A friend of mine was recently telling me about his

attempt to counter the hostile commercial takeover

of Christmas in his own home. Desperately hoping

to teach the true meaning of the season in a tangible

way, he ordered one of those do-it-yourself cardboard

cutout nativity sets. You know, the ones with the stable

and the manger, the baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph, sheep,

cows, shepherds, wise men, instructions. Fold on the

dotted line. Place tab A in slot 2. It was a disaster.

Nothing worked the way it was beautifully pictured on

the box, and before long the kitchen table was littered

with torn, bent, disfigured pieces. Unfortunately, one

of the shepherds was decapitated. My friend was

searching for the Scotch tape when he heard his four-

year-old, the one whom he was hoping to explain the

meaning of Christmas, say with a sigh, “Daddy, where

is God in all this mess?”

And that’s the question Luke aims to answer. Do not

be preoccupied by the angel—this is a human story.

In the days of King Herod of Judea. That’s how it starts,

and it’s more than a timestamp. A decree went out

from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be

registered. The story Luke tells is set in the shadow of

empire. It is circumscribed by the sinister schemes of

a ruthless ruler, and if we ignore the setting, we fail to

grasp the gravity of what comes next.

Into this mess, the messenger of God appears. Not in

Rome. Not in Jerusalem. Not to Caesar or to Herod.

Gabriel visits Mary. Gabriel arrives in Nazareth. And

once there, he does not describe the dramatic arrival

of a divine warrior who will overthrow the oppressors.

He says there is a baby on the way. A human child.

And that’s where we will find God in the mess.

Do not be preoccupied by the angel. Watch Mary’s

face. This is a human story. And before Mary, Gabriel

waits. In that moment, I wonder what visions flash

before her eyes. Afterall, the future she had imagined

for herself is now totally upended. Her engagement to

Joseph the builder. How can that continue? A quiet life

in a country town. Not now. What will become of her?

Of her child? Of God’s child? It’s a messy moment.

Earlier this year, I learned a new phrase that has

its origins in the Eastern Orthodox tradition, but I

found it helpful in this season. That phrase is: bright

sadness. It is used to describe those moments on our

journey where deep awareness of God’s presence sits

alongside our suffering. It is the dark before the dawn

on Easter morning. In my mind’s eye, the encounter

between Mary and Gabriel is cast in bright sadness.

The coexistence of genuine joy and very real grief.

Remember, Luke is telling a human story. And I trust

that all of us who exist in the human world can relate

to this. For some of us right here, moments of personal

joy feel inappropriate in the context of so much

suffering around the globe and close to home. For

some of us, it seems insensitive to celebrate while so

many mourn. For others right here in this space, the

intimate experience of grief this year or the constant

presence of pain lead to a longing for the joy that

everybody else seems to have. Afterall, the social

media feeds of friends and strangers drive the narrative

that we are the only one who is not merry and bright

this season. We see perfectly produced pictures and

wonder how everyone else makes it look so effortless.

Friends, here is the truth of Luke’s Christmas story:

the distance between joy and pain has never been

far. In fact, the two are so deeply intertwined as to be

occasionally indistinguishable. Bright sadness. The dull

throb of pain still there when we are at the height of joy.

And somehow joy finding us even when the burden of

our suffering seems greatest.

When her son is only eight days old, Mary hears the

haunting words of Simeon in the temple. Your son

is destined to be a sign that will be opposed. And a

sword will pierce your own soul. Yes, from the outset,

the joy of Christmas is punctuated by the certainty of

coming sorrow. The second stanza of the carol “What

Child Is This” does not spare us the truth:

Nails, spear shall pierce him through,

The cross be borne for me and you;

Hail, hail the Word made flesh,

The babe, the son of Mary.”

And so, what is the word of God for us on this third

Sunday in the season of Advent? It is this. God is in the

mess. God is in the human story. And because of this,

joy is possible. Not as a replacement for pain, but right

there next to it. The final words of Gabriel spoken to

Mary serve as the foundation for our all faith. Nothing

will be impossible with God.

Consider this. These words are not only a promise

about the miraculous birth of Jesus. They do not refer

only to the grand and glorious. They suggest that it is

possible to find joy even in sadness, and that you can

welcome that joy when it arrives. You do not have to

wait for everything to be perfect, for all to be right with

the world, for the future to be known, to receive the gift

of joy. This bright sadness is possible because nothing

is impossible with God.

That’s the promise that precedes Mary’s resolute

response, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.” It is

the answer of the faithful. Of Abraham and Jacob,

of Samuel and David, of Isaiah and Mary. “Here am

I,” she says, and in these few, simple words, Mary

announces her bold decision.

She is not naïve. Her face is firmly set for the future

she now embraces. Mary’s acceptance of this joy is

already shadowed by the pain that it will bring. And

she says yes to both, trusting that God will be with her,

that the journey ahead is worth all that it will bring.

So, what about us? When the opportunity comes to put

God’s love into practice – and it will come – how will we

respond? Will we have the courage to welcome both

the joy and the pain? To believe that God is with us in

this mess? Will we choose to believe that this ancient

story is still being written in our lives? In our world?

When all is said and done, that is our God-given call.

To trust that in the mess of life, the celebration and

the sorrow, the hope and the fear, the grief and the

gratitude, the joy and the pain, God chooses to be with

us. God chooses us.

And so, with Mary, let us respond:

Here we are. Your servants.

Here we are, anxious and afraid.

Here we are, compelled by courage that is not our own.

Here we are, willing and vulnerable.

Here we are. Come what may,

we place our lives in your hands.

Now put your life in our hands. Amen.