Foundry UMC DC: Sunday Sermons
Religion & Spirituality:Christianity
A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC December 20th, 2015, fourth Sunday of Advent.
Texts: Micah 5:2-5a, Luke 1:39-45
There is a rather cynical perspective that suggests that the light at the end of the tunnel is the front of an oncoming train. But today we are going to use the online “Urban Dictionary” definition of the phrase. According to that site, the light at the end of the tunnel refers to “something that gives you hope for the future after a long and difficult period.” Today we have reached the fourth Sunday in Advent, and are nearing the end of our journey toward Christmas. The journey has been experienced differently among us. Some have literally partied their way through the season, enjoying friendship and festivity with gusto. Some have moved through the season quietly and with intentional (or perhaps unintentional) solitude. Others have been driven through the season by the intricate details of the daily calendar with school programs, concerts, volunteer responsibilities and more. Still others have barely thought about the season due to the burdens of work—or by the stress of searching for a job. And finally others have made the journey accompanied by deep grief or loneliness. Many may check the “all of the above” box. This annual journey toward Bethlehem is often marked by anxieties about money, family relationships, and all the expectations that we (or others) place upon our lives. And due to events in our nation and world this year, the journey has taken us as into the tunnel of tragedy and fear.
Wherever or however you find yourself today, there is a light at the end of the tunnel—and it is not an oncoming train. In the well-known prologue to the Gospel of John, we read, “The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.” (Jn 1:9) The Christ was coming into the world in fullness and flesh to lead us forward in hope, to show us who God is and who we are called to be. That is why we celebrate at this time of year…to commemorate that time when Christ’s coming shifted not only the signposts on the journey, but changed the very path that human history would travel. We celebrate Christ’s life, a life that John calls “the light of all people” (Jn 1:4); we celebrate this life and light that gives us ability to navigate the way forward in a world whose complexity and challenge can so often lead us astray and leave us feeling weary, powerless and sometimes hopeless. At this time of year, we celebrate not only that Christ came into the world once long ago, but that Christ is always “coming into the world.” Christ’s entry into the world happens not in some abstract way. Christ’s presence is always an enfleshed presence. The Christ is always looking for a place to be born—a place to enter into the world again. Your flesh and my flesh, your heart and my heart—our lives—are the “womb” through which Christ wants to be born.
It may seem far-fetched to imagine that your life—in whatever state you find yourself at this point on the journey—is a birthplace for Christ (“I’m too old, too sick, too disorganized, not enough this or that…). And I imagine that Mary had a similar reaction; after all, Mary was just an ordinary kid. She was “lowly”—meaning not just humble but downright poor. She was young, unmarried, poor, and a woman—pretty much NOT one who would have thought that God would see in her the gifts and strength to be the mother of the Christ child. But it shouldn’t come as a surprise that God would choose Mary for this special task. This choice is just one in a long line of choosing the “nobodies” of the world to do holy and transforming things. This is just another example of God’s tendency to single out the ones that everyone else would ignore to bear the saving word. Just look at the prophecy from Micah—humble little Bethlehem, chosen to be the birthplace of a mighty ruler! Israel, Abraham, Moses, Jeremiah, Esther, Samuel, Ruth, David, Mary—all of them were unlikely players in the drama of God’s salvation. I wonder what any of them thought about what they were doing while they were doing it (maybe they worried that the light they saw ahead was the equivalent of an oncoming train)— because, after all, they were just human. Just like us.
Mary sings a song acknowledging God’s penchant for the unexpected, for turning things upside down, for choosing the “lowly” (the “Magnificat”). She sings, “God has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant…God has scattered the proud in the thoughts 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…” This song is one of profound hope and joy. And if you just read the record of Mary found in the Gospel according to Luke, you might think she had it all figured out. But let’s face it. She was just a kid who was pregnant for the first time. She was just like us. Just human.
One of the great creative thinkers of our time, writer-director Joss Whedon (of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and “Firefly” fame) has said, “The thing about a hero, is even when it doesn’t look like there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, [they] keep digging, [they are] going to keep trying to do right and make up for what's gone before, just because that’s who [they are].” Mary couldn’t have known what was coming, she had no special powers to see the future or to fully understand what was happening to her. But she kept moving. In the midst of an overwhelming task, a circumstance that must have been more than a little scary, Mary didn’t run away, she didn’t turn away. She accepted what God had seen in her…she decided to do her best, to do what she could do, to offer her life to the great mystery even though she may have felt completely inadequate and not up to the task. Mary shows us what it looks like to be that kind of hero, the unlikely kind, the kind that we are all called to be.
The fact is that each and every one of us—YOU—are, like little Bethlehem, chosen to be the birthplace of Christ; we, like Mary, are chosen to bear the Word of God. Don’t panic at the thought of adding something else to an already overwhelmed “to-do” list! What you’re called to may be exactly what you’re doing now: parenting, feeding hungry people, teaching children, being a friend, caring for a chronically ill partner, being generous with your financial gifts, remembering those who are lonely, loving someone who needs love, seeing the gifts in someone who can’t see them themselves, praying for those in need, serving faithfully in whatever work you have been given. Maybe your call is to some new horizon, to some new work. Regardless of where you are in your life with God, the fact is that God calls all of us—yes, even you—to bear Christ, to share Christ—which is love, kindness, mercy, justice, peace—with others. Recently a great sage of our time has re-entered public consciousness (and no, it’s not Thomas Merton). This sage offers encouragement to us in those moments when we feel inadequate, insignificant or small in the face of what we are called to do. In a famous scene with his reckless and impatient apprentice, the very short of stature Jedi Master Yoda says to Luke Skywalker, “Size matters not. Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you? Hmm? Hmm. And well you should not. For my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the Force around you; here, between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere, yes.”
Wise Yoda… “Luminous beings we are.” We are created and called to be bearers of the light that is Christ. Even if you’re feeling frazzled, worn out, stressed out, wondering how you will attend to all that lies before you, remember that God chooses to act through simple, small, normal people like us—just as we are. God—the very source of life and the creator of all that is—is our ally and gives us grace to be and to bear Christ to others. We are called to be the light at the end of someone’s tunnel and, thereby, to bring hope for the future into another’s life. That is something that we can do—even in the midst of all the shadows of the world.
Once upon a time in a Galilee far, far away, because of a willing and brave young woman, the fullness of God’s loving presence came into the world as a light. That light shines as a promise of God’s very-present help in trouble and all along life’s journey, as a promise that our lives are precious and luminous and powerful—worthy of the greatest gift of all, as a promise that there will come a time when Christ’s coming will bring peace and reconciliation to all the earth. These promises are our hope, they are the “Force” that gives us courage and strength, that draws us forward, like a guiding star. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, a light that arises over Bethlehem leading us to that humble place and then on into a new year, assured that we do not travel alone and that our hope is not in vain. Christ our light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not—will not—overcome it (Jn 1:5). Thanks be to God!
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