“A Blessing”

Second Sunday in Advent

December 3, 2023

Isaiah 40:1-11

Luke 1:24-45

Children’s Message:

This is a prayer shawl. My mom makes lots of prayer shawls—they look much better than mine. Hers are straight and fuzzy and cozy and pretty. She takes hers to a hotel near here because lots of people stay there when their loved ones are in the hospital. It’s a way for her to let people know that they aren’t alone. They aren’t forgotten. Someone has been praying for them, even when she hasn’t met them.

We heard the story about how Mary visited Elizabeth. They were both pregnant with impossible babies—one was too old, and the other too young. And they were both scared and excited. When Elizabeth saw Mary, her baby jumped for joy inside her. That’s when she knew Mary’s baby was somebody extra special. Together, they cared for each other and felt less scared than when they were alone.

How do you let people know that you’re praying for them? Sometimes, one of the kids here colors me a picture during worship. I feel loved and prayed for. Maybe that’s something you can do for someone who is hurting or scared or lonely.

Let’s pray. Dear God, help us bring comfort and joy to those who need it. Amen.

Message:

I’ve spent the last four months in a workshop group learning about leadership and about myself. For two days at a time, fourteen ministry leaders gathered to learn, grow, share stories, and bless each other. This past week was the last session. Our very last activity was a blessing ceremony. We sat around a table filled with fourteen bowls, each one different. As one of us would choose a bowl, the rest would take the bowl around the circle, sharing a blessing we had prepared for that person and placing it in the bowl.

This is my blessing bowl. In it, I heard affirmations of bravery and vulnerability; I received blessings of faith and patience. I felt seen and heard and supported. Within this group, I found mentors who have waded through waters I am only just stepping into. They gave me courage and hope.

This is what stands out to me with Mary’s visit to Elizabeth. At the beginning of today’s reading, we are told that Elizabeth, upon becoming pregnant, hid herself away for five months. We can only guess at why. Perhaps she was afraid of what people would say. Perhaps she was afraid to share too much until she was sure this pregnancy would go full term. All we know is that hidden away, she was sure to be lonely.

In Elizabeth’s sixth month, the angel visits Mary, and she is given the surprise of an unexpected pregnancy, as well. She is told about Elizabeth, so she leaves at once and goes straight to her cousin. She goes straight toward the only person in the world who could possibly understand what she might be feeling and thinking and experiencing. The only person in the world who could truly say, “I know what you’re going through.” I understand your fear and your excitement.

Mary needed to be with someone who could share her fears and her joys. And Elizabeth needed that, too. Joy is contagious. It is rooted in connection.

How many times have you felt alone with your challenges? That is the lie that fear tells us—that no one could possibly understand what we feel, what we’re going through. Whether you’ve just lost a loved one, or you’re clawing your way out of addiction, you’ve lost your job, your child is struggling in school, your parent is losing their memory, you’ve just gotten a scary diagnosis, you are preparing to come out to your friends or family, the pipe in your house burst. You name it. It feels scary, and you feel very alone.

That’s normal. Maybe connecting with others requires too much energy right now. Maybe you’re afraid of what they will say—well-meaning advice that just heaps more shame. But here’s the reality. You are not alone.

Whether you are homebound and feel alone or are surrounded by people who don’t understand what’s going on inside you, you are not alone. You are the very reason God came into this world as one of us. You are the reason God chose to experience loss and grief and suffering and shame and fear. Because the one who understands you the most is going to be the one who has been there—who isn’t afraid to go there again with you and stay with you for as long as it takes to get through it. God chose life and death so that you are not alone.

And God brings the rest of us along as support—hearts and hands and voices and silence ready to lift you up when you can’t stand by yourself. That’s what the church is supposed to be about. We are the body of Christ, walking together as brokenness finds healing—as fear is transformed into love; as grief is transformed into joy. It happens in connection—to each other, to God, to nature, to creation, to the prayers offered in woven yarn and formed clay.

It happens when we find those “who will receive, not reject. Love, not judge. Nourish, not condemn.” When we connect with someone who understands the complexity of our failings and challenges and accepts us without trying to make us better or different. That simple act of acceptance can produce a joy beyond measure.

As Elizabeth felt her baby leap within her when she saw Mary, one commentary suggests that this was possibly the first time she felt her baby move. It was the first time she felt any baby move within her. It was a sign that her little child was alive and well. It was a sign that she could come out of her isolation—that it was safe to share her joy with the world. And with that movement, she offered Mary a blessing. It wasn’t words of advice like new parents often hear: “Oh, everything in your life is going to change!” “You’re definitely going to want an epidural.” “Make sure you breast feed.” “Don’t pick up a crying baby.” Yadda, yadda, yadda.

No, Elizabeth didn’t offer advice. She proclaimed a blessing—a declaration of God’s presence in their midst. “Blessed are you for believing. Blessed are you for saying yes. Blessed are you for being brave. Blessed are you for the joy you have brought me.”

Blessed are you for knowing I needed a friend. Blessed are you for your compassion and support. Blessed are you for not succumbing to fear when others have or would have. Blessed are you for being sanctuary to one who deeply needed that connection.

Debie Thomas shares the following poem on her blog in Journey With Jesus. It’s called “A Blessing Called Sanctuary”[1]

You hardly knew

how hungry you were

to be gathered in,

to receive the welcome

that invited you to enter

entirely—

nothing of you

found foreign or strange,

nothing of your life

that you were asked

to leave behind

or to carry in silence

or in shame.

 Mary and Elizabeth.

Tentative steps

became settling in,

leaning into the blessing

that enfolded you,

taking your place

in the circle

that stunned you

with its unimagined grace.

You began to breathe again,

to move without fear,

to speak with abandon

the words you carried

in your bones,

that echoed in your being.

You learned to sing.

But the deal with this blessing

is that it will not leave you alone,

will not let you linger

in safety,

in stasis.

The time will come

when this blessing

will ask you to leave,

not because it has tired of you

but because it desires for you

to become the sanctuary

that you have found--

to speak your word

into the world,

to tell what you have heard

with your own ears,

seen with your own eyes,

known in your own heart:

that you are beloved,

precious child of God,

beautiful to behold,

and you are welcome

and more than welcome

here.

Pastor Tobi White

Our Saviour’s Lutheran

Lincoln, NE

[1] https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/2034-a-visit-and-a-song