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And Mary said:
“My soul glorifies the Lord
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has been mindful
of the humble state of his servant.
From now on all generations will call me blessed,
for the Mighty One has done great things for me—
holy is his name.
His mercy extends to those who fear him,
from generation to generation.
He has performed mighty deeds with his arm;
he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts.
He has brought down rulers from their thrones
but has lifted up the humble.
He has filled the hungry with good things
but has sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel,
remembering to be merciful
to Abraham and his descendants forever,
even as he said to our fathers.”
When you get past the slightly Lord of the Rings feeling of a perfectly sane character suddenly bursting into song, Mary’s Magnificat is an amazing poem of worship to Yahweh, recognising his covenent faithfullness and his commitment to step into history and begin the work of putting the world to rights again, a promise that is celebrated by the song’s inclusion in Vespers in the Western Church and in the Morning Office in the Eastern Church. It is the song of a God who, rather than coming to earth as perhaps the all-too popular superman Jesus, come from no-where, doing the cross thing and disappearing again, chooses to come instead in vulnerability and brokenness and fragility. A God who comes not through a safe, Kingly inheritence but instead through the willing partnership of a frightened teenaged girl. Not in safety and security but in risk and danger. It is the song of a God who does not work at the expense of humans to put the world back together, but instead works together in partnership with humans, encouraging us to see the powerful and world changing at work in the most humble and broken of our society and our communities.
In the Magnificat, there is the weaving together of various streams of Hebrew consciousness from the Old Testament – the close parallels to the Song of Hannah (1 Samuel 2), the various times in the Old Testament where Yahweh has stepped into history and brought about something new. At the same time, the poem also considers the contemporary plight of the Jewish people and speaks of the way in which the faithfulness of Yahweh in Old Testament history has continued down into the present and is now good news to the lowly and the hungry in 1st Century Palestine – and for us in 21st Century Scotland/England. The song is therefore an exegesis of God’s role in salvation history and a prophetic speaking of into the present context with hopes for a future which is characteristed by justice and mercy that is seen not only in an expression of faith and righteousness in remembering the promises made to Abraham, but is also seen in a transformation and renewal of the world and the way in which the world is ordered.
Therefore, as well as being a great hymn of worship to the faithfulness of God in history, it is also a profound call to mission and to action. As we see in the Magnificat a God who is committed to transforming the world around him and bringing in the societal changes and peace so long expected in so many prophecies in the Old Testament, in brings the missional call to join in with the living and active God and to live out lives that bring about God’s change in the places and situations where he is already working.
Ok, so after chaos has descended and passed, there is the calm after the storm. This is what this moment is. St Andrews Unwrapped, which two weeks ago today was still only the gem of an idea, took place on Friday night. We had four amazing bands, so much cakes and burgers you would not believe – and a great atmosphere. Perhaps best of all, we raised £193 for Oxfam Unwrapped.
A huge thank you to all who took part, in whatever capacity. You are the best 
In other news, one of the highlights of my semester was John Bell’s visit to St Salvator’s chapel today – he was typically John Bell-ish (I don’t think many other preachers talk about Prince Charming smoking a spliff from the pulpit) and made some really good points about John the Baptist. As ever, he was very challenging and reflective, and I hope he comes back sometime in the near future.
Less than a week to go now!
Time is short in the busyness of life. As I write this, there are several other things I probably should be doing: learning Russian vocabulary, doing some more on the seemingly endless list of preparations for St Andrews Unwrapped, getting to grips with German grammar. And above all, I definitely should be sleeping. It doesn’t make sense for me to be sitting writing a blog. Yet perhaps that is partly what Advent is about. It doesn’t seem to make sense. In the middle of a chaotic and busy time leading up to Christmas, we have this time set apart to be still and reflect. To imagine and explore. An invitation to step outside the busyness and routine of ‘what is’ – and to instead see what could be. It’s a time to take the still, deep breaths of dangerous contemplation and learn to see the world anew – not as it seems to us but as God sees it: pregnant with hope and expectation and possibility.
We seem to have a general recognition that the world is not how it could or should be. Maybe this recognition has grown slightly over the last few years with the rise of mass terrorism, with the fears about economic or climatic turmoil and with a growing uncertainty about the future. Far from being a simple mental categorisation, evil seems to be something we can put pictures to – the genocide in Darfur. The subjugation and dehumanising treatement of one people group by another in so many parts of the world. The fractions and frictions that are in our smaller communities and relationships. The way we live out of balance with the world around us, exploiting its resources and failing to care for what we have been given. All these things seem to point to a feeling that the world – including, if we’re honest, our own lives much of the time – are not as they should be. It’s an awareness of the brokenness of the world.
Yet at the same time, there are also glimpses of hope – in the community that refuses to be split along ethnic lines. In the enemies who refuse to continue fighting along the same old lines but begin to seek some form of peace and reconciliation. In the ever growing number of communities who choose consciously to try and live a sustainable and ethical lifestyle.
Such things seem to resonate with us not just because they are miracles by themselves, but because they seem to point beyond themselves towards something bigger. Better. It’s as if in the pain, the brokenness of the world does not always have the last say.
This seems to be a good context in which to begin to approach the gospel. Far from being the safe, sanitised guide to getting individually saved that we so often seem to make it, the gospel seems to be something which steps into the awareness of the duality of the brokenness and the beauty of the world, offering a dangerous, subversive hope that it will be beauty that wins in the end.
Paul in his letter to the Romans talks the gospel as Jesus being Lord. Jesus himself talks about the Kingdom of God being very near. There is this sense that in Jesus, the Creator God is stepping into a fragile and broken world to do something new. Something beautiful. Maybe that’s what we all feel stir deep inside when we are captivated by something kind or beautiful or just. It’s the taste of Creation being healed.
The wonder and the senselessness of Advent is found in taking time to stop and see this happening here and now. One of the most poignant Advent Bible passages for me comes from one of the Psalms, Psalm 85, where the Psalmist pictures salvation as being a project involving both heaven and earth, with the earth responding to what God has already done. The poet paints a picture where “steadfast love and faithfulness will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss each other”.
Perhaps this is what we see each time everyone someone refuses to accept the injustice and brokenness of the status quo.
Each time someone becomes frustrated with shallow relationships but instead tries to live in a way that invites depth and vulnerability and sacrifice.
Each time some refuses to accept the charicature of a people group but choses the fragileness and unpredictability of love.
Each time someone in a conflict situation refuses to believe that it has to always be this way – but instead has the hope that a new and different future is possible.
In these situations and countless more besides, we see the glimpses not only of a future beauty and a healed creation but of the topsy turvy nature of God’s Kingdom here and now. A Kingdom that Jesus talks about in the Beatitudes, where all the loosers, the nobodies, the not-good-enoughs are welcome and valued and accepted. A kingdom which seems to welcome everyone – those working hard for peace and justice. Those who are facing hard times, for who every new day is a struggle. Those who feel amazing one day – and totally rubbish the next. Those who go from day to day bearing the strain of the pain of a loved one.
All these people Jesus puts in God’s Kingdom
Accepted. Love. Valued.
Not because of any merit of popularity or wealth or attractiveness but because of God stepping into the world in a self-giving, totally sacrificial way in order to allow the healing and possibility of what could be to flow into the present, to subvert it, to heal it and to spread the hope of final and complete healing because of the mystery of the Cross.
God’s Kingdom. The gospel. Good News. That is what seems to be at the heart of the Advent story.
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