Mothers of Advent - ADVENT THREE

When was the last time you felt true, uninhibited joy?

Not happiness. Not a fleeting good mood.

But the kind of full-body joy that sends vibrations through your arms and legs. 

The kind that lifts your chest and straightens your spine—or leaves you doubled over in laughter. 

When you can’t help but smile.

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Perhaps it was during a visit with a dear friend. 

Or at the birth of a new family member. 

Maybe it found you on a long hike in the sunshine, or during a quiet, solo camping trip. 

Or perhaps it unexpectedly washed over you in a moment of prayer.

I once heard the experience of joy described as including “feelings of openness, non-partiality, and a willingness to be surprised.” 

I love that… a willingness to be surprised. 

In his book Honest Advent, artist Scott Erickson writes about surprise as the antidote to assumptions about faith. 

Assumptions like “You should be more than you are now.” Or “other spiritual people have something you don’t have.” or perhaps worst of all, “I’ve got it all figured out.” 

There is a great deal that is surprising about the Advent story—if we are open to being surprised. Perhaps that is why the church tells this story again and again, year after year.

The surprise that God comes down to us. 

The surprise that humble nobodies partake in divine plans. 

The surprise that life can spring forth from unexpected places. 

It seems that if we are willing to be surprised, we may discover that joy arrives in ways we never expected.

Many traditions understand joy and happiness as distinct. 

I once heard a yoga teacher describe joy as a spectrum. 

There is outer joy—the joy of excitement, delight, and pleasure. The joy of seeing a beautiful painting. Or eating an incredible meal. It’s real joy—but often fleeting.

There is also inner joy—something deeper and more durable. An inner contentment rooted in meaningful moments, often shared with others. It is joy sustained by the knowledge that life is precious and fragile and beautiful. 

Finally, she describes an innermost joy—a joy that does not depend on external circumstances. It is self-sustaining, born of the divine spark that animates all living things.

That description reminds me of what the great spiritual teacher Henri Nouwen once wrote, echoing Paul’s letter to the Philippians:

“Joy is a choice, grounded in the knowledge that we belong to God and have found in God our refuge and our safety and that nothing, not even death, can take God away from us.”

This knowledge of God is not merely intellectual; it exceeds reason. It is knowledge born of lived encounters with the love of God.

It was this same strange, surprising, innermost joy that enabled Paul—whose entire life was redirected by an encounter with Christ—to rejoice always. Even in prison. Even as he awaited his execution. 

Joy, it seems, often shows up in the most unexpected places.

And very often, among those pushed to the margins.

Which brings us to the young Mary of Nazareth.  

In today’s reading from Luke, we hear Mary’s sung response to the news that she will give birth to the Son of God. 

Patriarchal religion has painted Mary as meek and mild. 

A willing recipient, but not an active participant. 

Praised for her purity, not her personhood. 

But this portrayal gets Mary so wrong, and this story helps us to see why. 

Mary’s song is joyful and triumphant. She is alive with the messianic hope of her people, and her heart is aflame with revolutionary joy.

It is Mary who gives the first sermon about what Jesus' arrival means for humanity. She can see it, feel it, taste it… the world is… as the song we just sang proclaims… about to turn.  

Mary had little social status and even less obvious power. 

She was poor. Exceedingly young. A girl to modern standards. Engaged but still unmarried. And from a region looked down upon by other Jewish communities. She lived under the occupation of a foreign empire and at the whim of a tyrannical local ruler. 

An unexpected, unexplainable pregnancy would make her vulnerable to accusations and to judgment. As her belly grew, so too would the rumors. Her engagement to Joseph and her reputation in her community would be at risk. 

This could have devastating consequences for a young woman.

Mary must have known all of this, and yet upon hearing the news of this miraculous pregnancy, she consents to God’s plan delivered to her by the angel Gabriel. 

But she would need support to carry out this pregnancy. 

Luke tells us that after receiving this news, Mary sets out “with haste” to see her elder cousin Elizabeth,  in the small village of Ein Kerem just outside Jerusalem.

Biblical scholar Jane Schaberg notes that the Greek phrase here implies terror or grave concern. Mary is not simply moving quickly; she is fleeing from trouble. 

She receives this pregnancy with joy, but that does not negate the vulnerability and risk she is now burdened with. 

Mary’s cousin Elizabeth is also experiencing a miraculous pregnancy, having just conceived her first child at an advanced age. She is to give birth to Jesus' cousin, John the Baptist. 

I like to imagine how utterly joyful the reunion between these two women would have been—filled with hugs, kisses, laughter, and maybe a few tears. Swapping stories of their first trimesters and even a few fears about what birth would be like. 

These two women are embarking on the journey of motherhood, unexpectedly and inexplicably. Together. 

Upon seeing Mary, Elizabeth instantly recognizes that she is pregnant and is filled to the brim with the Holy Spirit, so much so that she exclaims that Mary is blessed among women and the mother of the Lord. 

What an amazingly confident and prophetic statement that is. Elizabeth is the first to witness to the arrival of the Messiah. 

As they embrace one another,  Mary bursts into song.

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 will call me blessed; 

This song, called the Magnificat, is no simple lullaby.

It is a revolutionary song of hope inspiring reversals. An anthem of an abiding peace on earth.  

Mary sings of the powerful cast down from their thrones.  Of the lowly lifted up.  Of the hungry filled with good things.

It is a political message. And a personal one. 

In The First Advent in Palestine, Kelley Nikondeha observes that Mary’s song rises directly from her own experience with a reversal in circumstance. 

Mary sings of her lowliness—a word often translated from the Greek as “poor” or “humble,” but one that carries a fuller and more troubling meaning. 

The term refers not only to social insignificance but to humiliation and distress.

In the Greek translations of the Hebrew Scriptures, this same word is used to describe the sexual violation of women—women like Dinah, the concubine in Judges 19, and King David’s daughter Tamar. 

We might wonder if somewhere in this choice of words is an untold story of violence? A violation that Mary chooses not to speak of publicly.

We might wonder about the possibility of sexual assault. The Gospels do tell of the brutalities of patriarchy and empire, in which sexual assault is a common tactic of control and humiliation.  

For me, the possibility is simply that. A possibility. A grey area where I don’t need all the answers. That may be a part of her story, that Mary keeps to herself. 

For me, the greater point is that Mary’s joy, does not emerge from naïveté or ease. It rises from a life shaped by vulnerability because of her gender, her class, her birthplace, and her marital status. Vulnerability in the places where dignity has been threatened. and where God chooses, nevertheless, to draw near.

Mary’s song boldly resists the dehumanization of her society, boldly proclaiming that God. Creator of the Universe. Holiest of Holies… sees her. Mary of Nazareth. Sees her fully. Sees all her vulnerabilities. And calls her life a blessing.

Mary is touched by this divine encounter, so moved by this experience that it is as if her soul expands. My soul magnifies the Lord, she sings. 

Mary’s Song proclaims unequivocally that this unexpected and inexplicable pregnancy is a blessing on her life. 

Despite it making her vulnerable to rejection.

Despite the potential hardship.

Despite the fears of being a new parent. 

Mary never needed to be convinced of Jesus’ true identity as the Son of God. As God incarnate, drawing near to the world of God’s Creation. 

Mary knew from the very first moment, in a way perhaps only a mother could.  

Mary sees hope in this strange and unexpected position, and it is the grounds for her experience of joy. 

And Mary knows that this God’s victory is not for her alone, but will be shared with all those downtrodden. 

Through song, she recalls the history of God’s mercy and justice. 

How God has scattered the proud and elevated the lowly, and will again. 

How God has liberated and healed, and will again. 

How God has overturned systems of domination and fed the hungry, and will again.   

As she anticipates the birth of her son, these old stories root Mary securely in her trust in God’s promises.

And as she tells these old stories, she is proclaiming that this is how God will continue to act. That God will continue to be merciful, enact justice, to liberate and heal in her day, and in the days to come. 

As she awaits the birth of her son, the Messiah, these old stories root Mary in her ultimate hope for the future. 

Mary lives between the memory of God’s presence in history and her hope in God’s future promises.  God’s Love is the source of Mary’s joy. 

And her song becomes the anthem of a resistance movement still yet being born. 

Nikondeha imagines for us what those three months of Mary’s stay may have entailed. She imagines them discussing what raising thier sons would be like as they did their household chores. How as their bellies grew, so did their conviction that of God's deliverance.  

This story captures the significance of these women, so often marginalized in our tellings of the Advent story. Mary and Elizabeth are not passive vessels or pushovers in the story of Advent. They are active participants, joining together in solidarity for the journey ahead.

They will mother peacemakers and revolutionaries.

They will become disciples and leaders in the movement.

They will watch as their sons are both murdered by the empire,

And through it all, they will persist in hope and peace and joy and love despite everything.

Their joy is not naïve. It is forged in struggle.

Sikh activist and civil-rights leader Valarie Kaur has some wisdom about joy in struggle.  

She compares movements for peace and justice to giving birth. You cannot push all the time. There are moments when you must bear down. And moments when you must breathe. And in between, there must be rest. 

We must make space for joy and rest even in the midst of struggle.

Kaur's wisdom reminds us that joy is not a luxury reserved for easy times. It is essential medicine for any long struggle. We must return to joy again and again—not as an escape from reality, but as a way to replenish our hearts so we can continue.

Mary found that joyful rest in the company of Elizabeth. That pause before the chaos. A moment to breathe. 

This must have had an impact. 

As Nikoneha writes, “Together, Elizabeth and Mary, the mothers of Advent, shaped the infrastructure of peace…. So many of the hymns composed during the Maccabean revolt sang of nationalistic salvation, or revenge and violence… but in Mary’s advent anthem, we see no vindictiveness.” 

The mothers of Advent teach us about about reversing injustice and humiliation, not in a spirit of revenge by restoration. 

And perhaps Mary taught this to Jesus. Perhaps she sang this song throughout her pregnancy. As she cradled him in her arms. As she rocked him to sleep. 

It is said that in Advent we expectantly wait for the One who has already come. 

During this season of waiting and anticipation, we live in between our hope in Christ and the memory of His Arrival. In Advent, we, like Mary, live in between memories of the past and hope for the future.  

This Advent season, this strange, uncomfortable paradox is clear. 

As we celebrate the arrival of the Prince of Peace among us, we long for a just peace—in Palestine and Lebanon, in Ukraine and Congo. In Myanmar and here in the United States, in our homes and public squares. 

As we remember the hope sparked by Christ’s arrival, we hope for renewal where despair has taken root. Hope in communities weary of increasing food insecurity and homelessness. Hope in the places where we are tempted to give up.

So if you, like me, are struggling under the weight of injustice and cruelty, grief and heartbreak. Whether it's struggling to make sense of this current moment, struggling to imagine a path to peace, or struggling to continue paying attention, I invite you to remember the paradox of this season. And to remain open to surprise. 

For joy, as Mary sings, is not a denial of the world as it is, but a fierce trust in the God who is still at work within it.

As Henri Nouwen wrote, “Be surprised by joy, be surprised by the little flower that shows its beauty in the midst of a barren desert, and be surprised by the immense healing power that keeps bursting forth like springs of fresh water from the depth of our pain.”

May joy in the Lord be our strength this Advent season and beyond.

Sermon preached by Rev. Delaney Piper on 12/14/25.