Angel or Bad Brisket?

Luke 1:39-55

So often with sermon writing, as with life, I wonder, is this thing, this creeping feeling crawling up from the bottom of my stomach a sign that I am about to take a wrong turn, or is it just crippling self-doubt? Is God trying to warn me of something — am I about to fall off a cliff — or am I just frozen in fear and uncertainty, unwilling to sully the perfect blank page, terrified to take the risk because I just might fail? Is it God telling me not to cross that bridge or sign on that dotted line, or am I lulled into a kind of complacency because of my fear of messing up? If I have a bad dream, is God trying to tell me something? Or, as my therapist likes to remind me, maybe I just need to cut back on the pizza right before bed. Or maybe, this nervous, jittery, uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach is just a bad case of heartburn. And maybe I need to stop taking myself so seriously.

But for real, I mean, how do we know the difference between “Warning! Don’t eat that bag of romaine!” And living in fear that every head of lettuce is out to get us? I think that’s something we’ve really had to struggle with during this whole pandemic. Does getting vaccinated and wearing masks mean we’re living in fear, or are we doing what is necessary to protect ourselves and the least of those in our midst? Or, for instance, are we called to make sacrifices in our consumption for the sake of our planet, or is this climate change stuff just a bunch of insecure fear-mongering? Do we trust that the sun is going to come back after all these days of disappearing, or do we feel, deep in our bones, that the sun really is withdrawing from us, that we need to hunker down, bundle up, settle in for a long, long winter that may never end? 

Every sermon I write, I wonder, “did I listen well, did I get it right? Or should I just tie the millstone around my neck and jump into the sea right now?” When we go out in public and I ask my kids to wear their masks, am I being careful and considerate, or am I being just another one of those overprotective helicopter moms? And just because the sun has come back every year, one tiny minute at a time starting with the winter solstice, how do we know, really know, for sure, on this the third shortest day of the year, that this year will be the same? 

When my son, Jonah came home from band practice the day before the big concert and told us that they sounded awful, — the percussionists couldn’t get their beat together, and the woodwinds couldn’t stop squeaking, and all you could hear was the brass trying but failing to find the right note — how did his band teacher know that it was all going to be ok come showtime? Was he just delusional that these kids could get it figured out in less than 24 hours, or was there something else that told him to keep going, to trust, to believe that it will all come together in the end?

What is the difference, really, between uncertainty and expectation? Between “yeah, that visit from the angel in my bedroom in the middle of the night was just my fevered delusion from that leftover brisket I shouldn’t have stretched over into the next day,” or “could it really be that I was visited by some otherworldly spirit and now I’m carrying the Son of God in my womb?” I mean, at least at first, pregnancy and food poisoning would have pretty similar symptoms. Are the signs between doubt and hopes, between insecurity and a God-given warning, between blind optimism and a confident faith really, all that disparate? If we’re puking in a bucket the day after we get a “visit from an angel” and after we should have passed on those oysters, how can we know what’s real? If we’re not sure that they’re ready, how can we let all those sensitive, delicate sixth graders onto the stage? If there’s no discernible difference between December 20th and December 22nd, how do we know that the sun really has returned?

It’s such a fine line between hope and doubt, between assurance and delusion, between self-doubt and a justified warning, between testing the limits and going too far.

Mary gets these words from God through the angel Gabriel that are completely astonishing. Otherworldly. Life changing and life threatening. And walking that fine line between miracle and pipe dream, these words are given to Mary, and, as she walks that tightrope between confused hope and astonished doubt, whether the choice means her life or her death, she says, “yes.” 

She says yes to the delusion. 

She says yes to the expectation. 

She says yes to the new life that very well might bring about her own death. 

She says yes to the “uh, yeah, so that’s not physically possible” and she says yes to the “ok, well, let it happen just as you say.” 

And she wakes up the next morning in the quiet darkness of her room with this woozy dizziness and a nauseous belly and she wonders, “did I say yes to the angel, or did I just say yes to the stew with the leftover brisket?” Maybe she wakes up the next morning wondering, “what is really real”? 

So Mary sets off, immediately, on one of her many road trips in the Gospel of Luke. 

I mean. Can you picture it? A teenage girl in first century Palestine takes off on an eighty mile journey, presumably alone, to find her cousin, to see for herself, to find the really real. She packs her bag with a change of clothes, her toothbrush, her teddybear she still sleeps with at night, and all Twizzlers and Snapples and Flaming Hot Cheetos she can carry. She’s not sure if she should take her raincoat or her sunglasses, so she grabs them both as she calls out to mom, “be back soon!” and races out the door. She walks to the nearest highway, sticks out her thumb and waits. When the trucker stops to ask where she’s headed, she says, “to the hills outside of Judea, please” as she throws her bag on the floor, hitches up her skirts and climbs up into the cab. “What’s a pretty little girl doing out here on the highway all alone traveling to the hills of Judea for?” He asks her. He says, “I heard there are some real loons there. One old man said he was visited by an angel, was told that his old lady was gonna have a baby, and he hasn’t said a single word since. He walks around with a slate and some chalk telling people what to do. Then, the old lady locked herself in her house for five months, just so’s she could be alone. Turns out, the old lady is preggers after all! But rumor has it that they’re not even going to name the baby after the old man, say they’re gonna name it “John” for some strange reason. They’re nutters over there, I tell ya.” “Yeah, well, I’m going to find out,” she tells the trucker. 

She’s fallen asleep against the window when the truck’s Jake breaks startle her awake. “Well, little lady, we’re here, whatever that means” he says. “You seem a little tired, you sure you’re ok?” He asks as she climbs down from the cab. “I didn’t sleep well last night, but I’m not sure why. I’m here to find out. Thanks mister,” and she slams the door.

She’s in the town center. Merchants are selling their wares, donkeys are braying, little kids are trying to gather a flock of chicks. She needs to get out of the middle of the road, but she’s not sure, left, or right? Other folks in the town are wandering in pairs, whispering to each other. They stare at her with wide eyes, as if she’s got her head on backwards or something. They look like they’ve seen an angel or a ghost, and Mary can’t tell which. “Excuse me,” she asks the wanderers, “I’m looking for Zechariah’s house.” The first shakes her head and starts to walk faster, the second bursts into a kind of maniacal laughter, and the third shows her his collection of magical gems, crystals and talismans, promising her a good deal. The fourth stops. Looks her right in the eye. Mary thinks, “She’s either crazy, or she knows something.” The old lady says, “You’ve got a question, don’t you? I’ve seen that look before. Take a right at the Arby’s. Go six more blocks. It’s the house with the overgrown lawn and the wildflowers and the rusting pickup truck on blocks in the front. Can’t miss it.” 

“Uh. Thanks.” Mary says.

She takes one step, thinks “crazy.” Takes another, and thinks “possible?” She steps again, “delusion.” And again, “maybe?” With each step she sways, “crippling uncertainty?” or “God’s voice?” “Bad dream,” or “a spiritual vision?” “Overactive imagination?” “Angel?” “Bad brisket,” “hope.” “Doubt,” “new life.” “Certain death,” “the sun is coming back.” “Real.” “Unreal.”

There’s no one in the yard.

She hears the creaking of a rocking chair, swaying back and forth, back and forth.

The door is wide open.

“Elizabeth?” She calls out through the threshold.

She’s never met her second cousin before. Will she be mad that she’s just shown up on her doorstep? Is this old lady really going to have a baby? Are the stories true? Will she even know who she is? How is she going to get back home? She’s hungry. Twizzlers. No. Cheetos. No. Twizzlers. She lurches toward the bucket collecting rainwater from the gutters.

“Faithful follower of God?” Or “Lunatic”?

“Like Sarah and Rebekah and Rachel?” or “hallucinating laughingstock?”

“Carrier of the messenger of God” or “aged senility?”

“Impossible pregnancy” or “bad brisket?”

“Virgin birth that will change the course of history forever,” or “death by stoning as soon as she gets home?”

She wipes her sweaty face with her veil. She looks up from the bucket. She thinks she’s going to have to go another round when she sees a giant, full belly poking out of the doorway. And then Elizabeth’s face as she peers past the threshold. 

Of course. Yes. Of course.

It’s real.

She’s real. 

The baby is real.

Elizabeth rejoices at the sight of her. “Mary! Is that you?”

Mary totters a little as she tries to stand up, she’s still dizzy, still woozy, still feels a little green. She steadies herself on the bright, real, stuccoed wall of Elizabeth’s house. She feels the warmth of the sun that it has absorbed throughout the day. She says, “yes, Elizabeth. It’s me. I’m here. I’m here.”

We can never be truly sure. Things can go either way. Miracle or tragedy. Laughter or tears. Squeaking woodwinds and offbeat drummers, or successful sixth grade band concert that doesn’t sound too bad after all. Crippling self-doubt, or being receptive to the word of God. One last short day, or an endless round of darkness. 

But Mary discovers what is real by going out and looking for it. By giving herself some space. Eighty miles and three months of it. Mary discovers what is real by asking the questions. And Mary discovers what is real by connecting with another. She discerns the truth in community. In the reality of flesh and bone and pregnancies and the grounding of sun-soaked stuccoed wall. As soon as Elizabeth hears her voice, as soon as Mary calls out to her, “are you here?” Elizabeth knows. The child inside her knows. Elizabeth struggles herself out of the rocking chair and waddles as fast as she can down the hall to see the mother of her Lord. There it is. The confirmation of the real, in the form of a young peasant girl with a sweaty brow and sick-stained shoes, calling out to her, asking her, “is this real? Could it be?”

And with joy and laughter and relief they embrace. 

They know the heartbreak of the real that is coming for them, that will soon be here before they know it.

But for now, they rejoice in the truth of each other. 

They get a little punch drunk about what all this means. 

They get a little woozy at the potential of it all.

Mary’s so relieved she starts to sing, right there in the yard around the wildflowers and the weeds.

“God is here. 

This is real.

God pays attention, even to me.

This will never be forgotten.

God will embrace the doubters and the wanderers and the seekers of the real.

God will scatter all those who think they’ve got it all figured out.

God will raise up the humble and bow down the proud.

God will upend our entire social structure.

The hungry will have enough, while the rich will be fed with justice.

Nothing will ever be the same."

Go. Look. Wander. Ask. 

Wait.

Ground yourself in the earth.

Find yourself in relationship.

God is born there.

Thanks be to God.