Mary's Song: Advent 4

 

Micah 5.2-5a, Luke 1.39-45, Canticle Luke 1 46b-55

 

When Philip and I went to Israel a couple of years ago, one of the most atmospheric places we visited was the ancient town of Sepphoris, about 4 miles from Nazareth. It’s not mentioned by name in the New Testament, but some ancient traditions say that it was the birthplace of Mary – and who knows, maybe it was.

 

Sepphoris was inhabited until the Arab/Israeli conflicts of 1948, when it was a focus of bitter fighting, and its predominantly Arab population was evicted, after which it was excavated – it is now just an archaeological site. But that was just the latest in a long line of troubles. And one of the worst time had been under the Roman occupation of Israel, around the time of Jesus’ birth.

 

Shortly after King Herod died in 4 BC, a Jewish rebel leader called Judas, the son of a local bandit, had seized Sepphoris and incited its people to revolt. The Romans came down hard on Sepphoris, and, of course, the rebel forces were no match for theirs. According to ancient historians they burned the city to the ground, and killed many of its inhabitants.

 

Rather than leaving the town a ruin, though, Herod’s son, the new ruler of the area, decided to rebuild Sepphoris, to be what he called “the ornament of Galilee”, a fine Roman-style town, which would remind anyone who saw it who was in charge. Sepphoris became famous for its loyalty to Rome – they never rebelled again. They had learned their lesson the hard way.

 

But rebuilding the town was no mean feat. It took a lot of builders, and where were they to come from, when so many in Sepphoris itself had been killed? They were brought in from neighbouring villages, places like Nazareth, which is just on the next hill. It’s entirely possible that one of those builders was Joseph. We usually think of him as a carpenter, but the Greek word that describes him is teknon, and it just means a builder – the kind of person who could turn their hand to anything. He would almost certainly have taken along any of his sons who were old enough to be any use too, so today, when you place your hands on the ruined walls of Sepphoris today, you just might be touching the work of Joseph, or Jesus himself, a thought which I found rather spine-tingling when I was there.

 

Whether “Joseph and sons” rebuilt Sepphoris, though, they would have known what had happened there, just as we would if a great disaster had fallen on Wrotham, which is about the same distance away from us in Seal. They would have known people directly affected by the rebellion and its aftermath. Perhaps friends or relatives would have been among those killed or made homeless. The slaughter and sacking of Sepphoris would have overshadowed local memory, and the message of power that was being sent out by its rebuilding would have been clear to everyone. Don’t mess with Rome. It won’t end well.

 

It’s against this backdrop that we need to read Luke’s Gospel, and especially the song of Mary, which we heard today. Jesus was born into a world where ordinary people had no security at all, where their voices didn’t count, where their homes and lives could be taken away on a whim, and where they might even be expected to build monuments to their own oppression, which is what this “ornament of Galilee” really was.

 

Mary knew what power looked like in her world, and what happened to those who challenged it. And yet she rejoiced that through her child, God would pull down the powerful from their thrones, lift up the lowly, fill the hungry with good things and send the rich away empty.  She knew the risks. She knew the cost. She knew the price that people paid when they stood up to oppression. And yet she rejoiced, because she also knew God, and she knew that he cared and that he would act, just as he had so many times before – through Moses, through Miriam, through Joshua, through Deborah, through David, through Ruth, through Daniel, through prophets and leaders, brave men and women who had trusted God and had stood up for what was right, even when everything looked as if it was against them. And now he was acting through her, and through the child she carried.

I’ve had two children myself, and remember the joy of knowing that I was carrying a new life, but if I’m honest, it was really just about me and them. It’s very hard, when you are expecting, or are a new parent, to see beyond the tiny baby to the grown adult they will become, to rejoice not just for the immediate joy they bring to what they might one day do for others. But Mary does in her song. In fact, this child will grow up to die on a cross. He won’t be there to support her in her old age. He won’t give her any grandchildren. But she takes joy in what he will do for the rest of the world, the gift he will be for everyone else, as he gives a voice to the voiceless, and stands with those who are marginalised and ill-treated.

 

I’ve noticed that whenever church leaders make any statement about any sort of current affairs, people leap on them and tell them to stay out of  politics and stick to spiritual matters. As the 20^th century Brazilian Bishop, Helder Camara, said, “When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint; when I ask why they are poor, they call me a communist.” It is often far more comfortable to spiritualise and privatise faith, to make it all about individual salvation or personal happiness, but that’s not a faith which Mary would have recognised.

 

That tendency to look inwards often seems especially strong around Christmas. The images we see often focusses on the home, on the nuclear family gathered around a groaning table. It’s about Christmas jumpers and chestnuts roasting on an open fire, about time off and relaxation in the private sanctuary of your own home.

 

There’s nothing wrong with any of those things in themselves, but it’s important to recognise that for Mary, the birth of her son is about on those who have no home, no family, no food, never mind a groaning table. It’s about those who long for rest, but find none, who daily face the grind of oppression. These are the ones who she longs to see lifted up, and knows that to do so will mean that others must be pulled down. The birth of her son is for those forced by the vagaries of politics to make long journeys, as she was, to places where there is no room for them. It is about danger and fear. It’s hard for us to see any cause for rejoicing in that, but Mary realises that into all this mess, the son of God is about to be born, through her. It may seem like a small thing – a tiny baby born to a poor family – but this is the one whose life will change the world, by changing the lives and hearts of those who follow him.

 

And that is why she rejoices.

 

Her words, which are said or sung at every service of Evening Prayer, are explosive in their implications. This is what Christian faith is meant to look like. This is how the followers of Jesus are meant to live, she reminds us.

 

This year, above all years, none of us knows quite what Christmas will look like. We take our lateral flow tests and hope that we won’t see that second red line, with all that might mean for us. We worry about Christmas being spoiled, our best laid plans coming to nothing.

 

But Mary’s song reminds us that it is precisely for times like these that Christ was born, when the love and courage we show one another really matters, when we are called to put others needs before our own. He is the promise of God’s love in the darkness as much as the light. He is the promise of God’s love when things go wrong just as much as when they go right.  And neither invading armies nor invading viruses can take that love away from us, this Christmas or ever.

Amen