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Homily Text: Luke 1:46-49
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Hi, this is Brent White. It’s December 18, 2017, and this is Day 16 of my series of Advent podcasts. You’re listening to the band Big Star, a band from Memphis in the early-’70s whose influence on future bands far exceeded their commercial fortunes. The lead singer and songwriter of the band, Alex Chilton, updated the hymn “Angels from the Realms of Glory.” Our scripture is from Mary’s song, the Magnificat, in Luke chapter 1. I’m reading verses 46 to 49: “And Mary said,
My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, or he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name.
I went to the Holy Land back in 2011. During the first leg of the trip, we stayed for a few nights in Tiberias, which is on the Sea of Galilee. There was a sign in the front lobby that said that the hotel featured something called “Sabbath elevators.” I had no idea what Sabbath elevators were. But I found out at sundown on Friday. I was on the sixth floor of the hotel, and I wanted to go down to the lobby. I pushed the call button on the elevator and after a long wait, the elevator doors finally opened. No one was in the elevator. I pressed the button marked “1.” The doors closed, and then the elevator stopped at the fifth floor—even though I hadn’t pushed that button. And there was no one there waiting for it. Then the elevator stopped at the fourth floor. No one was there. Then the third floor. No one was there. “What’s going on?” I thought.
Then I figured out what “Sabbath elevators” are. If you are an orthodox Jew, and it’s the Sabbath, even pushing an elevator button is considered illegal “work.” Sabbath elevators enable people to ride the elevator without having to do “work.” You might have to wait a long time, but if you’re patient you’ll eventually get where you need to go.
While I admire religious people whose commitment to God is so great that they would avoid even pushing a button if it risked breaking God’s commandment, my experience at that hotel gave me a greater appreciation for the gospel of Jesus Christ.
See, every other major religion in the world says, in so many words, “Follow these rules… Obey these laws… Repeat these mantras… Follow these principles… Practice these disciplines… and then you will be accepted by God or whatever your ultimate reality happens to be.”
Religion says, in other words, “Do these things, and you God will accept you.” Christianity says, “God accepts you, therefore do these things.”
Do you see the difference? The good news of the gospel is that Christ has done everything necessary in order for us to be accepted by God—including dying a God-forsaken death on the cross to pay the penalty for our disobedience that we were unable to pay. Therefore, salvation is a completely free gift offered without price—whose only condition is receiving this message through faith.
As Tim Keller points out in his recent book Hidden Christmas, we ought to share Mary’s astonishment, her sense of amazement, when we consider what God has done for us. We ought to be able to say, along with her, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior… for he who is mighty has done great things for me.”
For me!
If we are Christians, after all, that means before the foundation fo the world, God knew us, God elected us, God wanted us—you and me—to be with him for eternity, and God put into motion a plan that would make this intention possible. Who are we that God would do that for us? Who am I? What have I done to deserve all of this? Nothing!
And yet that’s the gospel!
“He who is mighty has done great things for me.”
Keller writes:
I would go so far as to say that this perennial note of surprise is a mark of anyone who understands the essence of the Gospel. What is Christianity? If you think Christianity is mainly going to church, believing a certain creed, and living a certain kind of life, then there will be no note of wonder and surprise about the fact that you are a believer. If someone asks you, “Are you a Christian? you will say, “Of course I am! It’s hard work but I’m doing it. Why do you ask?” Christianity is, in this view something done by you—and so there’s no astonishment about being a Christian. However, if Christianity is something done for you, and to you, and in you, then there is a constant note of surprise and wonder.[1]
He goes on:
So if someone asks you if you are a Christian, you should not say, “Of course!” There should be no “of course-ness” about it. It would be more appropriate to say, “Yes, I am, and that’s a miracle. Me! A Christian! Who would have ever thought it? Yet he did it, and I’m his.”[2]
1. Timothy Keller, Hidden Christmas (New York: Viking, 2016), 89.
2. Ibid., 90.