A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent

There was a man who lived in Indiana his whole life. Married his high school sweetheart, had four kids who were born and raised in the same town he was. His kids all grew up, had kids of their own. He and his wife grew older, then his wife died, and he continued to grow old on his own. As can happen with a combination of genetics and age, he developed dementia. He could no longer live at home alone, and there was no family nearby.

His daughter moved him into her home in Georgia, and it worked for a bit, but not for long. He was losing memory, mobility, motor skills. Slowly, his personality changed, he lost interest in his old hobbies, and he even lost his ability to speak. He moved into a continuing care facility where he had around-the-clock care. His family visited often. He was well taken care of, and he declined, getting to that point where the moments of recognition were seldom, the spark in the eyes was sparse, but life still continued on.

It was spring in Georgia, and Easter at that. His daughter had stopped by for a visit and saw a sign for the community’s chapel service that afternoon. She wasn’t religious, but remembered that church was important to him, once upon a time. He and his wife took the kids while they were young, but life got busy. Since he hadn’t spoken for three years, she was always looking for something new to do with him that could at least change up the day-to-day, so she made the executive decision. Today, they were going to church. Would she feel awkward? Yes. Would he know what was happening? No. Did all that matter? No. She rolled him in the chapel doors and found a seat in the back next to an open area for his wheelchair to fit.

They were just in time and the small organ tuned up and started playing an opening hymn, “Amazing Grace.” Everyone knows “Amazing Grace,” even a church dropout like her, so she mouthed along, wondering when the last time was that she sang out loud with strangers. What was the last concert she saw? It must have been back when she was still young and cool and could stay up past 8:45 p.m. Amidst her trip down memory lane, she heard a deep, rumbly, gravely hummm tune up nearby. Like an old piece of farm equipment, trying to remember how to turn its engine over after a long winter’s break in the barn. It got loud enough and close enough, that she had to look up and see who the source was. The old man, her old man, not having spoken for about 1,000 days, not having been to church for much longer, eyes closed but cheeks wet with tears, sang along.

The Lord has promised good to me,

His word my hope secures;

He will my shield and portion be

As long as life endures.

She didn’t want him to stop, couldn’t bear the thought of him becoming silent again, but didn’t want to miss this moment of having her dad back, so she lightly grabbed his hand. And they sang together, eyes closed, tears falling. He never did speak or even sing again after that song ended on that Easter morning, because he died peacefully that very night.

This story is true and utterly beautiful, and it’s not unique. There are dozens and dozens more like it that I have heard and even experienced over the years. Of people whom the world deemed as lost, gone, unreachable, but whom God reached through the power of music. And I bet there are stories like this represented in this room right now. Stories of music tapping into those places that nothing else can. Stories of those moments in life when speech failed you or your loved one, but song carried you through.

It’s scientifically true that singing remains intact long after speech has been lost because of the places it lives inside our head. It’s been proven that music lights up the brain in ways that nothing else can and involves parts of the soul that hang on until the very end. And it’s spiritually true that words will fall short in expressing how we feel, that we won’t be able to put together a comprehensible sentence or prayer at times in our life, but a song remains alive in our heart. A hymn rises to the surface and helps us connect with God. There is something going on with science and our soul and the Spirit of God, something that works in tandem, for the folks with dementia, the people with depression, the ones who are overwhelmed, those who are overjoyed. In times of great hope, and great sorrow, with sad news or news of a miracle, music makes a way for us to present our most authentic selves to God in those times when words aren’t there.

Mary, the unmarried teenage girl from Galilee, finds out from an angel that she’s pregnant, and she waltzes herself to Judea to her older cousin’s house. Who knows what state she was in, but based on my knowledge of early pregnancy, she probably wasn’t doing too hot. Nauseous, back hurting, brain fogging. Fearful, tired, expectant, but alone.

When she crosses through that threshold and hugs dear Elizabeth, Jesus and John bumping together as their bellies meet, the Spirit breaks in. It fills Elizabeth who exclaims the blessedness of Mary and the holiness of the child in her womb. It moves through Mary, who cannot help but sing out her poetic praises to God.

My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior. 

Holding in tension that weird way that God’s time works differently than our time, Mary recounts what God has done, is doing, and will do, for her and for the world. She proclaims the greatness of God because of who God is and the things God does and the way he fulfills exactly what he promised he would.

At a time of great news (she was carrying the savior of the world) and great unknown (what would that mean for her?) Mary cries out to God, relying on music to help her express what she cannot say. Mary sings a song to God, a song she knew deep in her soul, a song sung generations before by her spiritual ancestor Hannah, the Magnificat.

This Sunday before Christmas, this last month of a long 2024, this season of your life, I wonder if you find yourself at a loss for words. I wonder, what sorrows are making it difficult to formulate a thought, a prayer? The seasonal gloom of late December, the loss of a job or a dream, the passing of a loved one.

Or what joys, what miracles, have you speechless yet bursting at the seams with the Spirit of God? The birth of a new baby in your family, the good results of a scan, God’s calling of our new rector, Daniel Reeves, or the simple but profound reminder that God chose to come to us, once upon a time, as a baby in a feeding trough.

There are many things in this season that weigh on our hearts, many things all across the spectrum of human emotion during this time of the year, that are pressing up against the limits of our speech and pushing us, like the old man in the chapel and Mary the mother of God, into that space of song, that place where our brain and our soul and the Holy Spirit meet to magnify the Lord.

And as we approach the reimagining of that holy night of Christ’s birth, as we look again to his coming again to be with us, Mary invites us to join her in singing this song, the song of her heart that rose up when words fell short. “Her Magnificat gives us a way to present our thanksgiving, in celebration, in remembrance, and in proclamation of the promise made to God’s people long ago and to us this very day.

Like Hannah, and Mary, and Elizabeth too, this is a way we can express our unadulterated, celebratory joy that comes with realizing what is coming to us in Jesus, that babe in Mary’s belly.* And when we find ourselves at a loss for words in the years to come, whether from overwhelm or the effects of old age, this song and the songs of our hearts, will always be within reach… Even when our brains or bodies fail, the Magnificat or “Amazing Grace” will live deep within us, there to help us raise our souls, our spirits, and our voices to God, our Savior.  Amen.

The Rev. Kilpy Singer

*Quote adjusted from Karl Jacobson