Advent 4B2023
Luke 1:26-38
In 1998, with both me and my sister in college, my parents opened themselves up to the possibility of a new call for my dad who was serving as an ELCA pastor in a small town in Minnesota at the time. Nearly my entire extended family lived in Minnesota, and except for the two years my parents lived in northwestern North Dakota where I was born during my dad’s first call, my parents had never lived outside of Minnesota. I think we all assumed God would call my dad to a congregation in Minnesota. Close to family. In familiar territory. But the Grand Canyon Synod, our local synod here, invited my parents to the valley, in July of that year, to talk about the possibility of starting a church in east Mesa. My parents laughed at the absurdity of possibly living in Arizona (and come on, it was July in Phoenix) but shrugged and said, Okay. We’ll come check it out. They stood on a piece of desert just off Power Road. To the east laid nothing but cacti and rocks and low shrubs. The assistant to the bishop told them that, in a month, construction would begin on 1000 new homes right where they were standing—and that there were no churches for the new residents of that neighborhood to belong to. Later, my parents would tell us that they felt the Holy Spirit so strongly that, despite their initial reticence, they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Holy Spirit was calling them to Mesa. The day they got in their vehicles to move here, they hadn’t yet closed on their home, and their moving van had no specific destination except Mesa, Arizona. But they came. They trusted that God would provide and direct, and of course, God did. Today, Spirit of Hope Lutheran Church, the congregation my dad started, continues to worship God and serve God’s people in the east valley.
My parents trusted God, but trusting God isn’t always as simple as it seems.
Because sometimes the things God calls us to don’t actually work out, at least not the way we would like them to.
Because sometimes, maybe, we think God is calling us to something but instead it’s just what we think we should be doing or what other people tell us we should be doing.
It isn’t as easy as it seems to trust God because sometimes, God calls us to things that aren’t practical and maybe we don’t wish to do those things.
Sometimes, we have a past traumatic experience in our heads that makes us hesitant to follow God’s lead.
Trusting God, when the circumstances are neither clear nor easy, can be tricky. Like Mary’s circumstances, for instance.
Here she is, a teenager betrothed to Joseph in the first century. In a world where her reputation, her honor, is far and away the most important thing a young woman will ever value or guard. In a world where her future survival depends on her virtuous behavior. Angel Gabriel comes to her to share, what sounds to us, like life-altering, joyous, heavenly news. It’s “good news of great joy for all the people,” and Mary will be the one to deliver this good news, this child named Jesus, into the world. Except it’s so dangerous—for Mary, for her future, for her whole family whose honor will be stained by this inexplicable pregnancy. The child to whom she will give birth is the Son of the Most High who will sit on the throne of David forever. The child Jesus is honorable, and the angel calls her honorable too. Except how can she trust such a wild claim, such a preposterous idea? When she turns up pregnant by the Holy Spirit, no one will believe her story, and she will be ruined. But instead, Mary trusts the angel. Mary trusts God. “Let it be with me according to your word,” she says.
Here we stand at the brink of something new and unknown, the moment of pastoral transition. If you are standing at this brink with sadness and perhaps fear and anxiety, rest assured you are not alone. We all probably have stories from the past in our heads, stories of mistakes, stories of broken trust, stories that have been temporarily stowed away. Now that we are on the brink of something new and unknown, these stories are rushing to the surface. And while we can always learn from our mistakes, one of the common mistakes at this brink is thinking that whatever we fear from the past will haunt the future. It need not. For God is doing a new thing here and now. But if we convince ourselves that we will be forever haunted by the past, we will be. If we continue to tell the stories of the past with bitterness and conviction, they will poison the future. When we drag a bitter, broken past into our future, we guarantee a bitter, broken future.
So, let’s not do that. What do you say? Let’s not do that. Let’s go to the brink of things new and unknown. Let’s shed the heavy baggage of the past so we are light and free. Let’s put our toes on the edge of this abyss called the future. Let’s line up together, as if at the edge of a swimming pool. Let’s breath deeply. Let’s hold hands…and then jump.
At this brink of things new and unknown, there are no guarantees. No guarantees except the trustworthiness of God.
Upon hearing for the first time the good news of great joy for all the people, Mary hears a complex, frightening, life-altering vision of her future. She puts her toes on the edge of the abyss called the future. She stands on the brink of things new and unknown. She breaths deeply. She reaches out to her trustworthy God…and then jumps. “Let it be with me according to your word.”
When Mary jumps, she lands in the arms of God. Beyond all reason and social sanity, Joseph remains at her side. Mary lives through the whole of Jesus’ life, apparently not destitute and alone but among her son’s followers. Through her, God delivers good news of great joy. On this fourth Sunday of Advent, on the brink of things new and unknown, we might be sad and fearful and anxious. But friends, we may also rejoice in a trustworthy God. We may, like Mary, say: Let it be with us, O God, according to your word. Thanks be to God! Amen.