Fourth Monday of Advent: From Puzzles to Praise
And Mary said,
“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour,
for he has looked with favour on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.”
—Luke 1:46-49
I like puzzles.
When I first started making trips from my home to my undergraduate institution, I quickly learned that I would need to find ways to keep myself awake. Ideally, these tactics wouldn’t require caffeine or sugar. Also, these were the days before podcasts and audiobooks. So I came up with another idea.
Math puzzles.
Eventually, I landed on balancing simple arithmetic equations in my mind’s eye to keep it busy until I reached my destination. As I drove, I would calculate how long it would take me to travel various distances at different speeds. It was complex enough to keep my mind engaged, but simple enough that I could remove the key from my car’s ignition with a result in-hand. (I’m terribly fun at parties, I swear!)
I like puzzles, except in this one case. I like puzzles—except when it comes to God.
My natural inclination is toward a god who is comprehensible. If I’m feeling brave and honest, I prefer this kind of god, because this kind of god is predictable.
But as Mr. Beaver describes Aslan in the Chronicles of Narnia, God is not a god of our own making: “Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you.”
This is a God whose mercy sometimes undoes me. For example, I like the God whose comfort comes near in the midst of suffering. And I would never wish to navigate the unexpected death of a parent again. It was terrible.
I like the God whose character is to always have mercy. And when God’s love for me calls me to holiness and to love my enemy through self-sacrifice, I want to walk away.
I’m moved to tears at testimonies of repentance and forgiveness. And I can scarcely admit when I’ve wronged my wife, even in my apologies.
I like puzzles. But these kinds of puzzles scare me.
Each time the Advent season rolls around, I wonder what Mary, the mother of our Lord, thought about her vocation. When the angel appeared to her and described to her the forthcoming divine redemptive plan, we’re left to contrast her response to her cousin Zechariah’s response.
Zechariah searches for answers amidst a plan that doesn’t make sense; Mary’s heart leaps with joy from within. “How can I know this?” Zechariah exclaims. “My soul magnifies the Lord,” Mary resolves. So what’s the difference?
Faith.
In the face of paradox, Zechariah can’t move beyond the mystery; Mary understands that God holds the mystery in the palm of his hands.
Zechariah, “startled and overcome with fear,” cannot imagine a way forward. Mary cannot fathom what God’s revelation means—”How can this be, since I am a virgin?” she wonders—but she is delighted to be an instrument of peace for the weeping and warring world.
I think Mary shows us the way.
My soul magnifies the Lord… Mary is moved to praise.
...and my soul rejoices in God my Savior… Mary knows that the presence of God transcends the mystery.
...for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed… Mary understands and receives the unmerited favor of God in this moment.
...for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. The personal approach of God in Christ, the child in her womb, has blessed her and will bless the world through her.
May it be so this Advent season.
Perhaps we will pray for the hope and trust to believe that the paradox does not present a problem for God, that it is instead an invitation to know that God is bigger than the mystery.
May it be so even if we never fully comprehend the riches of the mystery of the incarnate God in Christ. And may we rejoice that Christ has come into the world to shine in the darkness and the shadow of death to guide our feet into the way of peace.
May it be so when the puzzles become more than mental fidget toys, when they gnaw at our brains into the wee hours of the morning or twist the knife of life circumstances further into our backs. When the very real sufferings of life—the loss of loved ones, the impossibility of making ends meet, the shattering news—impinge on our joyful hope, may the God of all peace draw near to us, however unlikely that possibility seems.
And may we receive the unlikely blessing of God-come-near-in-Christ with the same hopeful response as Mother Mary: “my soul magnifies the Lord.”
May it be so.
—Michael Swanson serves the CCO as Director of Staff Development.
“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour,
for he has looked with favour on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.”
—Luke 1:46-49
I like puzzles.
When I first started making trips from my home to my undergraduate institution, I quickly learned that I would need to find ways to keep myself awake. Ideally, these tactics wouldn’t require caffeine or sugar. Also, these were the days before podcasts and audiobooks. So I came up with another idea.
Math puzzles.
Eventually, I landed on balancing simple arithmetic equations in my mind’s eye to keep it busy until I reached my destination. As I drove, I would calculate how long it would take me to travel various distances at different speeds. It was complex enough to keep my mind engaged, but simple enough that I could remove the key from my car’s ignition with a result in-hand. (I’m terribly fun at parties, I swear!)
I like puzzles, except in this one case. I like puzzles—except when it comes to God.
My natural inclination is toward a god who is comprehensible. If I’m feeling brave and honest, I prefer this kind of god, because this kind of god is predictable.
But as Mr. Beaver describes Aslan in the Chronicles of Narnia, God is not a god of our own making: “Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you.”
This is a God whose mercy sometimes undoes me. For example, I like the God whose comfort comes near in the midst of suffering. And I would never wish to navigate the unexpected death of a parent again. It was terrible.
I like the God whose character is to always have mercy. And when God’s love for me calls me to holiness and to love my enemy through self-sacrifice, I want to walk away.
I’m moved to tears at testimonies of repentance and forgiveness. And I can scarcely admit when I’ve wronged my wife, even in my apologies.
I like puzzles. But these kinds of puzzles scare me.
Each time the Advent season rolls around, I wonder what Mary, the mother of our Lord, thought about her vocation. When the angel appeared to her and described to her the forthcoming divine redemptive plan, we’re left to contrast her response to her cousin Zechariah’s response.
Zechariah searches for answers amidst a plan that doesn’t make sense; Mary’s heart leaps with joy from within. “How can I know this?” Zechariah exclaims. “My soul magnifies the Lord,” Mary resolves. So what’s the difference?
Faith.
In the face of paradox, Zechariah can’t move beyond the mystery; Mary understands that God holds the mystery in the palm of his hands.
Zechariah, “startled and overcome with fear,” cannot imagine a way forward. Mary cannot fathom what God’s revelation means—”How can this be, since I am a virgin?” she wonders—but she is delighted to be an instrument of peace for the weeping and warring world.
I think Mary shows us the way.
My soul magnifies the Lord… Mary is moved to praise.
...and my soul rejoices in God my Savior… Mary knows that the presence of God transcends the mystery.
...for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed… Mary understands and receives the unmerited favor of God in this moment.
...for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. The personal approach of God in Christ, the child in her womb, has blessed her and will bless the world through her.
May it be so this Advent season.
Perhaps we will pray for the hope and trust to believe that the paradox does not present a problem for God, that it is instead an invitation to know that God is bigger than the mystery.
May it be so even if we never fully comprehend the riches of the mystery of the incarnate God in Christ. And may we rejoice that Christ has come into the world to shine in the darkness and the shadow of death to guide our feet into the way of peace.
May it be so when the puzzles become more than mental fidget toys, when they gnaw at our brains into the wee hours of the morning or twist the knife of life circumstances further into our backs. When the very real sufferings of life—the loss of loved ones, the impossibility of making ends meet, the shattering news—impinge on our joyful hope, may the God of all peace draw near to us, however unlikely that possibility seems.
And may we receive the unlikely blessing of God-come-near-in-Christ with the same hopeful response as Mother Mary: “my soul magnifies the Lord.”
May it be so.
—Michael Swanson serves the CCO as Director of Staff Development.