ADVENT 4 - Psalm 113; Luke 1:5-13, 46-58, 67-80
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I think most of you know I love to sing.
And of all times of the year, this is the singing season.
A week ago, I was singing with Cantore and Shekinah
in our coffeehouse across the way.
Two weeks before that I was singing deep underground,
caroling in the caverns, also with Cantore.
It would be a hard thing for me to go even a day without song.
Listening to song, singing a song,
sometimes alone, but whenever I can, with others.
So I was thrilled to realize that this Sunday morning,
I would be preaching from two songs in Luke chapter 1,
the song of Mary, and the song of Zechariah.
I’m going to reflect, in just a minute,
on the content, the lyrics of those songs.
But before I do, I want us to think about the power of song itself,
to shape our lives and shape our world,
indeed, to transform our lives and our world.
Why is song so important to being human?
Why is song so persistent and powerful?
I’m sure you have all heard stories,
and some of you witnessed first hand,
the staying power of song in the mind and body of a person
who’s already lost most other physical and cognitive abilities.
I’ve seen a person with advanced dementia,
who can no longer recognize their spouse or their adult children,
who is unable to feed themselves or dress themselves,
whose head hangs down most of the time,
non-communicative and expressionless…
but when someone near them starts singing an old familiar song,
their head goes up,
and they sing along,
remembering not only the tune, but the lyrics, too.
Sometimes multiple verses.
When song gets embodied like that, somewhere deeper than we know,
then even in the hardest of times,
it’s strong enough to rise up and give us what we need.
I believe the song of Mary and the song of Zechariah,
were just those sort of songs.
At a moment when they were overtaken and overwhelmed,
by the immensity of the moment,
by the uncertainty of the future,
a song—embodied in the depths of their being rose up,
and gave them the strength to keep moving toward the promise.
You know the story.
Mary was the mother of Jesus.
Zechariah was the father of John the Baptist
Mary was a young woman from a small village
with little life experience.
Zechariah was not exactly well-known,
but he was old and respected,
with plenty of life experience
and responsibilities as a priest in the community.
Both were met by an angel with a life-shattering message.
Zechariah was told that he and his wife Elizabeth,
in their older years,
would have a son who would grow up
to be a prophet like Elijah was.
Which—given that Zechariah’s people were
oppressed by and occupied by the Roman Empire—
would have been a fearful message to hear.
Zechariah knew what Elijah’s life had been like.
He lived with a price on his head,
continually hunted down by brutal kings,
and ridiculed by the public.
I suspect Zechariah feared that his son, too,
would become a social pariah,
and a threat to the powers,
and was likely to pay with his life.
And young Mary was told something even more earth-shaking.
She would also bear a son, before she was even married,
and her son would be the Messiah,
the one who would retake the throne of David in Jerusalem.
That, too, would have been fearful for any mother to hear.
My son? Will take on the Romans?
Will challenge King Herod for the throne in Judea?
Not to mention the stigma she would bear,
by becoming pregnant as an unmarried teenager.
Now, in this story recorded in Luke,
neither Mary nor Zechariah broke out in song right away.
The angel’s words actually did them in for a while.
Zechariah was struck mute, could not speak
for all nine months of Elizabeth’s pregnancy.
Mary was so overwhelmed she ran from home,
and went to take refuge in the home of her aunt Elizabeth.
It was only after baby John the Baptist was born,
that Zechariah regained his voice and broke out in song.
And it was only after Mary was comforted and rejuvenated
by being with Elizabeth,
that she gave voice to the song we call “the Magnificat.”
So where did these songs come from,
and what were they about?
Well, the most simple and straightforward thing to say about them,
is that they were songs of revolution.
They were songs about a communal reversal of fortunes,
about overturning the powers,
turning the world order around.
They were songs that challenged the status quo,
that refused to accept the present states of things,
and gave praise to God who would turn everything end for end.
They were, you might say, songs sung backwards.
Where the strong are made weak,
the poor have plenty,
the captive are set free,
the rich have empty hands,
and those sitting in darkness have the lights turned on.
This morning we’ve heard them read aloud, and we’ve sung them.
Mary sang,
My soul magnifies the Lord,
for God my Savior has looked with favor
on the lowly state of his servant.
God has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
God has brought down the powerful from their thrones
and lifted up the lowly.
God has filled the hungry with good things
and sent the rich away empty.
And Zechariah sang,
God has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them.
God has raised up a mighty savior for us . . .
[to] save us from our enemies
and from the hand of all who hate us.
[The light of God will] shine upon those who sit in darkness
and in the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the way of peace.
There really is no other way to faithfully absorb these songs,
than by listening to them in their own context.
They were sung from bottom up.
In contrast to all the powers that be—
the brutal rule of King Herod, and the Roman Empire,
and the religious hierarchy who often
collaborated with Rome to keep the peace,
Mary and Zechariah were way down the ladder.
And don’t make the mistake of thinking Zechariah
was a big shot, just because he was a priest.
He was one of hundreds,
playing a bit part in a vast religious structure.
His large company of priests was just taking their
monthly turn to do the temple rituals.
And one day Zechariah drew the short straw,
randomly picked to light the incense in the holy place.
That’s all.
No, both Mary and Zechariah identified with the downtrodden.
They felt the oppression of their people.
And in Luke 1 they sang songs of revolution.
If you want a modern comparison, think 1965.
Think of the crowds singing “We shall overcome”
on the march from Selma to Montgomery.
Now, to be sure, the songs of Mary and Zechariah
were not merely political protest anthems.
They were songs of faith,
deeply embedded in their collective trust in a Saving God
who would deliver the downtrodden.
Just like much of the Civil Rights movement—
not all, but much.
_____________________
I think the burning question for us today,
is what song is our world calling for now?
In a world where people are rapidly losing hope,
where problems seem too deeply rooted to have a solution,
what song is being called for?
And is that song somewhere deep within us?
And if we haven’t been hearing it lately, why not?
How can we awaken it, so it rises up to strengthen us?
How can we learn to “sing backwards?”
How can we be energized and empowered
to proclaim our trust in a God who makes things right?
Please hear me.
I’m not just trying to wax poetic.
I mean this in a practical way.
What are the sustaining chords and melody and rhythm
of the music of our faith
that will help us live with greater hope
and purpose and joy and love in this season,
and in the year to come?
Notice I didn’t just ask what are the “words” of faith.
Because our songs are more than lyrics.
They are whole-bodied, integrated expressions of an individual
in a faith community.
There is a reason why the writer of Luke told the story this way.
He could have had Mary and Zechariah
offer a few words of thoughtful and rational reflection.
“This reminds me of what Isaiah said about
the nature of God, and God’s love for the poor.”
Luke could have put only words in the mouth of Mary,
and of Zechariah.
Instead, he had them singing a song.
And you realize, I’m sure,
that Mary and Zechariah didn’t just make up these songs
out of thin air.
They came from a vast communal resource of historical faith.
These words echo what we already find in Hebrew prophets,
and in the psalms.
These were already the heart songs of Mary and Zechariah.
They had probably sung them often,
when gathered with their people
in the worship of God, of Adonai.
These songs were embedded in their beings,
so that when they were really needed, they came out.
How are we preparing for hard times?
It’s hard to sing backwards, if we’re trying to do it for the first time.
It only comes naturally, with lots and lots of practice,
with being immersed in the communal resources of faith.
If we want to sing hope, or cry hope,
we need to immerse ourselves in a hopeful faith community.
If we want to sing peace, or cry peace,
we need to drink in the ways of people of peace.
If we want to sing joy, or cry joy,
we need to strengthen our ties to people who find deep joy in life.
If we want to sing love, or cry love,
we need to devote ourselves to the God who is love,
and to God’s people who embody that love.
These songs only seem backward,
because they’re so different than the primary song of our world—
a song in the key of domination, control, violence, anxiety.
But actually, these songs are not backwards,
they are reorienting.
They remind us of the true north of God’s redeeming love.
They are songs in the key of life (to quote Stevie Wonder).
And as a pair of song writers from our congregation put it,
when describing the music of faith,
“Crushing fears are met with joy;
sorrow’s curse is torn.
Hear the music, fling your load down,
and unbend your tired form.”
As a response, let’s sing that song together,
written by Christopher and Maria Clymer-Kurtz,
and found in VT #276.
—Phil Kniss, December 24, 2023
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