Carrying the Song - The Magnificat
Yesterday, right here at Christ Church, Bishop Benfield ordained the Rev. Thomas Alexander to the holy order of deacons. It was a glorious celebration of ministry in the Episcopal Diocese of Arkansas. The music was outstanding, the sermon was powerful, and the spinach puffs were divine. It was a truly flawless day except for one small snag, which was that I spent several hours yesterday morning absolutely shaking in my boots because I was so nervous to chant the Litany for Ordinations. Many of you have heard me sing in a liturgical setting, and it usually goes okay, but my stage fright still rears its ugly head any time chanting is on the docket. Needless to say I skipped breakfast in anticipation and was particularly thrilled about the spinach puffs afterwards.
When it comes to singing in church, one of the places I turn for encouragement and reassurance is the tradition of women of faith - and all levels of skill - crying out in worshipful song on auspicious occasions. As I held on to my G note for dear life yesterday, I was steadied knowing that I would soon sit in the same spot and repeat the words of another woman’s song of praise.
As a woman in ministry, I find great strength in being part of a long line of women of faith. I love the legacy of the Magnificat, the song passed down through generations of women which colorfully and powerfully describes what God is doing in the world. I love the special way that women of faith have proclaimed the Gospel in scripture and in history. And today, I’d like to celebrate the embodiment of that record of faith: Mary the mother of Jesus.
Most of you have heard me preach about the Magnificat before. You’ve heard my spiel about the opening of the song in Luke’s Gospel. Chapter 1, verse 46 begins, “And Mary said.” When I hear those words or read them on the page, I get goose bumps and want to settle in to a comfy chair and let her song cover me up like a warm blanket. I get a sensation like the one I get when the doorbell rings and I know that the friend I’ve been waiting to see has finally arrived. A sensation like cresting the final hill on a long journey and catching the first glimpse of the familiar landscape that tells me I’m almost home. When I hear or read those words, I know that a deep and beautiful truth about God is about to pour out of Mary’s mouth and leap off the page, a truth that embodies everything I know and love about my Savior.
In the original Greek, the phrase “and Mary said,” is “Καὶ εἶπεν Μαριάμ.” It is followed immediately by the beginning of her song. Most of the time, when the words Καὶ εἶπεν (he or she said) appear in the New Testament, they’re followed by the word αὐτοῖς - “to them.” Think of how many times Jesus speaks to his disciples or to a crowd. But when Mary begins her song, no listener, no indirect object of any kind is named. Grammatically, this is one of the only instances in the entire New Testament that a quote is recorded this way.
The result is like a pause in the narrative. The rest of the stage goes black and a spotlight appears on Mary as she sings. Her audience is not Elizabeth, and not even us, but everyone and no one at the same time. Her words are relevant to the subject at hand, but when the context is stripped away, they mean something much larger. Mary’s song contains the truth of her personal experience, and a cosmic truth about the whole universe.
This is true for all the women of scripture who sing to us. From Mary who is about to give birth to the Messiah, to Hannah, who received the gift of a child and in her joy gave that gift right back to God, to Deborah, who gives glory to God for every earthly victory, to Miriam, who in the utter chaos of the Exodus from Egypt, remembered to pack her tambourine so that if she made it out alive, God might be praised with singing. These women tell their own stories, and they tell the story.
Recently, several of the female clergy in this diocese gathered for a retreat where we studied and prayed with Mary and Elizabeth. We marveled at the fact that these women held within their own bodies a single child and the entirety of salvation. These women embody both the intimate closeness and the mighty abundance of God. And this abundance cannot be contained, it must flow out of the women, again and again throughout history, in magnificent song, which is one of the most beautiful facets of our faith. With this in mind, how can I worry about missing a note or two or having a little scratchiness in my chant? What do such imperfections matter when I am taking my turn as a carrier of the song with all these incredible women at my side?
One of my favorite Advent tweets, which is becoming an oldie but a goodie, comes from a Duke Divinity student who said that “every discussion of ‘biblical womanhood’ should include the fact that in Luke I, two pregnant women celebrate their new motherhood by passionately discussing the coming overthrow of every earthly empire.” For me, this is what Advent is all about. We gather together to celebrate the coming Incarnation, the intimate nearness of God as it grows ever closer to us, to our very bodies. And we gather together to anticipate, in worship and in song the mighty abundance of God which pours out of all the women of the world and will one day cover the entire earth.
Each of us, people of every gender and of no gender, can carry the song. We all hold within us the particularity and the vastness of God, and we can all share it with the world in our own special way - perhaps through literal song, though for some of us, perhaps there are other, less nerve-wracking ways. I hope you find your song this Advent, and lift your voice in chorus with all the fabulous women of scripture and the whole cloud of witnesses in proclaiming the coming of the Lord. Amen.