptivity. And in ours.
If Christmas is a star shining in the darkness; if Christmas is a song of hope rising across a sea of lamentation; if Christmas is God’s promise of transformation in a season of disinformation—the good news begins when Mariam says, “Look!” The good news begins when Mariam says, “Let it be!” The good news begins when Mariam says, “Bring it on!”
And here—I think—is a spirituality for our generation: for the church risking total transformation in service to the gospel of peace. Right? Here is a spirituality for our generation: for the church bearing witness to God’s love in a world where hitting the snooze button makes so much sense. Here is a spirituality for us. We have so very much to learn from Mariam and her radical receptivity. What do you do when the message finds you? What do you say when the invitation is right there and there’s just no missing it? “Look!” she says. “Let it be!” “Bring it on!”
3.
But there’s something else every Jewish storyteller would know about Mariam. Something else that might arouse our curiosity this morning, as Gabriel greets her at home, as Gabriel greets Mariam with divine blessing and invites her to risk everything for the healing of creation, for the wholeness of humankind. Mariam (or Miriam) is a familiar figure in Jewish storytelling: spanning generations of drama, animating tales and stories of consequence.
She was Moses’ sister, and Aaron’s sister, and she was there in Egypt as her people fled oppression for freedom. Even more, even more, Mariam was the prophet who danced with her people in the Red Sea; she was the choreographer of liberation and new life. It was Mariam (or Miriam), so the story goes, in Exodus, who stepped into the sea—before God’s intervention, before God’s miracle, before the sea separated in any way—it was Mariam who dared to believe that God’s passion would roll back the waters, that God’s love would see the people through, that God’s intention was beloved community and freedom for all the people. Moses was hanging back, by the way, waiting to see how it all went down. But Mariam danced into the Sea. Mariam dared to believe.
You see how this goes? How the Christian story celebrates the Jewish story? How Mariam in Nazareth welcomes the “holy life-breath” and partners with God—just as Miriam and her sisters welcomed the promise and danced in the Sea? Our calling in 2021 is to welcome God’s invitation as they did. Our calling in 2021 is to dance in the beautiful, broken world as they did. Our calling is to join arms and hearts, to imagine a world of abundance and blessing, to sing songs of praise and promise—and to keep our eyes open. Because God’s love is surprising and restless. Because God’s love makes a way out of no way. Because God’s love finds Mariam in Nazareth—and bathes her in light, and in audacity, and in promise.
And that’s how it is for us, for the church, for every church. This Advent. This Christmas. This Church. “Look!” we say to God and one another. “Let it be!” we say to the “holy life-breath” bringing joy in a season of sorrows. “Bring it on!” “Bring it on!” And so we dance. In every generation, that’s what Mariam’s church has always done. In every crisis. In every season of sorrows. In every Egypt. We dance.
4.
I want to finish with a short passage from Kathleen Norris’ wonderful book, Amazing Grace, written two decades ago, but still humming with wisdom and delight today. It’s a passage I discovered in this lovely anthology: Full of Grace: Encountering Mary in Faith, Art and Life. And if you’re on the lookout for a Christmas gift for a fellow traveler, I want to highly recommend this as a stunning collection of artwork and story. Full of Grace: Encountering Mary in Faith, Art and Life. Gorgeously gathered. All about Mary or Mariam and what she’s meant to seekers and believers, and poets and dreamers, through the centuries.
And in this particular passage, the writer Kathleen Norris describes her attraction to Mary—and how it is that Mary or Mariam allows for a kind of integration, a kind of reconciliation in her art and in her heart. In a world of division and divisiveness, Mary embraces unity and wisdom and human wholeness.
Kathleen Norris. “As for myself,” she writes, “I have come to think of Mary as the patron saint of ‘both/and’ passion over ‘either/or’ reasoning, and as such, she delights my poetic soul.” OK, there’s more to the passage—but just that first sentence warrants a repeat. “I have come to think of Mary as the patron saint of ‘both/and’ passion over ‘either/or’ reasoning, and as such, she delights my poetic soul.” Wow. Integration. Reconciliation. The patron saint of both/and passion.
Kathleen Norris goes on: “Ever since I first encountered Mary in a Benedictine abbey, I have learned never to discount her ability to confront and disarm the polarities that so often bring human endeavors to impasse: the subjective and objective, the expansive and the parochial, the affective and the intellectual.” Full stop. Now this morning, we have just the first vignette of Mary’s story, just the first movement of her symphony. But I’m drawn to this notion of her ability to disarm the polarities that so often bring human endeavors to impasse. Again, wow.
Radical receptivity doesn’t erase the contradictions. It doesn’t obliterate the polarities. But it sure does engage the imagination. And it sure does embrace wonder and beauty in a world of paradox and pain. Mary’s virginity isn’t about sex and tabloid sensationalism. Mary’s virginity is her open mind, her accessible heart, and her radical receptivity to the ways and wonders of God. “Let it be!” she says to Gabriel. “And bring it on!”
In a world where polarities paralyze human creativity, maybe we can look to Mary for compassion and imagination. In a world where polarities poison governance and trust, maybe we can look to Mary for the courage to love, the courage to believe, the courage to go all in with humanness and grace. Kathleen Norris calls Mary “the patron saint of ‘both/and’ passion.” Again, and I really believe this, here’s a spirituality for our generation: for the church risking total transformation in service to the gospel of peace. If we risk opening our hearts as wide as she does, if we risk embracing the ‘both/and’ as she does, if we risk disarming polarities with love and mercy and grace—we will offer our friends and neighbors a way through this wilderness and a light in this darkness.
So yes, O yes, maybe Mary’s the saint who comes again this Advent, to set us free. To make us human. To bring it on.
Amen and Ashe.
1.
 |
| Malak Mattar, Palestinian Artist |
Mariam and the messenger. “Mariam, the holy life-breath is coming over you.” Are you ready for this? “Mariam, the holy life-breath is rising in your heart, and rising in your soul, and rising in your body.” Are you ready for this? “Mariam, the holy life-breath is bringing blessing to the earth through you and your perfect imperfections, through you and your formidable fragility.” Are you ready? For this?
Now, it’s undoubtedly an ordinary little town, Nazareth; and hers is undoubtedly an ordinary little house, Mariam’s house off the main square. But grace lands on her doorstep, just the same. The messenger enters unannounced, right there, just then. And the moment between them is anything but ordinary. You see, every Jewish storyteller in Israel, every Jewish teacher in Nazareth would remember that it’s God’s “life-breath” that first stirred upon the face of the deep. In the beginning of all beginnings. Genesis, right? It’s a tale passed along from generation to generation. It's a myth, yes, but true in every way that matters.
 |
| "Breath of God," by Digiladee |
2.
You know, for Mariam, for you and me, for every beloved community, mission is awakened in a message. That’s one way of thinking about what’s happening in the story today. Mariam’s mission is awakened in this message. Now I’m talking about mission as vocation, mission as purpose, mission as a sense of meaning. As in your life is not a random occurrence. As in your life among us is a particular expression of a particular grace that is particularly important to the rest of us. And to God. Your life is a gift to be treasured. Your life is a blessing to be discovered. Mission plays out in all kinds of ways, among all kinds of people. But at its core, it’s about treasuring the gift. And discovering the blessing. Of your life.
And that kind mission is awakened in a message.
Could be a prayer you heard in the wind in the forest in the gloaming of a winter’s day. Could be a cry for help, or an article in the news, or a favorite podcast. Could be a friend’s encouragement or a sacred text or, frankly, just a hunch. But mission is awakened in a message. Faith has something to do, maybe everything to do, with radical receptivity. Yours, mine, and hers. “Mariam, the holy life-breath is coming over you.” Your life is a gift to be treasured. Your life is a blessing to be discovered. Are you open to the possibility? Are you willing to serve a higher purpose?
Now Mariam’s under no obligation to take this on. This message. This mission. And neither are we. We can hit the snooze button one more time. We can assign God’s intentions to wiser souls, or brighter lights, or braver spirits. Mariam has just about every reason to walk away. Particularly since she’s being asked to step out on her own, without the conventional protections of husband and family, without the customary credentials of marriage and union. She’s well within reason to hit the snooze button, close her eyes, and wish the message and the messenger away. Haven’t we all—every one of us—been there! Forget about all this blessing business; and just let me sleep.
But this is grace, this is gospel, this is good news. It’s Advent, friends. And radical receptivity is the one gift, the one and only gift that keeps on giving. And Mariam shows us the way.
She says, “Look!” She doesn’t close her eyes: she opens them wide. She says, “Look!” She doesn’t shrink small: she goes big. Radical receptivity. “Look, I am God’s servant.” “Let it be. Let it be. Let your message be so.”
So here’s the thing: about Advent, about Christmas this year, about Christianity always. This is a God who intends to open our eyes, your eyes, mine. To the wonders of creation. To the mysteries of spirit and grace and human communion. This is a God who partners with Mariam, and with Elizabeth her cousin, and with every other woman and man willing to entertain hope and willing to step out and willing to go big in blessing. We return to this story every December, to Mariam and Gabriel, and the promise of God’s incarnation in us: we return to this moment every December. Because this is where Christmas begins. Because this is where discipleship takes off. This is where the Word is made flesh. In Mariam’s radical receptivity. And in ours.
If Christmas is a star shining in the darkness; if Christmas is a song of hope rising across a sea of lamentation; if Christmas is God’s promise of transformation in a season of disinformation—the good news begins when Mariam says, “Look!” The good news begins when Mariam says, “Let it be!” The good news begins when Mariam says, “Bring it on!”
And here—I think—is a spirituality for our generation: for the church risking total transformation in service to the gospel of peace. Right? Here is a spirituality for our generation: for the church bearing witness to God’s love in a world where hitting the snooze button makes so much sense. Here is a spirituality for us. We have so very much to learn from Mariam and her radical receptivity. What do you do when the message finds you? What do you say when the invitation is right there and there’s just no missing it? “Look!” she says. “Let it be!” “Bring it on!”
3.
 |
| "Miriam Dancing" |
You see how this goes? How the Christian story celebrates the Jewish story? How Mariam in Nazareth welcomes the “holy life-breath” and partners with God—just as Miriam and her sisters welcomed the promise and danced in the Sea? Our calling in 2021 is to welcome God’s invitation as they did. Our calling in 2021 is to dance in the beautiful, broken world as they did. Our calling is to join arms and hearts, to imagine a world of abundance and blessing, to sing songs of praise and promise—and to keep our eyes open. Because God’s love is surprising and restless. Because God’s love makes a way out of no way. Because God’s love finds Mariam in Nazareth—and bathes her in light, and in audacity, and in promise.
And that’s how it is for us, for the church, for every church. This Advent. This Christmas. This Church. “Look!” we say to God and one another. “Let it be!” we say to the “holy life-breath” bringing joy in a season of sorrows. “Bring it on!” “Bring it on!” And so we dance. In every generation, that’s what Mariam’s church has always done. In every crisis. In every season of sorrows. In every Egypt. We dance.
4.
I want to finish with a short passage from Kathleen Norris’ wonderful book, Amazing Grace, written two decades ago, but still humming with wisdom and delight today. It’s a passage I discovered in this lovely anthology: Full of Grace: Encountering Mary in Faith, Art and Life. And if you’re on the lookout for a Christmas gift for a fellow traveler, I want to highly recommend this as a stunning collection of artwork and story. Full of Grace: Encountering Mary in Faith, Art and Life. Gorgeously gathered. All about Mary or Mariam and what she’s meant to seekers and believers, and poets and dreamers, through the centuries.
And in this particular passage, the writer Kathleen Norris describes her attraction to Mary—and how it is that Mary or Mariam allows for a kind of integration, a kind of reconciliation in her art and in her heart. In a world of division and divisiveness, Mary embraces unity and wisdom and human wholeness.
Kathleen Norris. “As for myself,” she writes, “I have come to think of Mary as the patron saint of ‘both/and’ passion over ‘either/or’ reasoning, and as such, she delights my poetic soul.” OK, there’s more to the passage—but just that first sentence warrants a repeat. “I have come to think of Mary as the patron saint of ‘both/and’ passion over ‘either/or’ reasoning, and as such, she delights my poetic soul.” Wow. Integration. Reconciliation. The patron saint of both/and passion.
Kathleen Norris goes on: “Ever since I first encountered Mary in a Benedictine abbey, I have learned never to discount her ability to confront and disarm the polarities that so often bring human endeavors to impasse: the subjective and objective, the expansive and the parochial, the affective and the intellectual.” Full stop. Now this morning, we have just the first vignette of Mary’s story, just the first movement of her symphony. But I’m drawn to this notion of her ability to disarm the polarities that so often bring human endeavors to impasse. Again, wow.
Radical receptivity doesn’t erase the contradictions. It doesn’t obliterate the polarities. But it sure does engage the imagination. And it sure does embrace wonder and beauty in a world of paradox and pain. Mary’s virginity isn’t about sex and tabloid sensationalism. Mary’s virginity is her open mind, her accessible heart, and her radical receptivity to the ways and wonders of God. “Let it be!” she says to Gabriel. “And bring it on!”
In a world where polarities paralyze human creativity, maybe we can look to Mary for compassion and imagination. In a world where polarities poison governance and trust, maybe we can look to Mary for the courage to love, the courage to believe, the courage to go all in with humanness and grace. Kathleen Norris calls Mary “the patron saint of ‘both/and’ passion.” Again, and I really believe this, here’s a spirituality for our generation: for the church risking total transformation in service to the gospel of peace. If we risk opening our hearts as wide as she does, if we risk embracing the ‘both/and’ as she does, if we risk disarming polarities with love and mercy and grace—we will offer our friends and neighbors a way through this wilderness and a light in this darkness.
So yes, O yes, maybe Mary’s the saint who comes again this Advent, to set us free. To make us human. To bring it on.
Amen and Ashe.
