Sermon by John Elford, Pastor, University United Methodist Church,
Austin, TX
December 2019
I have a confession to make. In my spare time, I read sermons. Just for fun. If there isn’t a therapy group for this there ought to be.
So I read sermons and I’ve noticed a pattern. So many sermons begin with this formula – I’m not sure what I was thinking when I chose this text. And then the sermon moans and groans along about how difficult and weird and impossible the whole exercise is.
I have sworn on my ordination Bible that I would not usethis formula.
But then along came Luke 1:39-45, the story of Mary meeting Elizabeth.
I’m not sure what I was thinking when I chose this text. And while I do try to blame many things that go badly on staff – not really – I have only myself to blame. I chose to do a series on Mary, I picked these verses in Luke and I divided it up into three sections, one for each preaching Sunday.
Do you need reasons why this is all a bad idea? For one, the story is all of seven verses. It barely even qualifies as a story. And it’s basically about a baby shower – Mary and Elizabeth are both with child and, seriously, what do I know about baby showers or being with child. That knowledge could fill a thimble.
As I sat with how out of touch I felt with this story, it occurred to me that the message was now right in front of me. That I have somehow imagined myself separate from these women, these ancient women in impossibly difficult situations, that I have nothing to do with them and they have nothing to do with me and nothing to say to me which is pretty much complete nonsense. If this story says anything at all it’s this – that we are powerfully connected with each other, as unimaginably different as we might appear to be from each other. This story says that we are not alone. This story says that we belong to each other.
I’ve called their meeting a baby shower, and I suppose in a way it was – the gifts were joy and laughter and sharing this time together and watching John perform the very first liturgical dance in his mother’s womb. It’s really more than that – it’s an example of the “deep sisterhood” that sustains women on the margins in times of great uncertainty.
Remember who we’re talking about here. Mary and Elizabeth, whose pregnancies are unexpected and dangerous in their own ways. Mary was very young, and very unmarried; Elizabeth was very old, and had endured the shame of not bearing children. It’s as if all of the unlikeliness and impossibility of their lives in this moment draws them together like magnets. It’s for good reason that the story recalls that Mary left to see her cousin Elizabeth “with haste.”
Sadly, these stories of women fleeing continue into our time, stories of women who are victimized and terrorized simply because they are women. Rachel Cohen wrote recently in The Washington Post about the making of story cloths, where women have sewn what they cannot speak into narrative textiles. One pictures a man shooting into a tree and it’s called “They treat us like birds.” In another one, the maker of the cloth was asked about the colors she chose for the figures in her cloth and she said: “I made myself look invisible because no one really sees me.” The AIDS Memorial Quilt, that some of you have seen, is just like these story cloths. Cohen says: “The experience of producing an external representation of one’s internal pain and making something beautiful of a horrific experience can be transformative.”
The story we have is sparse, but I wonder if the meeting of Mary and Elizabeth was like that, too, a way to support one another over matters where speech is forbidden, a way to experience their lives without shame or guilt or blame. These two women get it, that they are here for each other, that they have been given to one another just for this time. I wonder if we would even have the Magnificat, the mighty song Mary sang of a God who brings down the mighty and raises the lowly and fills the hungry with good things – I wonder if Mary would have sung at all without Elizabeth’s blessing.
I’ve mentioned to some of you that our daughter Lauren is a travel nurse, working in an ICU in Denver, CO. She’s been telling us lately about an unusual friendship. She met a cute neighbor lady at the dog park one afternoon.
Their dogs together looked like sisters and took an immediate liking to each other. And these two women, separated by generations and by customs that say “don’t talk to strangersand for sure, don’t trust them,” took an immediate liking to each other. The next time they met, she asked Lauren “Who looks after your dog during the day?” She offered to pet sit Coconut, so that her dog could have a playmate. When Lauren had her recent skiing accident, tearing up her knee, her new friend stepped up, helping with walks and drives to the store. She’s been a godsend to Lauren.
By the way, her name is Mary. And Lauren’s middle name is Elizabeth. A parable of the season.
Can you see how this ancient story might also be about us? That we are not alone. That we belong to God and we belong to each other. That we have been given this church not only to do justice and sing and pray and feed the hungry, but that right here, we are given to each other. That we are here for each other. I know we feel alone at times, but this season reminds us that we are not really alone. Ever. In your grief, in your sadness, in your loneliness, in your wild 10 days till Christmas near insanity – you are not alone.
When new babies are born, you are here for each other with home-cooked meals for the harried, sleep deprived family.
When folks come on Saturday morning, you are here for each other early, creating a lovely brunch and welcoming withopen arms our friends who slept under the stars.
When a family falls to illness or death, you are here for each other, with deep love and arm loads of covered dishes, the third sacrament.
When strangers come in the door, you are here for each other, offering signs of peace, gentle invitations, and translating narthex, introit and UMW into plain English.
And they will call his name Emmanuel, which means God with us. God with us to draw us together. God with us who made us for each other.
Since I opened with a cliché, I feel compelled to round things out by closing with one, in this case a poem by Wendell Berry. If you recognize it, it’s one of the anchor pieces at the end of every Conspirare Christmas concert.
We clasp the hands of those that go before us,
And the hands of those who come after us.
We enter the little circle of each other’s arms
And the larger circle of lovers,
Whose hands are joined in a dance,
And the larger circle of all creatures,
Passing in and out of life
Who move also in a dance
To a music so subtle and vast that no ear hears it
Except in fragments.
I can’t think of better good news to hear than this.
Mary's-Musings 