The Treasures of May

Luke 1.26.38

The Rev. Dr. Fred G. Garry

November 26, 2023

In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. And he came to her and said, ‘Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.’ But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. The angel said to her, ‘Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.’ Mary said to the angel, ‘How can this be, since I am a virgin?’ The angel said to her, ‘The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God. And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. For nothing will be impossible with God.’ Then Mary said, ‘Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.’ Then the angel departed from her.

I don't remember her name.  She came out of nowhere.  A misguided missel of good intent.  "You're new," she said.  "I don't know you." 

In the narthex as the Sunday service let out, I stood out with great awkwardness. "Why are you here?"  This was New York Avenue Presbyterian Church.  We were visiting our daughter in DC. I did what tend to do.  I took off. I took off and went to church.  As everyone slept, I went off to find Lincoln's pew.  I wanted to see Lincoln's pew at New York Avenue Presbyterian Church where he prayed and sang. I wanted to see it in action on a Sunday morning.

But my path was not smooth.  I got lost.  The subway broke down and I arrived just as the service ended.  Lingering in the narthex, for some reason I felt like an intruder, an imposter. And then, she found me.

“Why are you here,” she asked as if she knew why people who linger in the narthex have a reason.  "I wanted to see Lincoln's pew." 

"Come with me," she said.  We walked down the aisle as everyone walked the other way.  We shuffled past the departing and came to the second pew in the middle.  "Here it is," she said.  "Do you want to sit in Lincoln's pew?" 

Do I want to sit in Lincoln's pew?  Yes.  Yes.  I do.  But how can I?  "Here it is; sit down."  And I did.  I sat in Lincoln's pew.

“There's an organ concert just about to start.  You should stay she declared.  Sit right here and enjoy.”

I went from feeling wrong and late and intrusive to being the honored guest.  "Sit right here and enjoy."  Sit down in Lincoln's pew in New York Avenue Presbyterian Church where you are worthy even if you are late.

I sat down.  I got comfortable.  And then a voice came from the pew behind me.  "She did this to me.  She brought me to this pew twenty years ago.  Right there.  And here I am twenty years later.  Watch out.  Be careful. You might just stay."

I stayed until the organ concert was done.  Just about to leave she arrived again.  "Do you want to see the emancipation proclamation?" she asked.  Do I want to see the emancipation proclamation?  Yes, I do.  And just as she did with Lincoln's pew she said, “Come with me.” 

I got up and followed her to the basement where the church keeps a "Parlor."  In the parlor, encased in glass is a handwritten draft of the emancipation proclamation, the paper unleashing souls, breaking chains, ending misery's first act.  As I started to weep, she said, "you stay here as long as you need and look around." With that she walked away.

The woman I met that day was not part of Malcom Gladwell's book, The Tipping Point, but she could easily be a chapter all her own.  Gladwell wrote about people like her; he calls them sticky.  Sticky people, like the woman at New York Avenue, are gadflies but more than gadflies.  They are what some call a people person, or an extrovert.  But there is something more; there is a sense of trust, a feeling that is hard to define, an ability to put you at ease.  It is as if you are a treasure. It's not a show; it's not phony. 

Gladwell navigated this feeling by using the example of Paul Revere.  Revere was a sticky person.  A noted silversmith, but also a person noted for being genuine and a great conversationalist.  Revere is remembered in history and literature for his midnight ride, where he brought the famous message, "the British are coming; the British are coming."  This was not just an announcement.  It was a call to arms.  As Revere rode from village to village outside of Boston he rousted families from their sleep and called them to leave their homes with muskets in hand.  And people did. 

This might sound obvious.  His message was anticipated.  But what is not always remembered was the other rider.  Revere went North with his message; a physician rode south.  The doctor who rode south had the same message; he too woke up villages and called them to arms.  Only no one came out; no one left their homes or came to fight.  Same message, same delivery: one had dramatic success, the other dramatic failure.  It turns out that the message was only believed coming from a messenger people trusted, trusted a lot.

Leaving New York Avenue Presbyterian Church I remember thinking, I would follow that woman; I would sign up if she asked; I might even believe this house of God was for me too.  That's the power of a sticky person.  If they call, you answer, if they ask, you give.  They have a graciousness that lets you feel accepted.

The first time I preached through the Gospel of Luke I was surprised by what happened to me with the stories of Mary.  The dozen pieces, pericopes, that precede the gospel account of Jesus changed me, challenged me.  The birth of John the Baptist and the birth of Jesus, the visit with Elizabeth, the Magnificat, the naming of Jesus in the temple, the return to Nazareth and then the last piece, the return to Jerusalem: this set of stories pushed me to reimagine what it means to be faithful. 

The best way I can describe this is that Mary's stories, her treasures, are a kind of gracious welcome, a way of being introduced to Jesus where you are made ready to follow, to listen and trust.  And the change: I was ready to trust, I was won over by the kindness and welcome of Mary.

There are a couple of legends about these stories of Mary; the legends are almost as lovely as the pieces in our bible.  The first legend is that Mary grew up in the temple as a virgin attendant.  She grew up in the temple and it was said that angels came to her quite often.  Like the Black Crows song: She talks to angels.  Hence, her concern over the greeting of the angel is unique.  Angelic visits tend to begin with angels saying, don't be afraid.  Mary is not bothered by the angel; she is bothered by what the angel said, calling her blessed.  She seems okay with an angelic visit otherwise.

The other legend is that after Jesus dies and is resurrected Mary and the Apostle John took off and went to Ephesus, lived there.  It is said that Paul and Luke passed through Ephesus but didn't stay.  The legend is that the stories Luke tells, and only Luke, the stories he puts at the beginning of his gospel were the stories Mary told him in Ephesus.  It is as if Luke's gospel has a pre-gospel, the account of Mary given to him at Ephesus.

If you read these stories, the first dozen stories of Luke, if you read them as Mary's treasures, it makes a lot of sense.  It gives them a purpose. Their purpose is to bring us to Jesus, call us to trust we can leave the darkness of fear.

Given how beloved these stories are, it may sound strange to consider them as unnecessary.  But Matthew, Mark, and John wrote their gospels without the stories of Mary.  Only Luke records them and even more, gives them a place of importance.  He will introduce the themes of his gospel with them.  Women, the poor, and the outcasts. 

All the gospels include stories of Mary, but they are not sweet nor the stuff of Christmas carols.  And if the truth be told, the stories of Jesus' birth have been so bathed in candlelight and wrapped in garland, we can miss their edge, miss the challenging words, the courage of Mary, how she alone seems to rise to the occasion of God's plan.  We are so used to Mary in art and statue, her tenderness and beauty, we can forget she is not a repining maid.

After the shepherds leave Mary, Luke says, "she treasured their words in her heart.  And then, in the end of her stories, when Jesus remains in Jerusalem as a young boy and causes them great pain, Luke records again that Mary treasured the words people spoke of her son. Given how much Mary has been used and abused through the centuries, I am mindful that what I am going to say needs a level of delicacy.  Luke uses not only the stories of Mary he also uses her as an example.  She is not only the mother of Jesus she is also an example to follow, a path to walk.

As Mary will treasure these stories, the life and teachings of Jesus, so should we treasure them, hold them as dear to us.

In August, the elders and deacons gathered to discuss our vision and our mission as a church.  Over the course of a Saturday, we asked the questions of where we believe God is leading this congregation and what we will be called to do.  The new statements will be published soon as they were reviewed and revised since their first draft in August.  At the heart of the new vision and mission statements is a risk, a level of change that is bold and will not come easily.

The change is this: we are a welcoming church; can we be an embracing church?  The elders and deacons began the process of discerning, if we can welcome all, can we treat all as beloved?

This was the question posed by Miroslav Volf thirty years ago.  What does it mean to go beyond inclusion?  Is the kingdom of God truly seen and heard in tolerance and acceptance?  Are these the limit of our love and fellowship or are we called to see one another as beloved; are we capable of leaving the safety of inclusion for the much more daunting notion of embracing those we see as other?

I say this is a daunting question because I have seen this struggle firsthand.  And so have you.  It is one thing for us to tolerate opposing views; it is quite another to love someone who believes you are wrong, hates what you hold dear, and treats you with disdain.  It is one thing to have a rainbow sticker on the marque; it is another to walk in a pride parade.  Embrace is not hard until it is.

The most daunting part of the new vision and mission of embracing is it requires that we not only get to know each other in a way that is honest and authentic, but then we also resist the temptation to withdraw, to retreat to tolerance and inclusion.

The different responses to the message of the midnight ride are helpful.  We can adopt the new vision and mission, but if we don't embody it, if we simply allow the message to be true as words and not something we treasure in our heart, then it will not lead us to acts of courage, the kind of courage necessary for profound change.

I loved sitting in Lincoln's pew and seeing a draft of the emancipation proclamation written in Lincoln's hand.  Yet, what I will never forget about that day was the woman who greeted me, questioned me, brought me in.  I was more than welcomed, I was embraced.  The stranger, the unknown person just there for an hour: I was treasured.

The legends about Mary are great.  They are almost as great as her stories.  But what is greater is how they save us, change us, if we read these stories as an example—how to give our faith away, to treasure the least, how go beyond welcome to embrace.  These stories lead us to Jesus.  But they also show us how to live our faith, give our faith away. Amen.