December 1998 Issue

Luke 1:26-38, 46-55

There is something jarring about reading this passage in the middle of December. First there is the question of timing. Certainly we should be reading it in March, not two weeks into Advent, as though we thought Gabriel had come to announce an impending visit from the divine stork for Christmas. If we believed that, it would certainly put to rest a host of controversies about the virgin birth. But even more troublesome than the question of timing is the question of Mary herself. As Protestants, we don't give her much thought, certainly not in the way that our Catholic and Orthodox friends do. She doesn't figure into our prayer life, nor does she occupy much space in our liturgy or preaching or art and architecture. Except for a starring role in the Christmas story, and a few isolated passages like this one in Luke's gospel, we hardly notice that she is there. And that is a great loss.

If we think of Mary as nothing more than a Christmas decoration for the tree or the creche or the pageant--a mild little figure dressed in blue and kneeling reverently at the manger-then we are missing one of the most powerful and inspiring stories in all of Scripture. Mary wasn't some meek little schoolgirl who was so obedient and good that she never had an original thought; no! Mary was without a doubt the most courageous and faithful person we could ever hope to meet. She had guts. She had grace, And, of her own free will, she chose, she chose, to be the kind of statistic that gets the politicians harping about something called "family values". She chose all these things, long before it was fashionable, and even though it was moderately life threatening. She chose them, and she chose to see herself as the happy example of what God was about to do--indeed, had already done--for every human being on earth.

Now, if I thought that God intended to offer all the teenage girls in my congregation the option of parenthood, and if I learned that they had all decided to see themselves as shining examples of courage and faith by accepting this offer, so that suddenly I had an epidemic of singing pregnant teenage girls to give up everything they have--their families, their friends, their futures, even their lives--in order to have a baby. I am not prepared for a God who presents teenage pregnancy as a heroic and sacred option. It doesn't make sense to me, and it makes me angry, very angry. As a person who believes passionately that young people need all the education and support and encouragement they can get to make it in this world, and that being a parent at an early age can add more stress than many teens can handle, it seems to me that God could just as easily choose a stable, mature and experienced couple for the same job. You may feel the same way.

The story of the Annunciation is supposed to kick us in the teeth like that. If it doesn't, we are probably suffering from an overdose of Hallmark Madonnas and Ave Marias, because the story is far from pretty, and the Magnificent, Mary's song, is far from sweet. If we want to pack a real jolt and get back tot he scandal of the thing, we might do better to commission a rock video for the Sunday school this year rather than a tableau Christmas pageant; our young people could undoubtedly supply the appropriate shock value. And in order to understand the passage fully, to really confront it honestly, we need to feel that shock.

What did Mary see that you and I, in our twentieth-century wisdom, don't see? What is it about the Annunciation and the Magnificent that can liberate us?

The poet Denise Levertov has written a beautiful poem about Mary, which she calls, "The Annunciation" (published in A Door in the Hive, New Directions, 1989) Listen to how it begins:

"We know the scene: the room variously furnished,

almost always a lectern, a book; always

the tall lily.

Arrived on solemn grandeur of great wings,

the angelic ambassador, standing or hovering

whom she acknowledges, a guest.

But we are told of meek obedience. No one mentions

courage.

The engendering spirit

did not enter her without consent.

God waited.

She was free

to accept or to refuse, choice

integral to humanness."

It is easier, isn't it, to think of Mary as obedient rather than courageous? If she is nothing more than a good girl, and if God has just made her an offer she couldn't refuse, then there is no choice in the matter; it is a done deal. Irresistible grace, or some such notion. God. is in control; we can all breathe a sigh of relief But what if it is true, true that God waited? What if she did have a choice, and accepted, bravely? Then we are back to that unsettling thought that God is more than a back-stage puppeteer. We have to come to terms with the idea that God waits, that God waits for us. Any of us could get the same offer. It makes us think: how many young women did Gabriel have to approach before Mary finally said yes?

Levertov's poem continues like this:

"Aren't there annunciations

of one sort or another

in most lives?

Some unwillingly

undertake great destines,

enact them in sullen pride,

uncomprehending.

More often

those moments

when roads of light and storm

open from darkness in a man or woman,

are turned away from

in dread, in a wave of weakness, in despair

and we relief.

Ordinary lives continue.

God does not smite them.

But the gates close, the pathway vanishes."

Perhaps you have felt moments of "annunciation" in your life. Maybe you have felt yourself smack in the middle of Robert Frost's famous poem, where two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry you could not travel both, you took the one less traveled by. Or, if you are like most of the people most of the time, maybe you checked the mileage and you checked the gas gauge and you took a look at the road conditions, and you played it safe and smart and took the one more traveled by thank you very much. Maybe you kept the first for another day! Either way, as Frost says, you shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence, because two roads diverged in a wood, and you made a choice, knowing that you might never come back; and that has made all the difference.

Not many of us are destined to make decisions that will directly impact the rise and fall of nations. yet we have all stood on the spot where two roads diverged. We choose one career over another, feeling called to do so, and years later, we meet someone who is happily engaged in that other career, and we think to ourselves, "What if I had gone that way?" We choose to attend a certain school. WE choose to be parents, if we able to do so, or not to be parents. We choose a life partner, or decide to remain single. We may believe absolutely that angles accompanied us in our decision-making. WE live with the repercussions of these choices each and every day.

But more often, the kinds of annunciations we experience have to do with everyday matters that, in their own ways, also have the power to shape our lives. A co-worker is harassed by an employer, and asks us for support: will we speak up on her behalf, or remain silent? We hear classmates telling racist jokes in the lunchroom: will we tell them that the jokes are offensive to us, or laugh and let it slide? Our church has a policy that we secretly think is unjust: will we work openly to change it, or avoid the conflict of getting involved?

As Levertov writes, God waits. God waits on us, on our choice. VVE may turn away from the harder choice, and choose the road more traveled by, the road that promises to return us quickly to our ordinary lives. For many lives. For many people, this is the perpetual choice; "God does not smite them," Levertov says. But the gates do close, as she reminds us; the pathway vanishes. We are free to accept or refuse, and whichever way we choose is likely to become a habit. As Frost tells with a sigh, it makes all the difference.

But we have another choice in the matter, and that is the way we opt to view the situation. We can see these moments of annunciation as tremendous burdens, requiring more introspection and energy than we feel like expending. Or we can see them as a gift, an opportunity, to grow into something new. Levertov's poem picks up again with these lines;

"Called to a destiny more momentous

than any in all of Time

she did not quail

a simple, How can this be?

and gravely, courteously,

took to heart the angel's reply,

perceiving instantly

the astounding ministry she was offered..."

It can be a burden to be the only one of our friends who isn't going along with the joke or the prank or the policy or the "in" thing. It takes the courage of Mary not to flinch when we hit the two roads diverging in a yellow field. But to choose the one less traveled by, to stand up for the just and fair thing, is also an astounding ministry, a chance to turn things around, and if not for the whole group, then maybe for just one person; maybe for ourselves. Revolutions begin with one person; peace evolves in the same way. And God waits on us to decide.

Mary made one more choice, and that was to see herself as a living example of God's incredible good news. She didn't for a minute believe that she was the only one whom God had blessed. Instead, she recognized that a major flip-flop was about to take place in every sector of society, and that her rather unconventional means of becoming a mother was just a portent if days ahead. Things may have seemed weighed to favor the rich and powerful, as they have in every age, but God's justice would prevail, as it had before and does today and will again. The world, Mary firmly believed, would run on God's time. She sang a song about it, an ancient song that recalls Hannah's song from the Old Testament. "God has put down the mighty from their thrones," Mary sang," and exalted those of low degree. The Lord has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich God has sent empty away."

There are times when I am convinced that only a parent could sing the Magnificent, times when I know why God sent Jesus to a family and not to a monastery. There is nothing like parenting to put down the mighty from their seats. Robert Fulghum, author of Everything I Need to know I learned in Kindergarten, has written eloquently on this subject. I recently heard a PBS special in which he talked about three incidents in a father's life with his son.

The first episode consisted of a day in the grocery store that began proudly with clean clothes and bright smiles and ended with a horrendous accident in the pickle section. As his three year old son sat amid the wreckage of hundreds of pickles jars, the father considered his options, one of which was to quietly run away from the unbelievable mess. "Why me? he groaned to himself. Then he stepped forward from the crowd of onlookers and claimed his son.

The second incident took place fifteen years later. The son was now an angry teenager, and on this particular day, the father paced up and down Fulghum's living room, clutching a note from the boy saying that he was running away because his father has never been there for him. The father again considered his options, one of which, he declared, was to hunt down and shoot the runaway son. "Why me? The father shouted to his friend, and then the boy returned home.

The third episode took place fifteen years after that. The son was now in his thirties with children of his own, the father was pushing sixty, and on this particular day they were jogging together, as they often did. The father started across an intersection and the son took his elbow protectively as a car approached. Their relationship had changed. It was deeper and richer. They still fought on occasion, they still groaned, "Why me?", but they no longer ran away from each other, or seriously considered it as an option.

There is nothing like being part of a family to understand the topsy-turvy message of the Magnificent. Where else can you see the mighty put down from their seats on a regular basis? Where else can you see the rich being sent empty away? One minute we feel loved and confident, and the next we feel sure that no one appreciates or understands us. Parents offer advice, and the children see it as criticism. Children offer opinions, and the parents see it as insolence. Is there any other institution that causes as much pain and misunderstanding as this one? Yet it is also true that the joys, when they come, are beyond words; God fills our hungry souls with good things.

Families also teach us how to make choices. As Fulgum's story illustrates, we choose to stay with the mess or to run away. We choose to interfere or to let someone learn from a mistake. We choose to accept a certain amount of pain and conflict as part of life, or we choose to let it wipe us out. Every day brings a little annunciation of one sort or another. We try to see them as an astounding ministry rather than a burden; we try to sing a song Eke Mary's

Sometimes I think that if we could only take some of the humility and patience we learn from being part of family or a community, we would have a deeper, richer sense of what the kingdom of God is meant to be. The national organization "Parenting for Peace and Justice," founded by Jim and Kathy McGinnis, exists for just this purpose. The McGinnis' maintain that if we want peace on earth, we begin at home. We build it in small ways on a small scale by encouraging open communication and negotiation and non-violent behavior in families, and then we transfer that behavior to larger and larger arenas. Parenting for peace and justice means that we choose to be just and fair, and we try hard, even though there are times when everything seems to go wrong anyway. Parenting for peace and justice means that we choose to stay flexible, to be creative, and to keep our sense of humor. It is an astounding ministry, and it is definitely the road less traveled by. But what if more and more families chose it? What if more and more governments chose it?

Robert Fulghum closed his PBS special with a song that he taught to the audience. The words went like this:

"All this joy,

all this sorrow,

all this promise,

all this pain.

such is life,

such is spirit,

such is being,

such is love."

It is an astounding ministry, this life: annunciation, choices, songs, roads diverging in a yellow wood. We choose to run away, or we choose to get in the middle of the topsyturvy mess. We choose to see the burden or we choose to see the blessing. God waits. And so does the child in the pickle section, the child whom God has sent to live among us, the child whom Mary chose to bear, the child whom we, too, may choose as the liberator of our lives.

Thanks be to God.

AMEN

Rev. Anna Carter Florence
THE PROTESTANT HOUR