Obscure, vulnerable, enmeshed in the tragic history of my people-I may be all of those things, but God is disclosed in them, not despite them, and God has chosen to take part in this world through me. The soul that belongs to this body in all its frailty and in all its fecundity-this is a place where God is revealed. Yes, Mary says, yes, my soul, my very self magnifies the inexpressible holy name of God. Like any hope-song, there is defiance here, along with the joy and the fear. Regardless, she sings, and it is indeed hope in a weary throat, reverberating into eternity: “My soul magnifies the Lord.”
We might wonder: did Mary sing to herself on the dusty road to the hill country? Was it a song that her own parents once taught her that she practiced on parched lips? Or did she call it up from somewhere deeper within, from the Spirit-infused cells of her very depths, determined to give voice to what was true, even when her life seemed to be caught in uncertainty? She is a young woman walking uphill in every sense of the word, seeking the comfort of a familiar face when everything else has suddenly become so very unfamiliar.
Remember that there is a fearful precariousness to her position. Don’t be fooled by the prophetic boldness of the words alone. Forget for a moment the lush choral arrangements of the Magnificat. It is the song one offers up when the song is all that’s left to offer.Ĭonsider this music, then, as we travel with Mary to Elizabeth’s house. The hope-song is not elegant, but it is faithful. It is the warbling note that has no obvious splendor other than its defiant insistence to be heard. It is the song one sings under the breath, an insistent memory, perhaps, or a reassurance on the lonely walk home. Hope is the song of empty karaoke bars, of late nights and of last dances, of a husky voice crying out a melody to defy the encroaching night. We are too easily distracted by the proud aria or the ironic riff to listen for the soft, tremulous music that hope makes. It’s easy to miss sometimes, the hope-song, because it doesn’t always sound the way we might expect. Pauli Murray once wrote that “hope is a song in a weary throat,” and amid this hopeful season, amid this weary age, we would do well to consider what such a song sounds like. I wrote this sermon as a part of The Episcopal Church’s “Sermons that Work” 2021 Advent & Christmas Series.
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