Advent 4

Readings: Micah 5:1-4a; Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-45

“He shall be peace.”
He shall be peace for the citizens 
of the defeated kingdom of Judah,
held captive in a foreign land,
longing to return to the land of God’s promise.
He shall be peace for the anxious souls
seeking to appease the wrath of God 
with sacrifice and offerings.
He shall be peace for Mary,
unexpectedly pregnant at a very young age,
and for her kinswoman Elizabeth,
unexpectedly pregnant in her old age,
and for all who anxiously ask, 
“how can this be?”

He, whose origin is from of old, 
shall be peace through the centuries
as nations fall and rise and fall once more,
as prayers are uttered in faithful desperation,
as minds are torn apart by incoherent events,
and hearts are darkened by fear.

He shall be peace in Ukraine and Gaza,
in Sudan and Syria,
and in the streets of Baltimore.
He shall be peace for those 
who flee their homes in fear,
for those seeking work
and those without shelter,
for the lonely and the lost,
for the child in the womb
and those reaching life’s end.
Who could this be?
Who could be peace 
for such a world of sorrow?

The prophet Micah does not say,
“he shall bring peace,”
but “he shall be peace.”
The one whom we await is peace itself
and to find peace is to find him.
He will not be like the rulers who say
“Peace! Peace!” where there is no peace,
who promise what they cannot deliver.
For he is not a promiser of peace,
but is himself the peace that is promised.
He will not be like those peace offerings
that we place between our sins and God’s wrath,
hoping that they might shield us,
that they might turn away God’s anger.
For he is not the price we pay for peace,
but gives himself as the peace 
that the world cannot give.
He will not be like the therapies we employ
to calm our anxieties and cope with calamities,
therapies that can never resolve 
those perplexities of the heart 
that make our lives so unsure.
For he offers no technique 
that leads to peace,
but is himself God’s gift of peace 
that passes understanding.

We have been waiting 
during this season of Advent,
during every season of Advent,
during every day of human history,
not for the right political leader,
nor the right religious practice,
nor the right therapeutic intervention,
but for Jesus.

We have been waiting for Jesus 
not because he will give us peace,
but because he is peace.
If Jesus merely gave us peace
then we might simply take it from him
and say “thank you very much”
and go on our way.
And if history teaches us anything
it is that we soon would squander that peace.
We would find new wars,
new fears,
new anxieties
upon which to waste it.
But because Jesus is himself peace
the only way to receive that peace
is to receive him,
to accept his invitation of friendship,
to love him as the peace our hearts desire,
to say to him, as we sang in our psalm,
“let us see your face and we shall be saved.”

When Elizabeth encountered Jesus,
hidden within the womb of Mary,
she felt her own child leap with joy;
she was filled with the Holy Spirit;
she cried aloud in praise and wonder
that God’s own Son would visit us 
in such humility.
As we approach the days of Christmas, 
let us look to Elizabeth
for how we ought to welcome 
the one who shall be peace,
a peace that seems often 
hidden in our world.
Despite continuing conflicts, 
and the grief that we might rightly have
at the pain and sorrow of the world,
let us feel new life within us leaping for joy.
Despite our sins, 
and the fear that we might rightly feel
before the overwhelming holiness of God,
let us be filled with God’s Holy Spirit.
Despite uncertainty, 
and the anxious hearts that we might rightly have
over the days and months and years before us,
let us cry out in praise and wonder.

For the peace whose origin is of old
has clothed himself in time and space,
and enfolded in himself
our sorrows and fears and anxieties;
he has become what we are 
so that we might be what he is:
for he is our peace
and calls us to be peace
in the midst of a world at war
with God and itself.
Let us pray in these waning days of Advent
that the peace that the world cannot give
will come this Christmas to dwell among us
and that God, in his mercy,
might have mercy on us all. 

Advent 4

Readings: Micah 5:1-4a; Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-45

Video

Writing shortly before the time of Jesus 
the Roman poet Ovid said,
“Women’s words are as light 
as the doomed leaves whirling in autumn; 
easily swept by the wind, 
easily drowned by the wave” (The Loves bk II).
Alas, Ovid’s opinion of women’s words
was not unusual in the ancient world.
Women’s words were thought trivial, 
unserious and flighty,
unsuited to weighty matters.

But in a world that largely discounted 
the words of women 
as weightless and windswept, 
we hear in today’s Gospel reading 
words spoken between women 
on weighty matters—
the prophetic words of Elizabeth 
speaking of the divine Word
who waits in Mary’s womb:
“Blessed are you among women, 
and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”
Her words are indeed windswept,
but it is the breath of the Spirit 
that sends them whirling.

Of course, the weight of Elizabeth’s words
count as nothing compared to Mary’s words
spoken earlier to the angel: “Be it done to me
according to your word.”
On these words hangs the hope of the world.
Perhaps no greater words have ever
been spoken by a human person,
for they are the doorway through which
God’s Word made flesh,
the blessed fruit of Mary’s womb, 
enters into our sorrowing, sin-sick world.
Truly blessed is she who believed.

We should not be surprised, however, 
that the Gospel would give 

such weight to women’s words.
After all, what do we celebrate at Christmas
if not God’s preference for those things
that the world counts as of little weight?
Think of the words of the prophet Micah,
which we have just heard:
“You, Bethlehem-Ephrathah
too small to be among the clans of Judah,
from you shall come forth for me
one who is to be ruler in Israel.”
It’s just so typical of the God of Israel,
always preferring the underdog.
God chose David, 
the puniest among his brothers,
from the little town of Bethlehem
(which is simply a polite way 
of saying “nowheresville”),
to be Israel’s anointed ruler.
And now, the prophet Micah foretells,
God is going to do it again;
God will send a new anointed one,
and this ruler whose reign  
“shall reach to the ends of the earth”
is going to come from,
you guessed it,
the little town of Bethlehem,
“too small to be among the clans of Judah.”

What we will celebrate at Christmas 
is the great mystery of redemption:
the almighty Lord of the universe,
creator of all things visible and invisible,
chooses to be with us
not as a king,
not as a general,
not as a scholar
from whom we expect weighty words,
but as a speechless child from nowheresville,
as a wandering rabbi whose followers
are a bunch of scruffy ignoramuses,
as a convicted blasphemer and revolutionary
tortured to death on a Roman cross.
If this is who God is,
if this is how the Word takes flesh 
and dwells among us,
then of course his arrival is announced
by those whose words were counted
as of little weight,
of course it is an insignificant old woman
through whom the Spirit speaks,
of course it is the word of one young girl
upon which our hopes hang.

And if this is who God is,
then who should we be?
If this is how the eternal Word is spoken,
then how should we listen?
Whose words do I think of
as words of little weight?
Who do I think could not possibly 
say something I needed to hear?
Someone of a different political party?
Someone of a different social class?
Someone of a different race?
Someone of a different religion?
How do we learn to listen
and weigh the words
of those we may have written off?

This fall the Church has embarked
on a worldwide synod, which will offer us, 
as Pope Francis said in his opening address,
“the opportunity to become a listening Church….
To listen to the Spirit in adoration and prayer….
To listen to our brothers and sisters speak 
of their hopes and of the crises of faith 
present in different parts of the world.”
Sometimes we might feel that in the Church
our voices have little weight
and our concerns go unheard;
the synod is an attempt to remedy that.
For our part, here at the Cathedral of Mary Our Queen,
we will be holding listening sessions in late January
so that our parishioners can have an opportunity
to speak of their joys and hopes,
their sorrows and anxieties,
which will eventually be reported
to the bishops meeting in Rome.
But these sessions will be more 
than an opportunity to speak;
they will also be a chance to learn to listen,
to hear the diversity of voices 
that make up our community,
to hear what others love about our faith
and to hear what causes them pain.
You can sign up on our website,
but even if you don’t sign up
you can simply show up.

During this time of listening
we need the help of God’s Spirit
to open our ears to hear those 
whose words we may have thought weightless.
And so the Church encourages us
to pray the prayer that began
each session of the Second Vatican Council:

We stand before You, Holy Spirit, 
as we gather together in Your name. 
With You alone to guide us, 
make Yourself at home in our hearts; 
Teach us the way we must go 
and how we are to pursue it. 
We are weak and sinful; 
do not let us promote disorder. 
Do not let ignorance 
lead us down the wrong path 
nor partiality influence our actions. 
Let us find in You our unity 
so that we may journey together to eternal life 
and not stray from the way of truth 
and what is right. 
All this we ask of You, 
who are at work in every place and time, 
in the communion of the Father and the Son, 
forever and ever. Amen.

 

Advent 4

Readings: Micah 5:1-4a; Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-45

Mary comes to Elizabeth
with a new world in her womb.
Of course, every child who is born
brings with it a new world,
for every person who enters our world changes it:
relationships are reconfigured,
a unique perspective is introduced,
history is set on a new trajectory.

But in the case of Mary,
the new world in her womb is something
even more radically new:
a world in which the mighty are cast from their thrones
and the lowly are lifted up,
a world in which the hungry are filled with good things
and the rich are sent away empty,
a world in which God and humanity are united
and heaven joined to earth.

Mary comes to Elizabeth with Jesus in her womb,
the new creation that God had wrought
in the midst of the old creation,
the new world of blessing
in the old world of curse,
the new world of mercy
in the old world of judgment,
the new world of peace
in the old world of violence.

Within the womb of his mother Elizabeth,
John the Baptist, the last prophet of the old covenant,
he who stands at its edge
and looks into the new world that is coming,
leaps with joy at the new thing God has wrought:
curse usurped by blessing,
judgment passing into mercy,
swords beaten into ploughshares,
heaven wed to earth in the person of Jesus.
For Mary does not bear blessing, mercy, and peace
in her womb as abstract concepts,
but as a person.
The new world that Mary carries in her womb
is not an idea, an ideal, or an ideology,
but Jesus himself.
Jesus is the new creation;
in him the reign of God takes flesh.
He comes not to give us new information about God
but to dwell among us as Emmanuel, God with us.
He comes not to give us a new set of moral rules
but to display in his living and dying and rising
the contours of new life in the reign of God.

Mary visits her kinswoman Elizabeth
with this new world in her womb.
And we are invited to share
in Mary’s ministry of visitation.
As St. Ambrose put it,
“Christ had only one mother in the flesh,
but we all bring forth Christ in faith.”
Just as Mary brought joy to Elizabeth and John
through the new creation that she bore within her,
we too are called to bring joy to a world that waits
for blessing, mercy, and peace.
Through the gift of faith, we too
bear glad tidings of the new creation:
the world of the mighty cast down
and the lowly lifted up,
the world of the hungry filled
and the rich left empty,
the world of heaven joined to earth
and God made flesh.
And this privilege that we share with Mary,
the privilege of bearing Christ to the world,
should be for us a cause of great joy.

But we have even greater cause for joy
for the mystery here is even greater.
We do not simply bring news of the new creation,
but we are that new creation.
St. Paul wrote to the church at Corinth,
“if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation:
everything old has passed away;
see, everything has become new!” (2 Cor. 5:17).
Through faith and Baptism
we have become members of Christ’s body,
members of that new creation
that Mary bore in her womb.
This means that we, like Jesus,
do not present the waiting world
with an idea or an ideal or an ideology;
we offer no new information or rules of conduct;
we present no comprehensive plan for peace.
Rather, we reveal through our being together in Christ,
in our living and dying and rising together in Christ,
the contours of the new world
waiting to be born in its fullness
but already present in mystery,
present when we gather as Christ’s body
to hear his word and celebrate his Eucharist,
to worship in Jesus’ name
and serve him in the stranger and the hungry one,
those who are sick and those imprisoned.

But until the return of Christ
the presence of the new creation
remains a hidden presence,
veiled in sacrament and mystery,
hidden within our imperfect worship
and our stumbling attempts at serving,
hidden like the child within Mary’s womb.
The new world born in Christ in Bethlehem
still awaits its birth in us
because Christ is not yet fully formed in us.
The old creation continues within us its life
of curse and judgment and violence,
but in Jesus the victory of the new world is certain.
We feel in ourselves still
the sorrows of the old creation,
but, with the eyes of faith,
we know these now
as the birth pangs of the new creation,
the pain of old things passing
and everything becoming new.

In these final days of Advent waiting,
let us not grow drowsy,
intoxicated by the anxieties of daily life,
mired in the sorrows of the old creation,
but let us yearn more eagerly
for Christ to be formed in us,
for the new world to be brought forth in joy,
for the full unveiling of the new creation.

Advent 4

Readings: Micah 5:1-4a; Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-45

Today, as we teeter on the brink of Christmas,
the Church offers for our consideration
the story of the Visitation:
the pregnant Mary’s visit
to her pregnant kinswoman Elizabeth.
This event might be familiar to some as the second joyful mystery
upon which one meditates when praying the rosary.
To others is might be more familiar as the subject matter
of great paintings by Giotto, Fra Angelico, Albertinelli, and Raphael.
Whether as a joyful mystery to be meditated upon
or as a subject depicted with great beauty by artists,
the story of the Visitation –
Elizabeth’s greeting of Mary as blessed
and the unborn John the Baptist leaping in her womb
in recognition of the Messiah whom Mary bears within her –
seems to be a fitting prelude to the joy and beauty of Christmas.

The poet Jessica Powers captures some of this joy and beauty
in the opening lines of her poem “The Visitation Journey,”
in which she meditates on Mary’s journey to Elizabeth:

The second bead: scene of the lovely journey
of Lady Mary, on whom artists confer
a blue silk gown, a day pouring out Springtime,
and birds singing and flowers bowing to her. 

But then Powers introduces a note of skepticism
about this picture she has painted.
If we consider the incredible news
that Mary had received from the Angel,
the news that she, a virgin, in some ways still a child,
would give birth to the Son of the Most High God,
then perhaps her journey to visit Elizabeth
was neither entirely joyful nor completely saturated in beauty.

Powers continues:

Rather, I see a girl upon a donkey
and her too held by what was said to mind
how the sky was or if the grass was growing.
I doubt the flowers; I doubt the road was kind. 

Rather than the calm and self-possessed Queen of Heaven
whom we might envision in our prayers
or see in great works of art,
Jessica Powers presents us with the image of a young girl,
her mind filled with all that had recently transpired,
preoccupied on her journey with trying to make sense
of how God had grabbed her life and shaken it,
overturning all that she had expected
and promising her something she could barely imagine.

It is still a joyful mystery, a beautiful mystery,
but its joy and beauty are of a sort
that can only be taken in slowly and with great effort.

Powers concludes her poem:

“Love hurried forth to serve,” I read, approving.
But also see, with thoughts blown past her youth,
a girl riding upon a jolting donkey and
riding further and further into the truth. 

Jessica Powers suggest to us that Mary’s visit to Elizabeth
was not unmarked by fear and perplexity.
But it was not only a journey of fear and perplexity.
Because of her faith, Mary knew
that despite her fear and perplexity
her journey was a journey further and further into the truth.
It was faith that allowed her to see this,
which is why Elizabeth says to her,
“Blessed are you who believed
that what was spoken to you by the Lord
would be fulfilled.”

Teetering on the edge of the great mystery of Christ’s birth,
Mary was no doubt filled with fear and perplexity
but she was also filled with faith:
truly blessed was she who believed.

And we too, teetering on the edge of the Christmas feast,
have not been immune to fear and perplexity
as the past week has brought more and disturbing news
of the school killings in Connecticut.
And we can only try to imagine the fear and perplexity
of the families and friends of those who died.
What can Christmas mean for those whose lives
have been touched by such horror?
What does it means to celebrate Christmas
in the shadow of the cross?

Blessed are you who believe
that fear and perplexity
do not have the last word,
but that we are even now journeying
further and further into the truth.
Blessed are you who believe
that the horror and suffering
of a world awaiting redemption
cannot completely hide
the joy and beauty of Christmas.
Blessed are you who believe
that the Christ whom we expect,
whom we await
and in whom we rejoice
will visit us in his mercy
and heal our broken world.