Scripture:
As adults, we are often stretched by our children's questions. For example, you may be asked why, on some Advent wreaths, there is a pink candle in place of a purple one. It is for the third week of Advent: Gaudete--the Sunday of Joy. The ponderous texts of the first two weeks of Advent give way to joyful songs. Our first reading celebrates the joy of liberation, and reminds us that we have our salvation in God alone. I read from the prophet Isaiah, chapter 61, verses 1-4, and 8-11:

[1]The spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; [2] to proclaim the year of the LORD's favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; [3] to provide for those who mourn in Zion--to give them a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit. They will be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, to display his glory. [4] They shall build up the ancient ruins, they shall raise up the former devastations; they shall repair the ruined cities, the devastations of many generations. . . .

[8]For I the LORD love justice, I hate robbery and wrongdoing; I will faithfully give them their recompense, and I will make an everlasting covenant with them. [9] Their descendants shall be known among the nations, and their offspring among the peoples; all who see them shall acknowledge that they are a people whom the LORD has blessed. [10] I will greatly rejoice in the LORD, my whole being shall exult in my God; for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation, he has covered me with the robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom decks himself with a garland, and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels. [11] For as the earth brings forth its shoots, and as a garden causes what is sown in it to spring up, so the Lord GOD will cause righteousness and praise to spring up before all the nations.

The Psalm, or liturgical song for the day, is not from the harp of David, but from the mouth of Mary. While visiting her cousin Elizabeth, Mary sings of joy and justice, a hymn of praise reminiscent of Hannah who becomes pregnant with Samuel in her old age. But unlike Hannah, Sarah, the mother of Samson, and Mary's cousin Elizabeth, Mary is young. God is doing a NEW THING. This child will not be as Samuel, or Isaac, or Samson or John the Baptist. He will be the Son of God.

And of his accomplishments, Mary is so confident, that she describes them in the past tense -- celebrating the future as a memory -- praising God for having already done what lies before us to do.[1] Hear the word of the Lord, as we encounter it in the Good News recorded by Luke, chapter 1, beginning with verse 46:

[46] And Mary said, "My soul magnifies the Lord, [47]and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, [48] for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; [49] for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. [50] His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. [51] He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. [52] He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; [53] he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty. [54] He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, [55] according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever."

SERMON:

In downtown Cleveland, there is a homeless girl named Virginia. Her age is thirteen. Her skin is blotchy, her hair kinky. She is a mulatto. She received little education growing up, and cannot read or write. The events of her childhood have caused her to vow never to have a child.

Living in the shelter isn't fun. It isn't clean. It's very noisy. Virginia owns next to nothing -- she can carry it all in two paper bags. There's a young man in her life. He's not yet 20. Before graduating from high school, he left and became an auto mechanic. He works hard - when he has work. He hopes someday to provide for Virginia. They think about marriage. Perhaps they could get a small apartment and make a go of it together. But right now, she stays in the shelter and he stays with friends, sleeping on floors and broken couches. Their hopes for a life together are a distant dream.

One day, Virginia disappeared. No one in the shelter missed her, since most residents were transients. Many months later, when the doors of the shelter were thrown open at 5pm, Virginia was back. She had changed. Inside, she knew something special. It was for her a source of untold joy -- which was a rare commodity in the shelter. If anyone had cared to notice, they would have recognized the change, and shared in the joy.

But no one paid any attention to her. She was a loser. A reject. An object of ridicule. The talk in the shelter, night after night, was of how awful the government was. It was the government which had caused them to lose their jobs and homes. It was the government which squeezed them out of the welfare system -- insisting that there were jobs available to anyone willing to work. It was the government which humiliated them. If they held any hope, it was for some group, or some strong individual who would come and topple the existing, corrupt, unjust system, and restore to them a sense of dignity. With this in mind, some of the people in the shelter began to discuss what they could do to take matters into their own hands. They had heard about the movement in Boston a decade earlier to create a new city called Mandella -- a city in which justice would be realized, and those on the margins would be treated like human beings. Could the poor of Cleveland succeed with such an initiative?

Her first night back, Virginia entered the conversation. Never before had she spoken up. She told them that the justice they sought might not come the way they expected. She sounded confused, since she too had once believed that what was needed was some kind of revolution that would bring about a great reversal of who was in charge. But now, because of what had changed her, she was no longer sure how deliverance would take place. The crowd had no patience with her waffling. And because she disagreed with their views, they grew angry and threatened to do her harm. That night, Virginia fled the shelter she had called home. She could never return.

Desperate and cold, she went to the one man she could trust. She told her mechanic friend -- only him -- of her secret. The very thing she had sworn off had come to pass. She was pregnant. Yet for reasons she herself did not fully understand, she was not angry or ashamed. She was, however, fearful of how he would respond. She had no health insurance. Neither did he. And they both knew one thing for sure: he wasn't the father. But he assured her that he would not abandon her. He stood by her, and promised that together, they would make the best of it.

Months later, Virginia was almost due. She had spent many nights on the street. Her life had been threatened countless times. She fled, drawing on strength her undernourished body didn't have. She had come to believe that the child she carried was special, and it was up to her and her mechanic friend, who had now become her husband, to protect the child as best they could.

Late one afternoon, they set out for the welfare agency. Virginia had not received her check, so she was required to claim it in person. They took the Rapid, but there was a delay. It broke down. They got a transfer, but the bus delivered them to the agency after it had closed. They had no money, and were miles from where they could stay. They began to walk.

Somewhere not far from Tower City Virginia went into labor. They shouted for help, but those who heard them were busy shopping. A few people crossed the street to avoid the scene which was developing as Virginia shouted for help. Virginia, with her husband beside her, made her way -- mostly by crawling a hundred feet or so -- into an alley which led to an abandoned lot. A number of people heard her cries, and after looking through their storm windows, drew the curtains.

It was there, in the alley, that Virginia gave birth to her child.

Mary -- the woman whom God chose to be the mother of God's son - Mary was poor, uneducated, very young, unmarried, and scared. When she heard the news that she would give birth to a son, she was troubled and confused. "How can this be?" she asked the angel. The angel's prophecy was contrary to everything she had been taught about the Messiah to come. It was contrary to the religious and cultural expectations about God, and how God would deliver the people from their poverty, their oppressed lives, and from captivity under Roman rule. Like all Jews, she had been taught that this would all come about as a result of a King, a mighty warrior, who would upend the tyranny of Rome, and fulfill God's promises to the people Israel. This Messiah would be a legitimate heir to the throne of King David of old -- not the son of an unmarried woman living in poverty.

Like Mary and the Jews of ancient Israel, we too have expectations about God's ways, how God works in the world, and how we should expect to encounter God, and prepare for God's coming, at this special time of year: our decorations at church and at home; the traditions we recreate year after year; cards, presents, phone calls and so much more. We call it "getting into the spirit of the season." The ancient Jews called it awaiting the coming of the anointed one, the Messiah.

Could it be that God could come to Cleveland, and favor a street child like Virginia? Could it be that thousands of church going Cleveland residents -- their arms filled with presents and their hearts alive in the spirit of Christmas -- could pass by the mother of God, while she lay in an alley, disguised as a destitute thirteen year old in pain? If it sounds far fetched to you, then I have succeeded in putting you in the place of those who heard the Gospel of Luke in the first century. Whether they were Romans or Jews, they knew what a King was, and that no King could come into the world in the way Jesus was said to have been born.

For all the joy this season brings, it brings to most of us feelings of disappointment too. Each day we are reminded of how our hopes and expectations of these holidays exceed our daily experience. Many of us remember years past when loved ones were with us, and the quality of joy they added to the season. Somewhere inside, we still grieve their absence. Some of us with grown children remember a house full of little ones whose naïve enthusiasm helped transport us to a world of hope we are unable to discover now that they are grown. We try with all our might to make this time "the best possible experience" - to find the best tree available, to arrange the house in a way that looks better than it ever has before, to get "the perfect presents" for those we love. In all these things, we fall short. And our expectations, heightened as they are, make our grief and disappointment all the more painful. Often, Christmas becomes as much a time of coping with disappointment as it is a time of celebrating the fulfillment of our expectations.

What did Mary do with her expectations? Did she cling to them? Remember: becoming pregnant out of wedlock meant that Mary could be stoned to death. It meant that her mature life was getting off to a very difficult beginning. But Mary did not focus on these disappointments. She responded: "Let it be done to me according to your word."

This is what sets Mary aside: her ability to receive God as she least expected God to appear; Mary's trust in God; her willingness to set aside her questions - to work through her doubt; her faith that with God all things are possible; her acceptance that God's ways are not our ways. Mary set aside her expectations so that she could receive the unexpected God, and welcome God -- on God's terms. Instead of focusing on the disappointment over her life being in ruins and her reputation irretrievably blemished, she sought the support of her kinswoman Elizabeth, who confirmed beyond any shadow of doubt that what had happened to Mary was the work of the Lord -- a thing to celebrate.

Our God -- our unexpected God -- comes to us when we least expect.(2) Into our "low estate," our unexpected God comes, to give hope to a world of tragedy, suffering and injustice. Our unexpected God is present to comfort the one for whom Advent is a very sad time, a time in which the sod is still soft at the cemetery. Our unexpected God comes as Counselor to the one who has witnessed the caustic dividing of the two who had been one flesh, who now -- like enemies -- fight over child custody, approaching Christmas with shredded memories. Our unexpected God comes as Savior and Deliverer to the one who carries the oppressive weight of guilt from the residue of things said or destructive acts committed that have left a relationship in ruins.

If we look for God only where we expect to find God, we will be deaf to the voice of the angel who comes to us. To us, as to Mary, the angel proclaims the coming of God in a way we least expect. So let us, with Mary, magnify THAT Lord -- the Lord who is to come -- rather than the Lord of Christmas past who offers only disappointment. And let us - like Mary -- conform our hearts to receive with joy God's initiative in our lives --knowing that we cannot predict the form or direction God's initiative will take. In this way, amidst tragedy, disappointment and grief, amidst joy, and laughter and fulfillment, our souls will magnify our unexpected God. Amen

Footnotes:
1. This introduction borrows from the commentary Preaching the New Common Lectionary; Year B; Advent Christmas, Ephiphany by Fred B. Craddock, etc; pp. 36-37.
2. I am grateful to George E. Thompson for some material in this paragraph. See "Pulpit Digest", Nov-Dec 1988, pp. 55-56.