Micah 5:2-5a; Luke 1:39-55
But you, O Bethlehem of Eph’rathah, who are one of the little clans of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to rule in Israel. Of course. Of course the Messiah would come from one of the little clans of Judah. What else could we possibly expect? The Bible consists of many books, written by many authors with many theological perspectives over the course of many centuries, but one thing remains constant from the beginning of Genesis to the end of Revelation: God favors the underdog. Since the moment God called Abram, that childless, wandering Aramean, to become the father of a people as numerous as the stars of heaven, time after time after time God chooses what is small and insignificant, even what is broken and scorned, to perform wonders. Moses is a murderer, an exile, and an incompetent speaker who leads the Israelites out of their slavery in Egypt; David is the youngest of the sons of Jesse, a shepherd boy who can’t even wear armor when he defeats the giant Goliath with a single small stone; the list of prophets is a veritable Who’s Who of nobodies to whom God says, “You will speak for me.” And after being born in a dusty backwater and growing up in the sticks, Jesus uses a ragtag group of fishermen and peasants to change the world with a message that, over and over again, the poor and the weak grasp before the rich and the powerful. So constant and relentless is this theme that Paul, himself a shocking choice to be an apostle, writes to the Corinthians: God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are, so that no one might boast in the presence of God (1 Cor. 1:27-29). So it should not surprise us at all when, in our Gospel today, one obscure pregnant woman greets another obscure pregnant woman carrying God in her womb. What Mary says to Elizabeth could serve as a byline for the entire Bible: My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
Lowliness. An old-fashioned word and a hard message to preach because I know how much our society values “greatness,” or what we perceive to be greatness. In many ways we worship, we give worth to, success, achievement, money, and power. We are raised to crave social status and the good opinion of others. And we are taught not to be weak, not to be losers. A member of my parish in Massachusetts, a very driven guy, used to tell me frequently, “Failure is not an option.” But the truth is that sometimes failure is the only option. Sometimes we don’t succeed; sometimes we’re not strong enough or smart enough or talented enough to do what we want to do. And let me be clear: I’m sure God delights in our gifts and loves to see us use those gifts; I’m sure God wants us to thrive. But more than anything else, God wants us. And we want God – we need God. And that means we need hearts that are humble, open, and receptive to all that God would give us. The problem is that our egos and our social conditioning continually get in the way of that. So it’s often our failures and limitations that help us the most. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, with brutal honesty: I have learned more from my failures than from my successes; owning my own human frailty and weakness has taught me far more about loving, about giving and receiving mercy, about living compassionately than any ego-gratifying success ever has. We may not want to be lowly — but in lowliness lies our salvation. That is the clear and consistent teaching of Scripture, and the witness of countless saints and mystics for two thousand years.
Today is the Fourth Sunday of Advent. Maybe you are incredibly busy mailing Christmas cards, buying presents, and decorating your homes. Or maybe you’re not really getting ready for Christmas at all. Wherever you find yourself this morning, I would like to offer a suggestion, a way of preparing yourself, not just for Christmas but for Christ. And as a guide I will use Psalm 131, a short poem with a deep spiritual message. It reads like this:
O Lord, I am not proud;
I have no haughty looks.
I do not occupy myself with great matters,
or with things that are too hard for me.
But I still my soul and make it quiet,
like a child upon its mother’s breast;
my soul is quieted within me.
O Israel, wait upon the LORD,
from this time forth for evermore.
In the coming week, I invite you to spend time in that place where you are not proud. It’s within all of us, that place where we know we are not Wonder Woman or Superman, that place where we are not so full of ourselves that there’s no room for God or for anything else. It’s where we feel weak and vulnerable, where we feel empty. Don’t run from it, don’t try to hide it, don’t be ashamed of it. Just allow yourself to be a fragile and needy human being in the presence of God. Pray out of that place. That is where Christ will enter because that is where we will welcome him. The Savior who comes among us as a child teaches us that we must receive the kingdom like a child: not trying to earn it or outsmart it or bend it to our will, but accepting it in humility as a gift. And if we are willing to do that, if we are willing to let down our defenses and let Jesus in, then over time he will pour out on us what he always pours out on fragile and needy people who let him: forgiveness and mercy, grace and strength, joy and peace — and the unconditional, unending love of God.
So in that spirit, as one frail and limited person in a congregation of frail and limited people, I say on behalf of all of us: Come, Lord Jesus. Come.
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