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SERMON
These Sundays in Advent we've been looking at Luke's record of the
Nativity. It began, you'll remember with the angel Gabriel paying a
visit to an old couple named Zechariah and Elizabeth. And when their son
John was born, Zechariah burst into song - a song of remembrance and
recognition and reassurance. And he couldn't help but sing because he at
last understood with his heart as well as his head that when God is
about to do something new, he will often begin with something old.
Then last week we read of the encounter between Gabriel and that
remarkable young woman named Mary. When she properly questioned the
angel's impossible proposition, you'll remember that he reassured her,
using her aging cousin, Elizabeth, as the hard evidence. "Did
you know," said the angel, "that your cousin Elizabeth
conceived a son, old as she is? Everyone called her barren, and here she
is six months pregnant! Nothing, you see, is impossible with God."
And so Luke tells us that Mary immediately went to spend some time with
her cousin.
Try to imagine the meeting of those two women, one rather old and the
other quite young; two women who had been blessed; two women who had
encountered God and knew that they would never be the same. Can you
picture them hugging each other around growing bellies? Can you see
Elizabeth's instinctive smile as she felt the baby kick - see her hand
dropping to her side as Jesus and John recognize each other? In The
Message Eugene Peterson has Elizabeth speak this way to Mary: "You
are so blessed among women, and the babe in your womb, also blessed! And
why am I so blessed that the mother of my Lord visits me? The moment the
sound of your greeting entered my ears, the babe in my womb skipped like
a lamb for sheer joy. Blessed woman, who believed what God said,
believed every word would come true!"
And with that affirmation, Mary broke into song. And she couldn't help
but sing because she, too, at last understood with her heart as well as
her head that when God is about to do something great, he will often
begin with something small. How appropriate, then, that Mary's song
should be called the "Magnificat." The name comes from the
Latin translation of the opening line of Mary's song, "Magnificat
anima me dominum" - "My soul magnifies the Lord."
Have you ever thought about that phrase? "My soul magnifies
the Lord." What does that mean? Or think about, "Lord,
we magnify your name." - "God, be magnified."
I realize that the Oxford Dictionary's first definition of
"magnify" is to praise highly or to glorify. But that first
definition notwithstanding, in its far more common use the term
"magnify" means to enlarge or to increase in apparent size.
The word calls up images of a magnifying glass or a telescope or a
microscope. But how could we possibly magnify the One who is greater
than the universe? Why would anyone want to try to make God bigger than
he already is? Well, I suppose it depends on your purpose.
Some people choose to magnify things because they're persuaded that
bigger is better. For example, some time ago we gave each other a
27-inch television for Christmas. (Actually, to be fair to Carol, it was
really my idea - she graciously went along with it.) I say that because
when I set it on the cart in our rather confined sitting room, she
thought it looked obscenely out of place. And it probably does -
especially when it's not turned on. It's just a huge black box sitting
on top of a comparatively small green table. But man, when you turn it
on, that picture is right there in your lap. (I suppose it's a "guy
thing.") Some folks want to magnify because they think that bigger
is better.
But there is another, and I think a far nobler reason to magnify.
Magnifying glasses, telescopes and microscopes all work on the same
principle. By bending light they enlarge the image of whatever they're
focused on. And in doing that, they make it possible for our eyes to see
more than they otherwise could. They help us see details we couldn't see
before; they help us to recognize what has always been there but we
couldn't make out. Well, when we magnify God, as Mary does in her song,
we begin to see things about him that we might have otherwise missed or
overlooked. Let me suggest three of those things about God's character
that Mary's song magnifies.
1. First, Mary's song helps us see how God blesses the humble;
and believe it or not, that fact is not obvious to everyone. Mary sings:
"for he has been mindful of the humble state of his
servant." I remember a refreshing conversation between a pastor
and his friend. They were talking about the ways that God had been
working in their lives. And at one point the friend blurted out, "What
I really want to know is: Why me? Why am I so blessed? Why is life so
rich for me?"
She wasn't saying that because everything in her life was going well. It
wasn't that she was materially well off - she wasn't; or that all of the
relationships in her life were healthy - they weren't. But she had
somehow reached a point in her life where she wanted to know: Why does
God love me? Why do I sense his caring presence when there
are so many others in this world who feel abandoned or alone? That is
one of the toughest and one of the best questions of faith that we can
ask. Because when we magnify God that way, it puts us in a place where
we can receive God's blessings.
Mary's song asks the question, "Why me, Lord? I don't deserve
this honor." And Mary was singing that song not only for
herself, but on behalf of her people. She was acknowledging that neither
she nor her people could do anything to bring about their deliverance.
Mary's song magnifies the principle that God makes himself known to
those who realize their need of him; he offers his salvation to those
who know they cannot save themselves. Augustine understood this
perfectly when he wrote: "For those who would learn God's ways,
humility is the first thing, humility is the second thing, and humility
is the third thing." Mary's song magnifies God's willingness to
bless the humble.
2. Second, her Magnificat brings into clear focus the fact that God's
intentions are revolutionary. Listen to how Eugene Peterson renders
the midsection of Mary's song. "God bared his arm and showed his
strength, scattered the bluffing braggarts. He knocked tyrants off their
high horses, pulled victims out of the mud. The starving poor sat down
to a banquet; the callous rich were left out in the cold."
Let's be careful not to over-spiritualize the content of Mary's song.
William Temple, Archbishop of Canterbury, instructed missionaries in
India: "Do not read the Magnificat in public… Christians are
already suspect there, and these verses are so inflammatory."
Mary's song is remarkably clear in declaring God's intentions that
Mary's son would turn the world's values right side up. According to
Mary's song, it is not the rich and famous nor those with access to
power who will prevail. And it reminds those of us who live in comfort
that we can never afford to stop being gripped by the inequities of
life.
And of course, when Mary's child grew to manhood, his teachings were
nothing short of revolutionary. He taught that there should not be one
person with two coats while another has none. There must never be
children who are unwelcome. You cannot bypass those in need. We dare not
throw parties just to indulge those who already have everything. We are
to look after those who have nothing.
Charles Dickens was a harsh critic of the injustices of 19th Century
English society. Those injustices are echoed in the words of Ebenezer
Scrooge when he suggested that the poor might just as well die and, as
he put it, "decrease the surplus population." But the
Spirit of Christmas Present admonished Scrooge to not say such things,
as he put it, "until you have discovered what the surplus
is, and where it is… It may be that, in the sight of Heaven,
you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor
man's child." It becomes clear as we listen to Mary's song that
the God who is magnified by it not only blesses the humble, he has a
revolution in mind.
3. There is one more striking thing about God's character that is
revealed in Mary's song. It reveals how God took the staggering risk to
place his beloved Son in our care, and he did so because of his great
mercy. When you think about the fact that God allowed his own Son to
be conceived and carried in a teenager's uterus, and birthed in a stable
and laid in a manger, and raised by ordinary parents, you realize that,
without words, he was proclaiming to the human family: "You have
proven again and again that you are not trustworthy; I am going to trust
you with my Son anyway. I choose to put my faith in you. I choose to
believe in you."
One imaginative person put it this way. Picture a king riding in his
carriage through the streets of the capitol city, holding his infant son
in his lap. Suddenly he orders the driver to stop in the poorest part of
town. Descending from the coach, baby in arms, he approaches some of the
dregs of society. And with an inscrutable smile, he hands over the royal
prince to this wretched group, saying, "I want you to care for
my son. Take him into your homes and let him stay with you. I'll be back
to get him one day."
Here we come face to face with the great mystery of Christmas. God
knowingly placed an infant in a hostile world - not as a spy, but as an
ambassador of his good will. He entrusted his ancient adversaries with
the responsibility of raising his own Son; and he did it all out of his
great mercy. In fact, he entrusts his Son to all of us. Mary sings of
how God's mercy extends from generation to generation. But don't mistake
God's mercy for softness or weakness. God's mercy is compelling, and it
will have its way. C. S. Lewis discovered that truth at the end of his
long struggle to deny it. It was God's mercy, says Lewis, that compelled
him to embrace Jesus as God's own Son.
In his spiritual autobiography, Surprised by Joy, Lewis
writes this of his own conversion: "I did not then see what is
now the most shining and obvious thing: the divine humility which will
accept a convert even on such terms. The Prodigal Son at least walked
home on his own feet. But who can duly adore that love which will open
the high gates to a prodigal who is brought in kicking, struggling,
resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance to
escape. The words 'compel them to come in' have been so abused by wicked
men that we shudder at them; but, properly understood, they plumb the
depth of Divine mercy."
I daresay you and I can never fully understand the lengths to which
God's mercy is willing to go to bring us to himself. But John Donne came
close when he wrote: "God's mercy hath no relation to time, no
limitation in time… Whom God loves He loves to the end; and not only
to their end, to their death, but to His end; and His end is that He
might love them still." Let me ask you this: Has your heart
been taken captive by God's mercy? Mary's heart was. That's why she
couldn't help but sing about it. Her song magnified the Lord, and in
doing so she helps us see details we might not have seen before; she
helps us recognize what has always been true about God's character.
Let me leave you with one final note about magnifying the Lord. Mary
isn't the only one who has a magnificat to sing. Every one of us who
knows the Lord is a potential magnifying glass. Here's the wonder of it
all. As we open our hearts to him, God reveals himself in us and through
us. In his letter to the Philippians, Paul said that he was praying for
courage so that, as he put it, "Christ will be exalted in my
body." The word translated "exalted" is exactly the same
word "magnify" that Mary used in her song. Paul was praying: "God,
give me courage to let Christ be magnified in my life."
I know what I want for Christmas. Do you know what the Lord wants for
Christmas - from you? I suspect it would make his day if you would
simply make this your prayer: "In my life, Lord, be
magnified."
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