Have you seen Leonardo Da Vinci’s stunning
depiction of this most pivotal conversation in all
of scripture? Mary sits outdoors, one hand turning
the page of her book, the other lifted toward the
messenger, Gabriel. Is she greeting this strange
visitor and his announcement? Or, is she protesting?
“Wait. Halt. Stop. None of this makes any sense.”
Meanwhile, Gabriel kneels before her, birdlike wings
at rest after the long flight from the high heavenly
places. His head is slightly bowed. His eyes are
lifted. And beyond them, a contrast of light and
shadow, the humble majesty of a God whose glory
needs no temple.
The angel, with all of creation, waits for Mary’s
answer. It is a picture of wonder. All of human
history—salvation, redemption—hinges on the
response of one young woman.
Mary gives us a song. A joyful noise. Those who find
courage sing, and those who sing find courage to
endure. Come what may.
Picture the scene: two women, both unexpectedly
pregnant, meet in the hill country of Judea. Elizabeth
is old—long past childbearing. Mary is young—
unmarried, vulnerable, at risk. Mary walks through
the door. The baby in Elizabeth’s womb leaps with
joy before language, recognition before sight.
Elizabeth speaks on her son’s behalf, “Blessed are
you among women!”
And then Mary opens her mouth. She does not offer
an explanation or a protest. She doesn’t question
or calculate the risks. Mary sings. And her song is
defiance in a world stacked against her and countless
others like her.
Mary, this peasant girl from Nazareth, will soon bear a
baby into a cruel reality. The truth is, she has nothing.
No resources. No protection. No plan. Herod sits
secure on the throne. Rome’s boot presses down. And
Mary? Mary sings: My soul magnifies the Lord, and my
spirit rejoices in God my Savior.
She sings of a God who scatters the proud and
brings down the powerful. A God who fills the
hungry and sends the rich away empty. This is no
birth announcement. It is the revelation of a new
kingdom. Every tyrant should tremble at the news. A
new day is dawning.
Mary sings for parents who fear the future. Mary
sings for children who dread the coming of the night.
Mary sings for every person told their life does not
matter. The Magnificat is their song.
But listen—none of it has happened yet. Mary sings
the future into being. As she sings, the proud are
not scattered. They are centered. The hungry, still
hungry. The poor crushed beneath the weight.
The powerful see no end of their authority in sight.
Nothing has changed.
Everything has changed. Because Mary’s song bends
time. She thanks God for doing what has not yet
come to pass. She rejoices ahead of schedule. Call it
preemptive joy.
Happiness waits for the tide to turn and the
circumstances to change. But joy does not delay. Joy
is defiant. Joy stares down the broken brutality of the
world and refuses to let it have the final word.
Preemptive joy goes further still. Preemptive joy
starts the victory song while the battle still rages on.
Mary doesn’t just feel this joy. She sings it. Because
joy that stays inside eventually suffocates. Joy needs
breath, needs sound, needs melody. So of course
she sings.
If God is with her, who can stand against her? Hers
has always been the story of the faithful. Mary’s words
echo her ancestor Hannah’s ancient song of praise
for her son, Samuel: My heart exults in the Lord; my
strength is exalted in my God.
And now Mary, centuries later, adds her verse to the
unending hymn of people crushed but not defeated.
Her joy is patient. It is persistent. It is undaunted. It is
the tenacious joy of those who trust that empires will
rise and fall, but the grace of God is relentless. God’s
power is eternal.
And you know what? I’ve witnessed this kind of
joy—not the polite happiness of the holidays, but
the defiant, resonant kind of joy. The kind of joy that
points to what is true. I’ve witnessed it.
It happens after funerals. The family has walked
through the valley of death’s shadow. The service has
ended. We gather, and at first, there is this hushed
reverence. Grief hangs in the room, as thick as fog.
People hold their plates and their coffee mugs and
speak in whispers. But then, out of nowhere, a laugh.
Someone remembers a story, a cherished moment
spent together, a terrible joke he used to tell. Laughter
spreads like light.
Earlier this year, in the spring, I watched a widow
laugh until tears streamed down her face. It was this
joyful noise of grief and gratitude so tangled together,
they were impossible to separate. And when she
caught my eye, she wiped her cheek and said out
loud, “He would have loved this.”
Joy—uninvited, irrepressible, unashamed. Joy.
Last week, members of our church staff traveled
across the city to sing Christmas carols. My group
visited two men in a memory care unit in Carmel.
Their rooms happen to be next to each other. One was
wheeled into the room of the other so they could sit
together. As we sang, I saw their lips moving. They
were mouthing the words of familiar Christmas carols.
Memory is fading, but the rhythm remains. When we
finished, they whispered their thanks. By evening, our
visit would be gone from their minds, but we made a
joyful noise anyway. And it mattered.
Somewhere tonight, not far from here, a mother will
rock her child in a cold room. A draft blows under the
door. She has no resources, no plan, no answers for
the morning. And yet, she hums a lullaby against the
cold, pressing her cheek against the baby’s head to
let the vibration of the tune settle the child’s fear. And
that song will carry more warmth than temperature.
It’s all she has. And so she sings.
Singing is how the faithful endure. They do not sing
because the night is over. They sing to push back the
darkness. They sing of a promise so certain, it has
already been kept. Mary’s song belongs to them. And
to us.
Because God can do it again. God is still composing.
Crisis and cruelty grip our collective conscience. Grief
multiplies; the vulnerable vanish; the powerful yawn.
But today, we add our verse. We make a joyful noise.
It’s how we fight back, hold fast, keep faith.
Back to that scene: all creation waiting in wonder
for Mary’s answer. She opens her mouth, and in her
song, the future is rewritten. To sing of what God has
done is to announce what God will do. Yes, the world
is still weary. The powerful cling to their thrones. The
hungry wait. Creation itself groans. And the Church
keeps on singing.
Let the powerful call it foolish. Let the cynics say
nothing can change. After all, Mary sang when
nothing had changed. We sing because she did.
We sing because joy is the only language tyranny
cannot control.
We sing ahead of the rescue. We sing the future into
being. Add your verse to the unfinished hymn. This is
how the faithful endure. This is how empires fall. This
is how God comes.
Magnify the Lord. Make your joyful noise. Let every
tyrant tremble. Let every heart prepare him room.
Amen.