This sermon was preached for the fourth Sunday in Advent, December 22, 2024. The texts for this sermon were Micah 5:2-5a, Hebrews 10:5-10, Luke 1:39-45, (46-55), and Canticle 15 (The Song of Mary).
My late grandmother used to cut newspaper articles out to send to each of her grandchildren, along with a single teabag packet from her favorite brand. At first glance, the articles would seem entirely random but there’d always be something there in them that had reminded her of us, even in a tangential, off-kilter way. She wanted us to know she’d been thinking of us. My own millennial version of this, I realized recently, is texting gifs and memes to friends out of the blue. Hey, this made me laugh and think of you. My toddlers’ version, I suppose, is to bring me their newest lego creation. I made you a police car. It has sirens.
Each of these gestures are tiny bids for connection. Heard, seen, and received, they’ll form the basis of strong relationships. The field of animal research gave pop psychology a name for this behavior, observed in mammals and birds, alike; it’s called pebbling. It comes from, adorably enough, penguin courting rituals, when one penguin will spend time searching out beautiful little rocks to present to its mate. Smooth, round pebbles they will then use to build their nest together. Love is made up of pebbles, whether you are human or animal. Even, perhaps, if you are divine.
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| Gentoo penguins use pebbles in their courtship displays. David Cheskin / PA Images via Getty Images |
See God, too, has been sending you tiny bids for connection. Pebbles scattered through your ordinary life. Have you seen them? Have you heard them? Have you received them?
I’ve met many spiritual people of different faiths who live their lives interpreting small, random happenings as tiny bids for connection from their Creator: the appearance of their favorite bird, a particularly beautiful sunset, a well-timed stretch of good weather. Signs from the universe, or their deity, that they are loved. Answers to prayers. And I have seen how these reminders strengthen them, nudge them forward. It’s as if they are the small push-pins that hold up the giant banner of their faith, the one that proclaims in huge letters: You Are Loved.
For me, in my own life, my life got a whole lot richer, a whole lot more enchanted, when I learned to hear and see God’s bids for connection everywhere. In nature, yes, and in scripture, too - like the exact word or image for God I need most popping up in the daily office Bible passage. But most often, I hear God’s bids for connection in the actions and words of other people. In all you all. In the small gestures of love you each do for each other: Altar flowers on a doorstep. Snacks put out for hungry pageant actors. Christmas gifts for local students and jackets for refugees. The article you left in my box because it reminded you of a sermon I preached. The Gospel book already marked for me when I show up on Sunday. Reminding one another: you are loved. You belong. To us, here, and to God.
But most of all, I receive God reaching toward me in the small slip of unleavened wafer dipped in wine. A pebble of flesh and blood offered up. God saying, week after week, this is me, given for you.
Now there are pebbles and then there are boulders: the grand gestures of showing up. Relationships are built from those, too. Today’s Gospel passage is one of them, and one of my favorite scenes in all of scripture: Mary showing up at Elizabeth’s doorstep to greet her joyfully with extraordinary news. That is no small thing at all - think about it, Mary’s in her first trimester of her first pregnancy when she walks, by herself, from Nazareth to the hill country. Elizabeth exclaims, on seeing Mary, “And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me?” This question has grand theological significance, of course. Elizabeth has just made a confession of faith that the child Mary bears is the Messiah, the son of God. But I hear in her question, too, the delight of a cousin whose cousin has travelled far to visit her. How lucky am I, that you have come to me at this moment, in the middle of my geriatric pregnancy. How blessed am I, that God has shown up for me, in the face of a beloved friend. I see and receive your grand gesture of love - and God’s, too.
A couple of weeks ago in one of our Advent formation series discussions, we reflected on moments of radical compassion we’d experienced. We each had a story of someone showing up for us at a crucial moment. One of you shared about how you’d been stressing about something and texted a friend about it. But you’d gotten distracted in the middle of the text thread and stopped responding to your friend. The next thing you knew, the doorbell was ringing. Your friend showed up at your doorstep, with food, to make sure you were okay. For me, it was when I freaked out to a friend about some boy I was seeing in college. That friend dropped everything and sprinted all the way across campus. Showed up at my dorm room actually panting, immediately enveloped me in a hug and stayed with me as I sobbed.
That’s the story of Christmas, too, in a nutshell. God’s been sending humanity bids for connection, over and over, all throughout history. The bigger moments were remembered, told, retold and ended up written down in scripture. As our Eucharistic prayer puts it, “again and again, you called up to return.” “But we turned against you, and betrayed your trust; and we turned against one another.”
We are about to celebrate God’s grandest gesture; the gesture of love to end all gestures of love. On that first Christmas, God showed up at our door, in person.
Mary and Elizabeth’s exchange here invites us to dive into the marvelousness of what God has done. Elizabeth’s question, who am I? And Mary’s response, the Magnificat.
You’ll notice that this Sunday we will recite Mary’s response to Elizabeth’s joyful question three times, in three different ways. We’ve been singing our first paraphrase at the beginning of each service in Advent, Mary’s Song by Millie Rieth. “My soul doth glory in your love, O Lord, for you gazed on your servant with compassion, and you reached out and took me by the hand.” Our second, probably the most familiar version, we said together as our canticle. It’s straight from the Gospel of Luke and part of our daily office evening prayer. “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my savior; for he has looked with favor upon his lowly servant.” Our third is another song, one of my absolute favorite hymns, the Canticle of the Turning. “My soul cries out with a joyful shout that the God of my heart is great.”
In each version, Mary echoes Elizabeth’s astonishment that God, her God, has shown up so intimately, so tangibly, in their lives. But each carries its own particular spin. Mary’s Song revels in the intimacy of God’s gentle compassion. The canticle from Luke is more of a history lesson, recounting the great story of God and God’s people, God’s fulfilled promises, with Mary marveling that she has a role to play in it all. And the Canticle of the Turning, well, you’ll see. It’s triumphant, powerful, revolutionary. God is about to liberate the whole world - we will not be abandoned to the forces of tyranny, corruption, and injustice. Mary sings, “Though I am small, my God, my all, you work great things in me.” The world is about to turn and it’s all to do with the child in her womb.
I wonder which version will ring most true for you this morning.
Though the tone of each is different, it’s so, so important to me that the voice of Mary in all three is not meek and mild. This is not the docile, compliant blessed virgin, with downcast eyes. This is an empowered, astonished Mary who sings out her wild joy. God has shown up. Not just for her, but for all of us. In the grandest gesture possible.
So these last few days of Advent, notice God’s tiny bids for connection with you. They’ve been there all along, like little post-it notes tucked into a child’s lunchbox by a loving parent, or the dead mouse your cat left you by the couch, or the trinkets your spouse is collecting for your stocking even now. Hear, see, receive these pebbles. I do believe they’ll prepare you to be swept up in the astonishment of the grand gesture of love that’s coming to us on Christmas day. Swept up in Mary’s wild joy.
Amen.
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