All Creation Waits: Rewilding Advent // Waiting in Love

Sermon Delivered at The Local Church
December 22, 2024 • Advent 4C
Scripture: Luke 1:39–55

One of my favorite things to do this time of year is check the mail. And that's because, when I open the mailbox, I'm met with that day's batch of Christmas cards. I'm so here for it.

I love the matching outfits. I love seeing how the kids have grown. I love marveling at how you managed to get everyone smiling. I love reading about the highlights from your year—the trips you took, the milestones you celebrated, all of it.

Our family—we can't seem to get our act together, so we typically opt for New Year's cards or Epiphany cards—once things have calmed down a bit for me. We're trying to make it a thing. Better late than never.

But I really do love them. They bring me so much joy.

And at the same time… Can we tell the truth? If we're honest, our Christmas cards never tell the whole story, do they? Because while each snapshot that makes its way onto each card does capture a particular beautiful moment in time, what you can't see is how many takes it took to get that perfect shot. The bribes you handed out to make sure everyone matched. The meltdown that came mere moments before. How long it took to get your doggo to look in the camera at the same time as everyone else.

And that's to say nothing of everything else just beyond the frame: the argument you and your partner just had. The tension with the rest of your family as your beliefs diverge. It doesn't show the stress you feel—whether it's about finances or layoffs or aging parents or the future. The immense grief you carry about how this season looks different from the last or the feeling you have that next year's will.

To be sure, there may be elements of each card that are true about that moment in time. But we contain multitudes, and it's rare that our Christmas cards can capture the whole truth.

And yet, the gift of Advent is the space it offers to do just that—to actually tell the truth. And on this fourth Sunday of Advent, just hours removed from the longest night of the year—I'm not sure there's anything we need more. And as we'll see in the story of Elizabeth and Mary, holding that space for truth-telling and vulnerability can give us the strength and courage we need to wait in love for whatever new beginning may be emerging in us and in our world.

Finding our bearings

Today is the fourth and final Sunday in the season of Advent. The word Advent means "coming" or "arrival," and Advent is the season in which we wait not only for the hope of Christmas and the coming of the Christ child, but we also look ahead to the arrival of God's promised day—when every belly full, every heart finds a home, every tear is wiped from every eye, and all is made new.

In this season of Advent, we look around at our world—the world outside and the world within—and realize that all is not as it should be. Advent holds space for us to slow down enough that we might tell the truth and name our deep longing for God to come close to us, to come near, to be made local—and to set the world right.

And despite our compulsion to want to fill this space with more stuff, more activities, or more noise, Advent invites us into the countercultural practice of simply sitting in it. Waiting in it.

To help us learn how to wait this season, we're looking to teachers and guides who have been practicing patience far longer than we have. We're looking to the natural world in a series called All Creation Waits: Rewilding Advent, inspired by the beautiful Advent devotional by Gayle Boss.

This is a series that invites us to step beyond the noise of screens and human constructions and turn instead to the wisdom of the natural world: the trees, the rivers, the wildlife, and the rhythms of creation that take place all around us day by day, season after season. Because if we slow down long enough and pay attention, we discover that there is much to learn, particularly in what it means to wait. The natural world can teach us how to endure the dark, how to trust the slow work of God, and how to prepare well and right and faithfully for all that is to come. In our waiting, we don't wait alone. All Creation Waits.

So far we have waited with hope. We've waited for peace. Last Sunday, we waited on joy. And today, we're wrapping up our Advent series with Elizabeth and Mary, teaching us to wait in love.

Setting the scene

Let's set the scene for the scripture from Luke's gospel. Just beyond this frame of Mary visiting Elizabeth and Mary breaking out into song, we find that Mary has been visited by the angel Gabriel and has received some world-upending news. Gabriel appears to Mary and says, "Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you." And you've got to imagine Mary—this poor teenager from Nazareth, engaged to Joseph—wondering what on earth—or in heaven—is happening. But the angel says, "Do not be afraid, for you have found favor with God. And you will conceive and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus."

And when Mary questions how this can be, how this could happen—the angel responds that it will be the work of the Holy Spirit. And Gabriel continues with this line—which would prove important:

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 for God." (Luke 1:36–37)

And to all of this, according to Luke, Mary simply responds—a response that is not nearly as simple as it sounds—"Let it be with me according to your word." And then the angel departs—leaving Mary alone. Alone with her bewilderment. Alone in her disorientation. Alone, trying to figure out what's next—when her world has been turned on end.

But notice then that her first move is to reach out to the only other person the angel had mentioned—the only other person who might understand: her relative Elizabeth, now six months pregnant, living on the outskirts of town in the Judean hill country.

So Mary gets up and sets out "with haste." If you've ever received a piece of news that feels like too much to hold on your own, you know something about this. Perhaps, miraculously pregnant herself, Elizabeth might share in Mary's confusion and questions and hope. But Kelley Nikondeha, author of The First Advent in Palestine, wonders if there may be more going on. She helps us see what's at stake with even greater clarity:

Did she also hurry because she was scared about her precarious condition? As she made her way into the Judean hills, perhaps she had to push through the prejudice of southerners looking down on her kind. She traveled there despite the added stigma of arriving at the door of a priest's home as a pregnant and unwed woman. It was a small grace that she wasn't showing yet.

And so, having made the 90-mile trek by herself over rough terrain, Mary ultimately shows up at the home of Elizabeth and Zechariah. This is before the days when Mary could've texted to let Elizabeth know she was on her way.

There's a good chance that Mary shows up exhausted. Hungry. With so many questions. She's had a few days to think. To pray. To spiral.

What does this mean for me and Joseph?
What might they be saying about me back home?
Am I ready for this?
Will I survive this?
Will Elizabeth even believe me?

Perhaps these questions echo some of our own.

"Blessed are you..."

But here's what happens when Mary shows up:

When Elizabeth heard Mary's greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit and exclaimed with a loud cry, "Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. (Luke 1:41–42)

When Mary shows up there with all of her questions and fears and vulnerability, when Mary shows up bringing her full self—the self that probably wouldn't appear on a Christmas card, Elizabeth shows up for her.

Notice the first words from Elizabeth's mouth. It's not, "What are you doing here?" It's not, "What have you done?" It's not even, "I didn't know you were coming. Hang tight while I clean the latrine."

Elizabeth's response, instead, is a blessing:

"Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of our womb."

This is not just any blessing. Elizabeth's greeting echoes ancient words spoken about two women from Israel's history and scripture named Jael and Judith, who were famous for playing a part in liberating God's people. Elizabeth's greeting essentially places Mary in this same line as a liberator herself. That's quite a blessing.

This blessing transformed everything for Mary. When she could have faced contempt, she found compassion. When she could have encountered judgment, she received joy. When skepticism seemed certain, she discovered sanctuary. Elizabeth's blessing didn't just comfort Mary—it awakened something in her. It helped return her to herself to see herself as God saw her: not as a scandal, but as a bearer of liberation.

Elizabeth provides a place for Mary to bring her full self—space to process and find her footing. Space for refuge a good distance away from the major political centers of life, where that safety couldn't be guaranteed. Space for Mary to digest her new calling and find physical safety and emotional protection.

Space to find the words that she'd soon sing.

Finding space to be real

But these sorts of spaces can be so rare, can't they? Places where we can show up and bring our whole selves—places where, like Elizabeth offered Mary, we can drop the carefully curated facade and bring our whole, messy, beautiful selves. Even, and especially, the parts that would never make it onto a Christmas card. The parts that reveal our doubts, our struggles, our humanity. Think about it: When was the last time you felt truly safe enough to be completely honest?

When so much of our world is image-driven and performance-based, we have to look the part. Fake it 'til we make it. Shine up our scars and plaster on the smile. We can't show any signs of weakness or else we could lose our jobs, lose our status, lose our standing. The pressure to maintain this perfect image follows us everywhere—in our meetings, in our relationships, even in our places of worship. And so, instead, we take to curating our social media feeds, filtering our photos, and downplaying our defeats and disappointments. We've become experts at the dance of "I'm fine" when we're anything but.

For some of us, we've encountered judgment and rejection before. We know the sting all too well—whether from friends, communities, or our own family. Perhaps it was a confidence betrayed, a vulnerability met with silence, or an authenticity that wasn't welcomed. Those experiences leave scars that make us think twice about opening our hearts again.

For others, safety feels impossible amidst polarization and partisanship, leaving us fearful of being misunderstood, judged, or excluded based on our values and the things we hold dear. We've watched too many relationships fracture over differences of opinion, too many dinner tables grow quiet, and discovered too many conversations we've learned to avoid.

Or it could simply be our frenetic pace of life that prioritizes productivity over relationship. Our calendars overflow while our souls hunger for connection. Who has time for the kind of deep, unhurried connection that makes vulnerability possible when we've built a world that values efficiency over empathy, outcomes over relationships, and quick fixes over the slow, sacred work of truly seeing one another?

I love this line from Parker Palmer:

The human soul doesn't want to be advised or fixed or saved. It simply wants to be witnessed—to be seen, heard and companioned exactly as it is.

This rings so true for me. Because I'm not a problem. I'm not a project. I'm a person. You are, too. Mary was, too. And Elizabeth's blessing made space for Mary to bring her whole self—not as a project but a person.

The new song love makes possible

And notice what happens next. The next verses show why these safe spaces matter—why being met with blessing and affirmation are so vital. It shows what having a refuge makes possible:

And Mary said, "My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowly state 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; indeed, his mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty. He has come to the aid of his child Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever." (1:46-55)

Mary sings. This is commonly called the Magnificat—its name derived from the Latin for the first word Mary sings.

For three months with Elizabeth, in this den of refuge woven from blessing and truth-telling, Mary found the space to be honest about her questions, process her feelings, and reimagine her world. So that now, with Elizabeth's blessing as her foundation, Mary can move beyond shame to courage, beyond fear to purpose. She can fully step into her calling because she had first been fully seen.

And with this newfound spirit, she sings with defiance and with joy of a new beginning and a new world. Having experienced refuge in Elizabeth's home, Mary's own body becomes a refuge too—the first space where love takes root. Maybe that's part of why I've always loved the movement of this song—how it begins centered on Mary, but then it moves outward. She describes first what it means for her. But then it gets bigger.

She sings about God's mercy from generation to generation. About how God will bring down the powerful from their thrones and lift up the lowly. About how God will fill the hungry with good things and send the rich away empty. About how hope—real tangible hope—isn't a pipe dream but a promise.

And what makes it possible? What makes this courage possible? What creates the conditions for transformation and proclamation? What provides the foundation for Mary to step into the fullness of her calling and become an agent of liberation and healing for the world? What gives her back her voice?

It's love. Real, affirming, tangible love. The space that Elizabeth offered for Mary to bring her full self, to tell the truth, to encounter love—that's what makes her song possible.

Because here's the thing: If we don't have that space to tell the truth—if we gloss over it or hide from it or hurry past it—then we limit our ability to encounter real, transformative love. In the same way, without that good truth-telling work here in Advent, we miss the profound impact of incarnation—of God coming near, of love coming local.

Learning from the muskrat

Which brings me to the muskrat. I've learned a lot this Advent. Obviously, I'd heard of a muskrat, but there's so much I didn't know.

A muskrat is a resourceful and resilient rodent—sort of a cross between a rat and a beaver—that makes its home in wetlands, along riverbanks, or near ponds and lakes. Water is essential to their habitat, and they're expert swimmers thanks to their webbed feet and long, flat tails.

During the cold winter months, the frigid water can quickly drain his warmth and energy, leaving muskrats vulnerable and hungry. And so, to keep warm, take shelter, and get some room to breathe, muskrats build dens. This is how they survive the winter. They take sticks and cattails and tall grasses they find then and push them up through cracks in the ice until they freeze and form a dome-like mound on the pond's surface. This is a muskrat's den. A "push-up," it's called.

Here's how Gayle Boss, author of All Creation Waits, describes it:

It's a little breathing room, this heap of sticks on the pond ice. A dark little room, like his dark little den dug into the pond bank. Retreating to his dark rooms to rest and breathe—sometimes alone, often with others—this is how he survives the months of cold that can stop his plucky, industrious heart. Warmed, invigorated there, with a flick of his tail he dives sleek and quick to the very bottom, where fresh food always grows.

I love this. I love how their dens offer space to breathe, a place for refuge from the bitter cold, and even more—room for others—even those who aren't the muskrat's own kin—to shelter for as long as they need.

This shelter, this refuge—this is exactly what Elizabeth created for Mary. And here's the good news: This is the space God creates for us, too.

Waiting in love

Before we can become Elizabeths for others, we need to know that we have such a refuge ourselves. The God who comes near in Jesus, love that comes local, is the same God who creates space for us to bring our whole selves—our doubts, our fears, our questions, our grief. The God who met Mary in her confusion meets us in ours. We have a God who doesn't require us to clean ourselves up first or get our story straight or have everything figured out. We have a God who says, "Come as you are. You are beloved. There is room for you here."

And when we know ourselves held in that love, we can extend it to others. Like the muskrat who builds shelter not just for themselves but for others, perhaps the greatest gift we can offer is to share these same spaces of refuge. Places where, like Mary, someone might find—in the cold and deep dark of winter—the safety to tell the truth, to ask questions, to voice their doubts—and be met in love, finding the courage to sing a new song.

This is what real love does. Not the sanitized, picture-perfect version we put on Christmas cards, but the messy, transformative love we encounter in Jesus—love that makes space for our whole story, even the parts we'd rather edit out.

So what might this look like in our lives? For you? For those you love? For our neighbors? Perhaps it's putting our phones down to create regular times of unhurried conversation where real sharing is possible. Perhaps it's responding to vulnerability not with advice but with presence—offering a blessing instead of a quick fix. Perhaps it's being the first to tell the truth about our own struggles, giving permission for others to do the same.

In these final days of Advent, as we wait in love, I pray that each of us knows in our bones that we are deeply loved by the God who meets us exactly as we are. And I pray that this love would give us courage—like Mary—to tell the truth and to create spaces of refuge for that which is being born in us.

Because when we hold this space for another—like Elizabeth, like the muskrat—we participate in God's work of making all things new.

In the name of the one for whom all creation waits, Amen.