A Parade of Our Own Making

The whole multitude of disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Luke 19.37-38)

Better

On a sunny day in late August, a bunch of kids on our block got together and decided to create our own amusement park. We’d all returned from our family vacations. The first day of school was coming. Building a playland would likely be our last hurrah. We pooled a bunch of toys and stuff from our garages and went to work in an empty lot on our street. Someone found a stretch of rope that we used to string together a train of old tricycles. Someone else showed up with a spare tire; we rigged a ramp so we could climb inside the tire and push it over the edge. I pulled out my wagon and we laid a cardboard track over dirt mounds at the back of the lot. Voilà! Now we had a rollercoaster!

What we were up to was dangerous, for sure, and someone might have got hurt if our moms hadn’t stopped us. Even before they shut us down, however, we’d bumped into the realities of physics. Nothing worked as smoothly as we’d hoped. Pushing and pulling one another over uneven ground was hard work. Realizing we didn’t have the energy to keep our makeshift park going, we’d already figured out the good times weren’t going to last. By noon, it was over and we went back to our usual play. Still, it was one of the best summer days of my childhood.

One moment in particular stands out. An older girl from several streets over pulled up on a fancy purple bike with a sparkly banana seat and colored streamers on her handlebar grips. While we probably looked like The Little Rascals, her clothes were clean and her hair was adorned with a couple of fancy barrettes. Although she was older than us by several grades, we knew who she was, as she regularly babysat a toddler down the street. She asked what we were doing and when we explained, she turned up her nose. “I’ve been to Disneyland,” she said snottily, “and it’s a lot nicer.” I’ll never forget my buddy, Mike’s, reply: “Yeah? This is better than Disneyland because we made it.”

Better and More Powerful 

My mind races back to that terrific morning when I read Luke’s account of the Triumphal Entry, reminding me that, in many ways, I lived out this story in miniature. As Kathryn Matthews Huey points out in her insightful exegesis of the passage, Luke’s version features several key differences from the other gospels. First of all, there are no palms, no cries of hosanna in his retelling. The people lay down their coats to pave the way for Jesus. And the crowd is comprised entirely of His disciples. No one here can be accused of praising Jesus on Sunday and shouting “Crucify Him!” come Friday. This is an impromptu event that takes shape as it goes—a makeshift parade designed to imitate imperial processions. It is far better and more powerful than any over-produced Roman pomp because Jesus’s followers make it from scratch. It’s not a show, nor is it a command performance. It’s an outpouring of love and creativity. And, on some level, the parade makers surely realize this is their last hurrah. Jesus has told them He’ll be arrested and executed in Jerusalem. Something inside them senses their traveling days are over. The weather’s about to change; their time together is going to end.

A more natural response might compel the disciples to huddle around Jesus, damping the spotlight that finds Him wherever goes, and settling into a quiet place where they can savor their last days with Him. But timing is everything in this story. It’s the week before Passover. While Jesus and the disciples are entering Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives, across town preparations are underway for another triumphal entry. Pontius Pilate is due to arrive with garrisons of Roman guards to ensure the holiday excitement won’t get out of hand. The masses along that parade route will shout, “Hail, Caesar!” and bow and scrape and clamor to show fealty to their oppressors. This is where we find the crowd that hasn’t the nerve to save one of its own from tyrannical injustice. These are the people who do and say as they’re told. There’s not the slightest hint of freedom or joy at this parade. Meanwhile, freedom and joy abound at the cobbled-together celebration on the other side of the city. It’s as if Jesus’s followers say, “What we’ve got is better because we made it.” They’re absolutely right to say that. This is their parade, built by their own hands to honor their king. And that’s what makes this ecstatic display of loyalty to Jesus so dangerous.

Power. Freedom. Courage. Joy.

Like the vigilant mama bears they presume to be, the Pharisees are alarmed at what’s going on. They rush to Jesus and demand He put a stop to this nonsense. Even though this activity places His own life at risk, He shrugs them off. “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out,” He says. (Luke 19.40) He understands what’s really happening. This is a people’s parade, not a royal procession. The excitement will eventually cool down, once the disciples discover how much energy is required to keep it going. For now, however, they need this big moment. Brief and dangerous though it may be, they need to know what it feels like to make something of their own. They need to find the power and courage within themselves to create a better alternative to Rome’s glitzy make-believe. Jesus puts the Pharisees on notice. This sham government that depends on their complicit support can’t last. They’re on the wrong side of history. Luke underscores their powerlessness in a very subtle way, too. After their appearance here, they drop out of the story. From here on out, Jesus’s fate rests in the hands of their authoritarian leaders. After all this time nagging at Jesus and trying to discredit Him, the Pharisees turn out to be nobodies. 

God’s new contract with humanity is signed at Calvary and guaranteed through Christ’s resurrection. But its terms are fleshed out here, in this crazy-quilt parade that sets everything in motion. To the natural eye, its borrowed donkey and ragtag carpeting and motley crew praising an uncrowned king may look silly compared to Rome’s mighty stallions and yards of purple silk and thousands shouting praise to an emperor. Yet what’s really going on is anything but silly. The Gospel of Christ is coming to life in the full exercise of power and freedom, courage and joy. That is Palm Sunday’s legacy to us. Power. Freedom. Courage. Joy. We are called to be parade makers, not parade watchers.

The disciples’ makeshift parade for their king bursts with unspoken declarations of power, freedom, courage, and joy.

Enjoy God

The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them. (Luke 2.20)

Advent’s power derives from entering its long night with complete confidence that dawn will break, restoring our faith in Christ’s ability to bring hope, peace, joy, and love to a cold, dark, and perilously conflicted world. Looking ahead—whether through the prophets’ foresight or the gospels’ accounts—assures us this story will end triumphantly. So, for example, we recall the shepherds’ experience as more than a narrative outcome. It is a promise we reach for that guides and sustains our journey through darkness.

Like the shepherds, we too are summoned out of our night to find the Christ Child. And as happened to them, what we see and hear in Bethlehem will utterly change us. We will return to our lives and labors, “glorifying and praising God,” having encountered anew in the eyes of a newborn Savior the fulfillment of God’s covenant to love and welcome us.

C.S. Lewis once said, “In commanding us to glorify [God], God is inviting us to enjoy [God].” Our journey leads to a place where comfort and confidence in our Maker enables us to revel in God’s infinite wisdom and care. As we travel the road to Bethlehem, rehearsing the prophets’ words and the intricate details that come together to bring light to darkness, we should make time to enjoy what God is doing. Every piece of the puzzle is falling in place. Every moment draws us closer to the realization of what God desires for us.

Christmas wonders that captivate our imagination are given to release our faith in a God Who works wonders in us. The Christ comes to us as a poor, homeless, illegitimate Babe to prove that God longs to dwell in each of us, no matter what our immediate situation or station in life may be. One look at the manger is all we need to see ourselves in a new light—God’s pure and perfect light. Hope will destroy our despair; joy will overcome our sorrow; peace will reign over our turmoil; and love will conquer hatred that rises against us. We will see and hear everything God’s Word has told us. We will return, glorifying and praising God. In the meantime, while we await God’s promises, it’s not too soon—it’s never too soon—to enjoy God’s astounding ability to bring wondrous things to life in us.

Stumblers

The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh—my adversaries and foes—they shall stumble and fall. (Psalm 27.1-2)

Yesterday Walt and I, along with many members of our Lake View Presbyterian faith community, joined more than 60 churches to walk in Chicago’s Pride Parade. There were hundreds of us—so many that our entourage stretched longer than a city block, far longer than any Chicago Coalition of Welcoming Churches parade entry ever had. It was thrilling, and our joy was made full by the ebullient response we received. Thousands of spectators cheered, thanked us, high-fived us, and more than a few embraced us with teary eyes. As we turned the corner for the parade’s last leg, we spied the Westboro Baptist crowd, a small clutch of people from the infamously homophobic Kansas church that turns up each year. And something marvelous happened. We began to rejoice! Those on the sidelines added to our chorus. The roar that went up overpowered the invective hurled our way through Westboro’s loudspeakers. Not one hateful word could be heard.

Last night, as I reflected on the event, it occurred to me that we witnessed exactly what David writes about in Psalm 27. We saw our adversaries stumble and fall. And there was an important lesson in that, I think. When we embrace God as our light and salvation—as the very stronghold of our lives—we have nothing to fear. There is no reason to suppress our joy and confidence. In fact, facing those who would denigrate our making and beliefs is cause for joy. It incites rejoicing that we are free from gnawing hatred and hollow piety. We are at peace with our God, our neighbors, and ourselves, And out of that realization flows rivers of joy that drown out those who condemn us—especially those who, like the Westboro folks, go out of their way to diminish the wonder of our making.

Our joyful antidote to the bilious attacks was the last hurrah for this year’s parade. No doubt there will be repeat engagements at future marches. Yet our number will continue to increase, and with it our joy. We will rejoice even more vibrantly in the coming years—not to prove a point, but because joy is the point. As I closed the chapter on 2012 Pride, it struck me that this year’s parade ended just as it began. Our service preceding the march closed as the choir sent us out with the “Everybody Rejoice” chorus from The Wiz:

Can you feel a brand new day!

Can you feel a brand new day!

“They shall stumble and fall,” David reminds us. And on we march, into the light, salvation, and stronghold of God’s new day.

The Chicago Coalition of Welcoming Churches prepares to step off at this year’s Pride Parade.

Wonder Words

We continue to sit with Psalm 139.14:

I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are Your works.

“I’m wonderfully made,” the psalmist rejoices, using a word that singularizes him from everyone else. And we join him in our confidence and marvel that we are all distinctive creations. God shapes and guides each of us to live out God’s will in particular ways, to serve God and others as only we can. Thus we exult in our differences, rather than disparage them or doubt their worthiness. “Wonderful are Your works,” the psalmist declares, employing a second “wonder” word that denotes our inability to grasp the vastness of God’s creative power—as well as our reluctance to believe God’s ways and thoughts surpass our own. (“Such knowledge is too wonderful me; it is so high that I cannot attain it,” the poet admits in verse 6.) So we come to God without pretense, just as we are, willing to abstain from conformity to manmade patterns and expectations, knowing full well that God transcends pattern-based creation. Unyielding trust in our Maker instills two core truths in our hearts: not one of us is ever alone, and no two of us is ever alike.

Repost: Fasting

When you fast, do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show men they are fasting. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. (Matthew 6.16)

Gravity and Joy

“Saints, it’s time we turn our plates over, set our wants aside, and seek God,” the pastor would say and the church would answer, “Amen!” The room would fall into stillness as believers listened intently to the pastor’s instructions. Sometimes the fast lasted a week. At other times the minister called us to fast one day a week for the indefinite future. Sometimes it was called without protocol, leaving each person to decide what, when, and how long he/she would practice self-denial. Whatever the fast’s form, what I recall most from my youth was the galvanizing mix of gravity and joy it produced. We rigorously obeyed its command to make more room and time for God’s presence in our lives. Yet we entered the prescribed test with high hopes, knowing we’d be stronger, richer, and purer when we came out.

After my need for a more affirmative faith environment led me to a “mainstream” church, I found a very similar, if less demonstrative spirit arose as the people prepared for Lent. Prior to that, since my family’s tradition didn’t observe Lent, the little I gleaned about it from friends and colleagues jaundiced my perceptions. From what I heard, Lent was a 40-day obligation to “give up” something they could easily do without (chocolate, alcohol, red meat) or shouldn’t do at all (cursing, gossiping, fibbing)—more about self-discipline than self-denial. I didn’t realize my exposure was limited to Lent lamenters, however, people whose hearts weren’t in it and apparently understood it no better than I. Once I met believers who greeted the season with the same gravity and joy I associated with fasting, Lent came to life. It was a deeply personal, yet significantly collective experience, an intensely sacred testing period begun in hope and ending in renewed strength and fervor. What’s more, I learned this mainly by observation because, unlike Lent lamenters, authentic Lent fasters don’t wear their sacrifices on their sleeves.

A Curious Business

Fasting is a curious business. Its primary focus—clearing distractions to make way for prayerful contemplation—must be preceded by prayerful contemplation of what distracts us. The verb “to fast” is interesting and enlightening in itself, as it derives from the gothic German fastan, “to hold fast.” Thus, the benefits of fasting aren’t in what we’re rid of but what remains. That’s why sacrifice is secondary to experienced fasters. Their attention literally fastens on spiritual priorities. They go into fasts having already considered what they can and can’t do without, and they concentrate on the former by denying the latter. This transforms fasting from obligation into opportunity. It becomes a season of joy and growth rather than one of angst and deprivation.

Many misconstrue fasting as a means of honoring God by voluntarily refusing to indulge in things they love. They think fasting denotes commitment and piety, and approach it as a sort of holy drudgery. By no means is fasting easy, but neither is it intended to impress God with how tough it is to give up what we don’t truly need. That’s Jesus’s message in Matthew 6. “Don’t look somber as the hypocrites do,” He says. “For they disfigure their faces to show men they are fasting. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to men that you are fasting, but only to your Father, who is unseen; and your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.” (v16-18) Jesus’s logic completely checks out with what fasting actually means. It’s a sifting time that gets us back to what really matters. The opinions of others don’t merit the effort to make a big deal of what we’re letting go. The reward comes when what we decide to hold fast in our hearts pleases our Maker.

Essentials from Non-Essentials

Lent gives us time to separate the essentials from non-essentials. What needs to go so what remains can resume prominence in our lives? If only it were as simple as surviving from Ash Wednesday to Easter without a candy bar or tasty morsels of gossip! To get the most from our fast entails much introspection. It asks us to undertake the trial fully aware of any weakness that loosens our grip on virtues and aspirations we hold dearest. And whatever that is (or they are), that’s what we must sacrifice. When we understand what fasting is really about, we realize Lent is sacred, not somber, joyful, not lamentable. It isn’t about giving up what we’d love to keep. It’s about holding on to what we'd hate to lose.

Fasting is a sifting time. We let go of what we can’t use to hold on to what we value most.

Postscript: Question 9

Is fasting a lost art?

Swaddling

This will be a sign for you: you will find a Child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger. (Luke 2.12)

Poetry

Advent’s journey of long, still, and sober nights is winding down. Three days from now, Earth will tilt on its axis—a prized event for those who’ve endured six months of waning daylight. North, south, east, and west, Advent pilgrims have Bethlehem in full view. We who are given to flights of imagination envision millions of faithful believers converging on a country road that snakes across broad meadowlands outlying the hilltop village known as “the City of David.” And right about here is when I (and I suspect many like me) really start to miss the King James Version’s Nativity accounts. Up to this point, newer, more accurate translations of the Advent texts are a godsend. Once we get to the birth, however, modern versions can’t compete with the KJV’s poetry.

Compare the New Revised Standard Version’s translation of the angel’s instruction to the shepherds: “This will be a sign for you: you will find a Child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” (Luke 2.12) Now listen to the KJV: “And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.” I would guess the KJV’s use of “swaddling” is the first time most of us encounter the term. Since it sounds comfy, we assume “swaddling clothes” are akin to a receiving blanket—a downy wrap for a newborn. And we may be shocked to learn they're not. The NSRV’s tone-deaf “bands of cloth” is spot-on. Swaddling clothes are fabric strips that bind ancient newborns’ movement. After birth, they’re bathed and salted (to preserve their soft skin), and tightly wrapped below the neck to protect them from insect bites and straighten their limbs. Swaddling is anything but comfy. It’s hot, confining, and makes for very unhappy babies. The Baby Jesus we imagine nestled in a warm blanket is not Whom the shepherds find. They see a cranky, immobilized Infant Who looks more like a mummy than a Holy Child. So much for poetry.

A World That Restrains Him

Swaddling continued into the 1600s, well after artists began depicting the Nativity in paint and stone. Even among works dated before it went out of vogue, however, very few portray a tightly wrapped Child. (Those that do present Jesus as blissfully content to be bound neck-to-foot.) Personally, I can’t recall swaddling in any Sunday school and storybook illustrations from my childhood. Nor do I remember a Bible teacher or minister explaining it—ever. Without asking, the reason seems apparent. A corseted, bawling, miserable Baby Jesus is counterintuitive to all He represents. This is the Child Who brings freedom, peace, and joy to the world. Why would an artist, teacher, or minister present Him any other way but free, peaceful, and happy?

Yet peeking into a flea-infested manger to spy a trussed-up, squirmy, fretful Christ Child somehow appeals to me. I’m strangely moved by thought of Jesus coming into a world that instantly restrains Him and causes His parents great anguish. What frustration Mary must feel, as she fights every urge to loose Him and hold the flesh of her flesh to her bosom. How Joseph must ache to take Jesus’s tiny hand in his calloused palm and feel the touch of God. The agony they must experience, as the Baby wails to break free. And in that moment, they epitomize a profound conflict that burdens all of us who carve a birthplace for Christ in our hearts.

Born to Be Free

Conventional wisdom says restricting Jesus’s movement in our lives is best for Him. If we truly love Him, we won’t expose Him to our diseases. His reach must be severely limited and His touch denied. For His health and safety, His cries to be loosed must be ignored. A freely moving Christ is an irresponsibly handled One, we’re told. This Sacred Child’s misfortune is being born into a world of clear and present dangers none so pure as He could possibly withstand. Sharp bites of infectious hatred and violence that barely faze us will destroy Him. Pressures that tie us in knots will bend and break His tender limbs. Swaddle Jesus, we’re told. Wrap Him up tightly to shield Him from evils and ugliness that plague our world. Be afraid for Him—and fear what people will think if you give Him free access in your life. Imagine their discomfort when they see the Christ born inside you held close to your bosom. Think of their alarm when touching the hand of God matters more to you than bowing to custom. Worry more about what will be said of you behind your back than the Christ Child’s cries to be loosed in your heart.

Perhaps painters and sculptors, teachers and ministers don’t present a swaddled Jesus because they’ve freed the Christ born in them. Perhaps they’ve come to grips with a truth that conventional wisdom doesn’t account for: the tiny Babe is indestructible. He’s the Eternal Word made flesh, God Incarnate, the Creator disguised as creation. We need neither be afraid for Him nor fear what people will think and say. The Baby born to free us is born to be free in us. Come to the stable. Look in the manger. But don’t stop there. Lift the Child from the hay. Unravel His restraints and let them fall away. Permit Him to move as He pleases. Permit yourself to hold Him close. Feel God’s touch. Discover the freedom from fear, peace of mind, and joy of living that Christ brings. Set Jesus free.

Most Holy and Indestructible Child, we confess bowing to conventional wisdom that urges us to restrict Your movement. We repent of our foolish fears and conformity. Be free in us. Move as You will. And free us to let You remain free, to hold You close and feel Your touch always. Amen.

See the Newborn trussed in swaddling and set Him free. (Georges de la Tour: Adoration of the Shepherds; c. 1644)

Postscript: “Move in Me”

Take this little song with you to the manger. Sing it quietly, as a prayer to the Infant. Set Him free, and find the freedom, peace, and joy He brings.

Magnificent Things

My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for God has looked with favor on the lowliness of God’s servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me. (Luke 1.46-49)

The Talk of the Town

Let’s pretend we’re young women of 16 or so coming into our own in ancient Palestine. Our parents have brokered a splendid marriage contract with a good family, whose son, our husband-to-be, is well established in his faith and trade. With betrothal—a public rite confirming community consent to the union—behind us, our wedding is the talk of the town. For the moment, we’re our tiny hamlet’s closest thing to celebrity. Smiles and kind wishes greet us wherever we go. Our sense that the future couldn’t be finer deepens by the day, as does our gratitude when we think of brides whose families saddle them with uncaring, faithless men. We rarely get to ponder these joys, however. With so much to do before the wedding, fatigue is a constant companion and nightfall an unlikely friend. Its stillness gives us time to reflect before sleep bears us away on its soothing tide. Then, all too soon, daybreak rudely returns us to another task-ridden day.

Can it really be morning? It seems we hardly slept. Before opening our eyes, the room’s brightness and warmth raise the possibility we’ve been asleep for hours and hours, late into the day. How can that be? (We’ll ask this again and again.) We shield our eyes to glance around. The rest of the family hasn’t stirred. We peer into the light and gasp. It radiates from a being unlike any on Earth. We know it’s an angel sent by God. And we suspect we’re unprepared for whatever it harbingers, as we also know angels always bring life-altering news.

The angel greets us, saying we’re highly favored and God is with us. Its voice thunders with majesty that curiously flows over us like gentle water music. While we’re gripped by fear and wonder, the rest of the house sleeps on. How can that be? The angel tells us not to be afraid, and then relays news so terrifying it defies comprehension. “How can that be?” we ask, assuming virginity disqualifies us to bear God’s Son. The angel says we’ll conceive the Child after the Holy Spirit descends on us. First, what’s a “holy spirit?” We’ve never heard of such a thing. Second, it’s humanly inconceivable. Third, what the angel calls a great blessing sounds like a curse. We catch ourselves from asking how can that be and think this through. This is an angel. It speaks God’s will. What else can we do but submit humbly in service to God? The angel leaves us in chilly darkness. Hushed breath of parents and siblings nearby is deafening; they'll never believe they weren't awakened by what just happened. Nobody will believe this—not Joseph, his parents, no one in the synagogue, nobody. And it’s not a secret we can hide. In time, everyone will see. Being the talk of the town won’t feel so wonderful then.

A Huge Song

Mary’s first move is a smart one. She gets out of town. According to the angel, her cousin, Elizabeth, is beginning the third term of a miraculous pregnancy. Mary decides—correctly—that Elizabeth and her husband will be receptive to her news. As soon as she crosses their threshold, Elizabeth’s baby leaps for joy in her womb and she prophesies, echoing the angel’s declaration almost word for word. A song wells up in Mary, an impromptu hymn of praise that also expresses profound assurance. “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,” Mary sings. “For God has looked with favor on the lowliness of God’s servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me.” (Luke 1.46-49) Because we relate to Mary’s tangled emotions and unanswered questions, we hear her sing in a muted, melodious soprano. And we hear a simple, subtle tune—something closer to an Act Two reprise than a showstopper that rings down the Act One curtain. Yet the song’s lyrics and placement as the narrative’s first act closes suggest otherwise.

It’s a huge song full of huge feelings and ideas—an aria bursting with excitement and illumination, as Mary comprehends the scale of events thrust upon her. She bypasses her mind, where logic resides, and her heart, home of human intentions, to sing from her soul, where emotions live and flow freely. Her song is about releasing herself to God’s infinite wisdom and care. Her soul magnifies the Lord and her spirit—the God within her—rejoices. The sheer impossibility of what she must do convinces Mary it will be done. Why? Because God traffics in impossibilities. God brings down the mighty and exalts the lowly, Mary sings. God fills hungry hearts and sends those satisfied with riches away. God’s mercy endures the test of time, and God’s promises stand forever. Up to now, Mary’s only seen the enormity of her challenge and its enormous risks. All of that shatters, revealing a bigger, greater God behind the challenge, a God more than capable of managing risks. It’s a huge song full of huge feelings and ideas.

Magnificent Things

A thrilling realization turns up in Mary’s improvised verse. The Greek verb, “to magnify” (megalunó) derives from the word Mary uses to describe the “great” things God has done for her (megas). When we release ourselves to God’s infinite wisdom and care—bypassing human logic and intentions so our soul is free to magnify God and our spirits can breathe joyfully—magnificent things happen. We can’t help but sing. The angel’s final words to Mary become our life’s theme: “For nothing will be impossible with God.” (Luke 1.37) God purposefully designs insurmountable challenges and inevitable risks to be shattered, so that God’s supreme power can be revealed in and through us. Facing sheer impossibility is the most reliable indicator that God will do what can’t be done.

The only thing that hinders God’s ability to do magnificent things for us is our reluctance to magnify God. As long as we keep God in a box constructed of our reasoning and reasons, impossibilities box us in on all sides. We negotiate with ourselves, leveraging all sorts of excuses why God’s plan won’t work. We pull out sorry songs we should have thrown out ages ago. We disqualify ourselves before God finishes explaining how we’ll succeed. If it involves something we’ve not heard of or can’t possibly achieve without God, we mistake God’s blessing for a curse. We put more faith in our predictions than God’s promises. Mary’s aria is soul music. It’s bigger and greater than any song she’s ever sung, and she sings it in a big way. It closes Act One’s conflicts and rushes toward Act Two’s magnificence. Sing Mary’s song.

We magnify You from our souls, Most Magnificent God. Our spirits rejoice in You. Every impossibility You bring to us is another opportunity for You to reveal Your magnificence to us, in us, and through us. Teach us to sing like we’ve never sung before. Make Your infinite power our lives’ theme. Amen.

As long as we keep God in a box, our reasoning and reasons will keep us boxed in. But when our souls magnify the Lord, magnificent, completely out-of-the-box things happen.

Postscript: “Magnificat”

Bach’s unsurpassed rendering of Mary’s song needs no occasion. But seeing as we’re here…