Sermon for morning worship December 24, 2000

"From Generation to Generation" by Pastor Barbara Kenley

I have thought much about the mercy of God since the snow started to fall here in Indiana. I've learned that there are rules to be obeyed when the temperature drops below zero.

Rule Number 1: If you like having skin, keep it covered!

Rule Number 2: If you're so excited by the bright whiteness of the snow

that you just have to run through deep piles of it, tie your boots on

tight!

Rule Number 3: If you're driving to work and you're late, you're

going to have to accept that.

And Rule Number 4: When you're done shoveling your driveway, if your fingers and toes aren't frostbitten, go shovel a little for your neighbor, too.

This is the coldest winter your transplanted Californian has ever

experienced û and it's only December! And I confess that I have some

trepidation about what January and February might hold in store. But I

find that, if I slow down and follow the example of my more experienced

neighbors, I can learn something. Even now, God in his mercy is

teaching me about slowing down, pacing myself, and going with the flow

of the year.

Around the Kenley House, December 24 would seem to be the end of the year; a point when we prepare to chuck out the old, now dog-eared, paper calendar for the crisp, shiny, new one, just waiting to be hung on the

kitchen wall. But the Church follows a different calendar. And like

the seasons, the Church Year has something to teach us. The top of your bulletin correctly proclaims "The Fourth Sunday in Advent." And Advent is the beginning of the Church Year.

We begin the liturgical year with a paradox: In the end is the

beginning: in the beginning we ponder the end of time, when Jesus will

return. Advent is the coming of God toward us, even as we cry out for

God to come. At each of the Wednesday night Advent services we have

sung verses of the plaintive "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel." And on Sundays we have heard the cry of four Hebrew prophets: Isaiah, Zephaniah, Jeremiah, and today, Micah. In the four weeks before Christmas, we here in Richmond are singing and praying out of the same place inside where lived historical yearnings of God's people Israel.

Powerful images have dominated these four Sundays: the Desire of

nations, the Dayspring from on high, the Root of Jesse, a Rose ever

blooming, the Prince of Peace. Such images provide us with the power of God's Word to leap across the centuries and cultures to our own here and now. We 21st century Midwesterners, too, long for the Advent of God, we long for justice, we long for liberation from all that brings death and destruction. There is never a time when our turn towards Advent, and the coming of a Savior, is not relevant.

In Luke's Gospel, we hear from Mary, the mother of Jesus, singing a song of praise to God that the Church has come to call The Magnificat,

because the Latin for "My soul magnifies the Lord" is Magnificat anima

mea Dominum. It is Mary's song of praise that bridges us from Advent to Christmas.

Now, Mary is something of a mystery to Protestants. We donÆt talk much about her. Her image, with her sweet yet sad gaze, may make us a tad uncomfortable. When I was growing up in San Diego, California, it was a short drive to cross the border into Mexico. Everyday items like clothing and home decorations just seemed more exotic if they came from Mexico, so it wasn't unusual on a Saturday morning to drive south to the markets of Tijuana. And everywhere I looked, from the dashboards of the taxis, to the cash registers in the shops, to the statues in the center of the fountains, were images of the Virgin Mary. I got used to seeing her there, and I noticed that, as soon as we crossed back over the border again, we didn't see Mary anymore. It was as if she was hovering over Mexico, like a plane in a holding pattern, unable to get clearance to land in The States.

When the angel Gabriel appears to Mary and tells her that she will

become the mother of God's child, she responds in faith, "Here I am, the

servant of the Lord." She warrants praise not only because she assents

to become God's servant, but also because she trusts the words Gabriel

speaks when he says to her, "Nothing will be impossible with God."

Trust and obedience are the hallmarks of a disciple. When we hear

the word "disciple," we think of the grownups who surrounded Jesus when Jesus himself was in his thirties. Or we can look around the sanctuary this morning and see disciples. But we have the benefit of his recorded teaching, and the wisdom of the Church which has taught us Who Jesus was and is. At some level it has made sense to us become his followers.

But Mary becomes a disciple before Jesus is even born. Since Vatican

2, the Catholic Church has regarded Mary as Jesus' first disciple. The

greeting from her cousin Elizabeth confirms it, "Blessed is she who

believed that there would be fulfillment of what was spoken to her by

the Lord.

Because of our tendency to see women only as models for other women, we may miss an opportunity. Mary trusts GodÆs word and obeys it, with her words to God's messenger, Gabriel, "Here I am, the servant of the Lord. Let it be to me according to your word." Years ago, when Billy Graham visited Mother Teresa in Calcutta, he concluded his visit by asking her how he could pray for her. She asked Dr. Graham, "Pray that God will make me as humble as Jesus, and as obedient as Mary."

I read in The Star yesterday that a psychologist at the University of

Virginia is using a documentary film of Mother Teresa, showing it to

research subjects and studying their responses. Professor Jonathan

Haidt is discovering that just seeing footage of Mother Teresa in

ministry to the poor evokes a physiological response in people. They

are inspired by her. They want to be like her. The images that

inspired and kept inspiring Mother Teresa were Jesus and Mary. In her

readiness to obey God, Mary gives both men and women an example of true discipleship.

If Mary did nothing more than agree to be the mother of the Savior

of the world, we would have an awesome reason for hope. But this is God's Story, even more than it is Mary's. As soon as she arrives at her

cousin's house and is greeted by Elizabeth, Mary bursts into a song of

praise for God. We hardly notice it at first, when we read along in our

Bibles, because we don't know the tune she sang. We only have the

printed words before us. And because the Magnificat is set so

beautifully in Latin, and Protestants are more uncomfortable with Latin

than we are with Mary, we don't sing it very often for ourselves. And

we're just not used to people acting like that when they come into our

homes. The closest I've seen to Mary's song comes during the opening

credits, at the beginning of the movie "The Sound of Music," when Julie

Andrews, as Maria Von Trapp, stands on her Austrian mountain top with

her arms outstretched, and begins to whirl around singing, "The hills

are alive, with the sound of music!"

For ten verses, the Virgin Mary sings with the same joy and abandon.

But Julie Andrews' character sang out of the joy of her situation. The

Virgin Mary sang because of the joy of God's revelation. Everything

that God had done for his people and everything that he was yet to do

comes out in Mary's song. Through the revelation of the Holy Spirit,

she now has the perspective of the ages, able to see God's Hand at work throughout history, and into the future. God has "brought down the

powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly." He has "filled

the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty." That the

first will be last and the last will be first is a reality for Mary,

under the inspiration of the Spirit of God. And how is God going to do

all this? Through "the fruit of the womb" of an unwed teenage mother in

a Third World backwater, which just happened to be occupied by the

greatest military force the world had ever seen. Mary would take

shelter in a stable, yet give birth to a king. She would deliver Jesus.

And he would deliver the whole world. God's Story will follow the pattern that had been set for centuries, of God choosing the small, weak, or seemingly inconsequential to conquer or shame the proud, the strong and the mighty. God called David to be King of Israel, though he was just a boy, and a humble shepherd. The prophet Micah tells the unsuspecting "Bethlehem of Ephrathah, who are one of the little clans of Judah," you will bring forth a ruler, "whose origin is from of old." God is about to show new mercy, even more than to previous generations, and it would go forth into every generation to follow, because that was the will of God.

And nowhere in Mary's Magnificat does she sing of her own greatness, only of her joy for all that God has done. "Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name."

In a contemporary testimony of what God will do, Peggy Porter

writes:

My son Gilbert was 8 years old and had been in Cub Scouts only a short

time. During one of his meetings he was handed a sheet of paper, a

block of wood, and 4 tires and told to give all to "dad."

That was not an easy task for Gilbert to do. Dad was not receptive

to doing things with his son. But Gilbert tried. Dad read the paper and

scoffed at the idea of making a pinewood derby car with his young, eager son. The block of wood remained untouched as the weeks passed. Finally, mom stepped in to see if I could figure this all out. The project began. Having no carpentry skills, I decided it would be best

if I simply read the directions and let Gilbert do the work. And he

did. I read aloud the measurements, the rules of what we could do, and

what we couldn't do.

Within days his block of wood was turning into a pinewood derby car.

A little lopsided, but looking great (at least through the eyes of mom).

Gilbert had not seen any of the other kids' cars and was feeling pretty

proud of his "Blue Lightning," the pride that comes with knowing you did

something on your own.

Then the big night came. With his blue pinewood derby car in his

hand and pride in his heart, we headed to the big race. Once there, my

little one's pride turned into humility. Gilbert's car was obviously

the only car made entirely on his own. All the other cars were a

father-son partnership, with cool paint jobs and sleek body styles made

for speed. A few boys giggled as they looked at Gilbert's lopsided,

wobbly, unattractive vehicle. To add to the humiliation, Gilbert was

the only boy without a man at his side. A couple of the boys who were

from single parent homes at least had an uncle or grandfather by their

side. Gilbert had "mom."

As the race began, it was done in elimination fashion. You kept

racing as long as you were the winner. One by one the cars raced down the finely sanded ramp. Ultimately it came down to a race between Gilbert's Blue Lightning and the sleekest, fastest looking car there. As the last race was about to begin, my wide-eyed, shy 8-year old asked if they could stop the race for a minute, because he wanted to pray. The race stopped. Gilbert hit his knees clutching his funny-looking block of wood between his hands. With a wrinkled brow, he set to converse with his Heavenly Father. He prayed in earnest a very long minute and a

half. Then he stood, smile on his face, and announced, "Okay. I'm ready."

As the crowd cheered, a boy named Tommy stood with his father as their car sped down the ramp. Gilbert stood with the love of his Father within his heart and watched as his wobbly block of wood sped down the ramp with surprisingly great speed and rushed over the finish line a fraction of a second before Tommy's car.

Gilbert leaped into the air with a loud "Thank you!" as the crowd roared

in approval. The Cub Master came up to Gilbert with microphone in hand and asked the obvious questions, "So, you prayed to win, huh, Gilbert?"

To which my young son answered, "Oh, no sir. That wouldn't be fair to ask God to help you beat someone else. I just asked him to make it so I don't cry when I lose."

In the book of Hebrews it is written, "Consequently, when Christ

came into the world, he said, "Sacrifices and offerings you have not desired, but a body you have prepared for me; in burnt offerings and sin

offerings you have taken no pleasure. Then I said, "See, God, I have

come to do your will."

"But you, O Bethlehem of Ephrathah, who are one of the little clans

of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to rule in Israel,

whose origin is from old, from ancient of days."

And Mary said, "My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices

in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his

servant. Surely, from now on all generations shall call me blessed; for

the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. His

mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation."

Let us pray: God of all generations, make us true disciples of yours:

humble, obedient, and hopeful. Trusting that You will do great things

with even the smallest and weakest among us. Teach us to trust You,

through your Word, through your Church, and even through the seasons

that surround us. For your mercies are new every morning. In our

Savior's Name we pray, Amen.

Let us begin to move from Advent to Christmas, and take our Blue

Hymnals, turn to Hymn 49, and sing Once in Royal David's City. Let us

stand as we sing.

--

Rev. Barbara A. Kenley

First Presbyterian Church

Richmond, Indiana