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.