Our Song

 

Luke 2:1-20

Sam and David were embroiled in a serious religious debate. They were arguing over the resurrection of the dead. Sam pulled his ratty cloak tighter to his chest and sided with the Sadducees, who said that there was no resurrection, because there was no evidence of that in the scriptures. But David, rubbing his hands near the fire, argued that surely the Pharisees were right, there was a resurrection, because he always sang that song in Sabbath school about the bones coming back to life on the Day of the Lord. “No. That’s a ridiculous thought,” Sam said. You have to look at the text. You have to believe what it says. There’s nothing in the Torah about the dead coming back to life.” “But what about tradition?” David shouted, arms flailing wide, his staff in his hand. 

Ben was sitting by the fire, rolling his eyes, as usual. “Could you guys just cut it out” he said, “you know this is all ridiculous legends, taught to us as kids to keep us in line.” Sam and David new better than to argue with Ben. There was no budging him. For Ben, God was just a myth, an illusion, a grand hallucination that people used to help them feel better about their lives. Sam was the scholar. He wanted to read the texts and find the answers, because the answers could always be found in the text. David, on the other hand, was raised in a rich tradition of trust and belief. He believed because his father did, and his father’s father did, and on and on. 

As Sam and David argued, and as Ben snoozed, the sheep wandered aimlessly, grazing, resting, butting their heads against the shepherds for a warmer place by the fire. Simeon, the fourth shepherd, was out in the field, staring up at the sky. 

A few miles down the road, Mary was in labor. Sweat was dripping from her temples despite the cold night. Her legs were shaking, and between each round of bursting pain, she shook her head at Joseph. She said, “I can’t do this. I can’t do this.” Joseph was bewildered, but steady. He said, “Here. Lean on me. I will hold you through this.” She swayed for hours, propped up against Joseph’s chest. He held her through every rolling tremor, whispered “you can do this, yes, just like that” in her ear. 

Staring at the sky was nothing new for Simeon. It’s what he loved best about his job. It didn’t pay well, he was usually covered in mud, and the folks in town could smell him before they saw him, but the nights were beautiful. Simeon would stare at the dome of stars, counting the streaks blazing across the sky, breathing deeply, feeling at home in the mystery of the universe. He was at peace among these orbs of fire that he did not understand. He felt at home in all this unknown; everything was a fleck of God, a piece of the whole, a symbol of the great Love that conducted this all. He, like Ben, had had enough of Sam and David’s bickering over who was right and who was wrong, but in some ways, he understood their struggles; it’s hard to find your faith amidst the questions. 

Simeon understood where Ben was coming from, too; if he’d had the same traumas in his life that Ben did, he didn’t think he’d believe much in God either. 

Mary, in the stable, was lost in pain. Delirious with pain. She cried out to Joseph. She cried out to God. She called for her mother. This was more than she could bear. How could God have asked this of her? Where was God in all of this? Why did God leave her to do this hard, impossible thing, with only Joseph’s wild-eyed panic and the animals’ exhaled breath to keep her warm? 

Joseph was trying to hide his wild-eyes from Mary, but he wasn’t a very good actor. The government authorities told him he had to be registered, so he went. The angel told him not to leave Mary, so he didn’t. The stable was warm, they were running out of options, so that’s where they stayed. He didn’t plan any of this. He’d simply stumbled in to this whole situation, this marriage, this strange town, this birth. He simply listened for the next right thing, and did it. He asked for the next right step, and took it. And now he was swaying with his wife, who was surviving simply from one deep breath to the next.

Simeon was the first to see the angels. They glowed like the stars, but came closer, closer. He was both terrified and, somehow, assured. “This must be from God," he thought. He ran to the fire, calling “Sam, Ben, David! Come look!” All three rolled their eyes. This was not the first meteor shower that he’d forced them to see. 

But the sky grew brighter, the strange singing grew louder, and they all stood slack jawed, staring at the sky. 

Sam, who took his faith quite literally, said, “We should do what the angels tell us.”

David, who’d adopted his faith from his family said, “I’ve heard the stories!” 

Ben, who doubted all things, said, “I guess I could use the exercise.”

Simeon, who saw the Holy everywhere, said, “I wonder where this will take us.” 

And so all four of these ragged and exhausted boys, despite their varying theological perspectives, nudged their wandering sheep toward the little town, all a little unsure of what they would find.

The baby was crowning. “Just one more push,” Joseph said. And with a loud cry, Mary pushed and then caught her baby. She laughed with joy and relief. She put him to her chest. The baby cried. The most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. She whispered in the baby’s ear, “We did it.” She’d fought for the life of this child, and now, he was here. He reached out for her as if to say, “Thank you for your struggle.” Joseph looked over her shoulder at the child. They locked eyes as if to say, “Thank you for your patience.” 

Sam and David bickered all the way to Bethlehem. They were arguing if the mother of the Messiah would simply be a young maiden, as the Hebrew text translated Isaiah 7, or if it would be a virgin, as the Greek version interpreted the text. Ben wasn’t expecting anything except a stinky animal pen, some bales of hay, and, if he was lucky, some shelter from these bitter winds. Simeon tried to cheer him up, saying, “You just never know what mysteries you will encounter when you follow your heart.” Ben rolled his eyes.

But when the shepherds arrived, it was nothing any of them expected. It was so simple. It was so glorious. A young woman, a baby in her arms. The wet warmth of animal breath. Joseph stuffing his cloak with straw for a makeshift pillow. A hush fell over them all. 

Sam stopped quoting, and David stopped arguing. Ben stopped grumbling, and Simeon stopped pontificating. 

They all just stood in silent wonder. And the baby rested. 

As if to say, “Sam, thank you for your study.”

As if to say, “David, thank you for keeping your tradition.”

As if to say, “Ben, thank you for your questions.” 

As if to say, “Simeon, thank you for your wonder.” 

Tonight we all bring our song to the newborn Christ child, whether it be a song of doubt, a song of confusion, a song of comfort, or a song of confidence. 

We come to this sacred, ordinary, glorious place to share our song. And with each of our songs, the harmony they create births the Christ child anew. Christ is born in you. In me. Every time we sing.

And in our hearts, like Mary, like Joseph, like the shepherds, we can all hear the Christ child say, “Thank you. Thank you.” 

Thanks be to God. 

Mary's (Punk Rock) Song

 

Luke 1:26-56

Last month, we stole all the linchpins from the soldiers’ wagons. A few weeks before that, we threw rotten eggs down on them from the bridge. Tonight, we were waiting for Matt to get here with the sheep dung, so we could shove it in this burlap sack, grab our flint and wool, and sneak over to the barracks, throw it in a bale of hay and set it ablaze. The sleeping soldiers won’t know what hit them. 

We could smell him before we could see him. “Got it!” Matt hissed in our ears, dangling the sack of dung in front of our faces. We stifled our laughs, took one last drag on our cigarettes and ran for it. We stepped lightly; we were shadows in the dark. “Go! Go! Go!” We whisper-yelled as we struck the flint; one spark to set the whole pile alight. Then we hid in the woods, the fire flickering in our eyes as we high fived each other for our latest protest against the Roman occupation. 

We haven’t gotten caught yet. The trick is, you have to have the element of surprise. Who would ever think that sweet Mary, so meek and mild, good Jewish girl betrothed and waiting, would be such a hooligan, would be out at all hours terrorizing the streets. To this day, they still don’t know that it was me who graffitied all those fish symbols all over Nazareth - that’s my tag in the underpasses, on the government buildings, even on the governor’s chariot. 

It wasn’t a big deal. It’s just hay. Not homes like they had done so few years ago. The rubble is still around, a testament to what happens when you don’t toe Caesar’s line. Mom still tells of the night she hid in the caves, watched her home burn, watched her cousins in shackles, corralled into wagons, never to be seen again. 

But a tiny surge of power, a blaze of defiance coursed through our bodies as we ran. With our adrenaline pumping, for just a moment, we could ignore our growling bellies, forget our battered mothers, return our fathers’ pride. Take a little power for ourselves for once. 

I was breathing hard as I climbed through my bedroom window that night. I cursed as I tore my black tights on the sill. As I shrugged off my jacket and kicked off my boots, my eye caught a faint glow of light coming from the corner. It illuminated my unmade bed, my clothes strewn all over the floor. It reflected off my bleached and magenta-ed hair. Crap. I was in for it now. Mom had caught me. I was grounded for sure. I started scrambling for a story, some explanation for why I was out so late, why my black eyeliner was smudged, why my black painted fingernails were chipped. Mom was used to the protests, to us peasant teens marching in the streets in our free time after chores and worship and the factory. She rolled her eyes as we shouted our curses at the soldiers, shoved our signs into the air, demanded that the billionaires pay their fair share. She even accepted our backpacks full of contingencies in case they brought out the pepper spray or the rubber bullets - bottles of water and vaseline for our eyes, bandanas for our faces, our names and addresses should we get separated. She got used to my dry and cracked voice, turned hoarse from all the shouting. She just shook her head the day I came home with a deep bruise on my shoulder, purple and green and growing from getting caught in the friendly fire of stones we’d been launching at the soldiers. I think, deep down, we knew it wouldn’t do any good. What was a couple dozen punk kids from the wrong side of the tracks gonna do against an entire empire? Probably just get us killed. Still, we shouted. We shouted against the oppression, against the occupation, against the slave labor and the hunger and the poverty; we shouted out into the abyss.

The light grew. “Mom, I’m sorry, I just…” I began to apologize. In my defense, I was going to give her quotes from Hannah’s song, repeat the stories she’d told me about Deborah and Judith, Leah and Miriam. I was about to protest her insistence on pastels, on baby blues and dusty rose, how black is the color of nonconformist dissenters like me.  But it wasn’t mom at all. It was just a light that grew brighter with each step forward. 

A voice came from the light, all shimmery and descant. It was quiet, but bold. It said, 

 “Hail Mary, full of grace,” and then fell silent, this pulsating orb hovering over my things, my books, my music, my makeup, my bottles of magenta hair dye. 

I looked around. I’m pretty sure they’d got the wrong Mary. I was trouble-maker Mary, anti-conformity Mary, anti-big business Mary, defy the government and shake your fist at authority Mary. Not “highly favored with God Mary.” Not “graceful Mary.” I was the Mary who smoked behind the bleachers and back talked her teachers and asked "What?" And “Why”? and “How”? At all the most inconvenient times. I was the one to defy authority and stick it to the man and play her music so loud the windows shake and the neighbors complain. I tightened my fists. I straightened my shoulders. I wasn’t going down without a fight.

But then it spoke again. It said, “God is with you.” 

God? I almost laughed out loud. God left us a long time ago. Left us digging through the ash bins for wood, through the trash heaps for a pair of shoes, a tattered blanket, a little oil for our lamps to get us through the night. 

But then I thought about all those near misses when the protests got violent, all those close calls with the Roman soldiers, how somehow, there was always just enough bread to get us through the day. 

“Do not be afraid,” it said. And I unclenched my fists. I breathed in deep. I wondered What?And Why? And How?

It answered my unasked questions with only more mystery.

“God is so close to you, God is so near to you, that even your innermost being will be transformed. New life is coming. You will bear the Messiah.”

What? And Why? And How?

It stayed. It answered all my questions. The what, the why, the how. 

Now my protests would come in the form of waiting and watching. Now my non-conformity would be revealed as an unwed mother. My marching would no longer be in the streets, spitting on the Roman soldiers, but in the awkward sway of a belly grown too big, in the set of my jaw as people whispered behind my back. The new social order would come about through scandal and mystery and an an angsty teen from the wrong side of the tracks on the bottom side of power singing her radical heart out that this old work is coming to an end.

None of it made sense. 

I said “ok.” 

I would need all the courage I’ve ever had. More courage than marching the streets, more courage than facing the soldiers, more courage than lighting that hay bale fire. 

Ok. Let’s do this, whatever “this” is.

And the angel disappeared.

I was alone again. 

This all must have just been a hallucination. A bad trip or the bass turned up too high. 

But then the flutters. And the nausea. And the strange cravings. 

I ran to Elizabeth.

Would I be safe there?

Would she believe me?

For eighty miles I walked and rode, hitched a ride, followed the road to see if what the angel said was true.

My stomach churned.

My eyes were dark with mascara and exhaustion.

And when I got there, there she was, big and round and glowing.

I said hello.

She smiled, brought me in. Took my shoes. Rubbed my feet. She knew why I was there.

“How can I survive this? What am I going to do?”  What? And Why? And How? I asked her. 

“You are Mary the anti-authoritarian, you are Mary the anti-consumerist. You are Mary, the anti-colonialist. You are Mary, chosen by God. And you are going to sing,” she said.

And so, I sang a subversive anthem of God’s grand reversal. 

This is my punk rock song.

I am Mary, born on the wrong side of the tracks, beaten, abused, malnourished, a nothing.

I am Mary, angry, angsty, young.

I am Mary, poor, powerless, radical.

I am Mary, and all of this is going to come crashing down.

No longer will the rich stand on the backs of the poor. They will have to fight for their bread.

I am Mary, carrier of the one who brings a new social order, a new kingdom, where everything is turned upside down. 

This empire will not break us.

Because God is on our side.

Just as our cities and towns have been reduced to rubble, so God will reduce the powerful. 

This child is the rock I throw at all who tax the bread, who stand at the borders, who bomb our cities, who kill our children.

I am Mary. I say no to the colonizers. I say no to the military state. I say no to the billionaires, the powerful elite. 

I am Mary, and I say yes to God, yes to the radical upending of the status quo. I say yes to the transformation of this world, right here, right now, not just in some far off next. 

The kingdom is here, now, inside of me. The resistance grows like the multiplying of cells. 

I am Mary. And this is my song.

Thanks be to God.

Elizabeth's Song

Luke 1:24-45

 God and I had settled on an uneasy truce a long time ago. After years and years of nothing but silence, I just stopped asking. No more “Hello? Hello? Are you there? Hello?” And then listening to the stifling silence. Zechariah, the stubborn fool, still went to Temple, still lit the candles and the incense, still did his duties as the temple priest with the diligence of any devoted worker bee. But I, I just couldn’t pretend any more. I had grown up with Roman soldiers breathing down my neck, and I endured. When the drought came and we went hungry, I endured. When my brothers went off to fight and never came back, I endured. When they ransacked the village, I endured. When I was told that I would marry Zechariah, still, I endured. But after asking and asking, for almost twenty five years, every month, my cycle would come and go, the moon would wane and I would hope that maybe this once I’d finally get what I’ve been asking for, and then, as the moon waxed, I’d be devastated once again. I endured. 

Until one night, when the way of women returned to me once again, I simply could endure no longer. Like the Israelites before me, I’d been asking “how long,” and like the Israelites before me, I, too, had given up the faith. No one else knew, of course, I still kept a proper house, maintained the traditions, went to Temple. It was bad enough that they knew that I was not worth the blessing of a child, even worse if I let them see it get to me. Worse than the shaking of the heads and the silent judgment when I went in to market was the pity. I couldn’t stand one more pregnant woman with two on her hip asking me, “and how ARE you?” My friends married. Had children so easily. They’d sneeze and get pregnant. Then they got busy. Forgot about me. They complained about all the laundry, the too many mouths to feed, until they saw the longing in my face, saw me turn to the empty cradle gathering dust in the corner. After the empty encouragement that my time would come too, there would only be lots of awkward apologies and forced smiles.Then they didn’t come around anymore. They stopped seeing me altogether.

And so, one night, I took that cradle and simply threw it in the fire. It blazed and it burned, and with it, my faith. I stopped asking after that. I became invisible.

I kept the house. I milked the goats. I woke every morning and prepared the bread. Zechariah would have his turn at the Temple, but I would stay home, alone. I was done showing up for a God who’d never shown up for me. I made myself invisible. 

And then, one day, Zechariah came home, and after his long journey, I was sure he’d complain about the weeds in the yard, the mess in the chicken coop, the dust in the doorway. I hadn’t been feeling well, and things were neglected. I was so tired all the time. Something was wrong with the eggs. The stew tasted sour. I couldn’t keep anything down. But when he came home, he raced past the weeds, the chicken coop, the pile of dirty laundry in the corner and he embraced me so hard I thought he’d snap me in two. “What has gotten in to you?” I asked. But he was dumbfounded. He just touched my belly, then bent down and kissed it, and got up and embraced me again. I thought he’d gone mad. And then I was the one who was mad. How dare he, after all this time, tease me for all that I could not give him? Tease me for all that God could or would not give me?

That’s when I felt the first flutters. Like butterflies. Like when you feel really nervous before speaking in public. A churning. A gentle tapping from the inside, a faith germinated out of barren soil. “Hello. I’m here.”

Like Sarah, I laughed. Like Rebekah, I asked. Like Rachel, I prayed. Like Hannah, I pledged this child to the Lord. 

But Zechariah, he stayed quiet. He waited and watched. He measured my belly as it grew. He rubbed my feet.

All the girls of the village, the ones who got pregnant as easy as sneezing, came to congratulate me, to wish me well, to ask me what I’d finally done to lift the curse.

I stayed inside.

As Zechariah was silent around me, so I was silent before the Lord. Finally, after all this time, God would give me joy? None of it made sense. I was lost and confused. Hurt and terrified. I was no puppet to be used as some kind of object lesson. My life was more than just some “sign” for the rest of the world. How dare God deny me this gift until now, just to fulfill some prophesy, just to show the Israelites that their Messiah was coming. Everything wasn’t just fixed between God and I just because I’d finally been given what had been promised. After all, God, what took you so long? Just because you removed my disgrace from the people, doesn’t make everything all better between us. 

I stayed inside. Alone. Invisible. But there was this little ball of life, growing inside me, getting stronger each day. 

It wasn’t until she came to my door, dusty, ragged, alone. I hadn’t seen her since she was a small child, playing with her dolls, drawing pictures in the sand, singing nursery rhymes with her mother. And then one day, there she was, not much more than a child even now, looking scared, looking desperate. She had a kind of frantic energy that she didn’t know what to do with. I invited her in. She took a step forward. And then another. Then she suddenly turned on her heel and raced out. Three times she did this. And each time she got closer, the baby kicked within me. 

“Mary,” I said, “What are you doing here? Where is your mother? Where is Joseph? What’s wrong?” 

“I can’t. I can’t. I just can’t” she said. 

Finally I practically dragged her in. She sat down. She got back up. She paced and sat down again. I brought her some water. She said, “Thank you.” She said, “Hello.” 

And that’s when the baby leaped. Literally, leaped. You could see the bumps of his knees and elbows pop out through my skin. I thought he’d bruise my kidneys. I thought he’d crush my bladder. The baby was letting me know that he saw.

With Mary’s hello, it all came back. God’s love. God’s promise. God’s presence.  My skin tingled. My lungs filled. The light came back to my eyes.

“You sneezed, haven’t you, Mary?” I asked.

“Uh, What?” She said.

I giggled at my own joke, “You are with child.”

“Yes.” She said. Quiet. She stared at the ground. Her eyes welled with tears. She looked at me.

And then the song just burst from me. Years of silence, years of frustration, years of feeling abandoned by my God, but in that moment, I was seen, and so, I sang, “Blessed are you among women! And blessed is the fruit of your womb!”

What a ridiculous thing to say to a young, poor, unwed Palestinian girl.

But with Mary’s greeting, with her quiet “hello,” she saw me. She saw the struggle of my whole life, and she shared her own. 

It wasn’t that the young village wives wouldn’t have to pity me any more. It wasn’t that I was no longer a disgrace to Zechariah, to my whole family. It wasn’t even that God finally gave me what I’d been asking for all this time. It was the gift of her presence, of her witness to me, of our mutual struggles, that made me astonished, made me sing out, finally, a question, just a question, to God: “But why am I so favored that the mother of my Lord should come to me?” 

After feeling abandoned by God, left alone in my barrenness, after years of our silent truce, it wasn’t the answered prayer that brought back my faith, but the simple greeting of a young peasant girl, dirty and tired from her travels, terrified with the burden she must carry, exhilarated by the mystery and hope of it all, that brought me back to myself, that brought me back to God. How is it that this young woman can face what God has brought her with such grace, with such faith? 

Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill God’s promises to her. Blessed is she who didn’t give up on God, even when God gave her what she felt she could not bear. Blessed is she who received what God has given her, even when all that she’s planned on and the future she’s hoped for comes crashing down all around. Blessed is she who stays with God, even when things get hard. Even when things don’t go as you planned. Even when people make judgments and pity you and ignore you in the grocery store. Even when you feel invisible.

It wasn’t that God finally gave me a baby that brought me back. It was Mary’s greeting to me. It was Mary’s hello. When she came to my door, when she looked me in the eye, when she brought her own troubles, when she told me, “Hello,” all God’s gifts came rushing back to me.  I remembered who I was. How I’d been blessed my whole life. How God has been there, seeing me, all along. How there was this new life, leaping with joy.

“Hello,” I said to God. “Hello.” 

Thanks be to God.