The Fourth Sunday of Advent, Year C
December 22, 2024
Micah 5:2-5a, Canticle 15, Hebrews 10:5-10, Luke 1:39-55
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Daring to Hope: Singing in the Dark”
The Very Rev. Kathleen Murray, Rector
Historic Beckford Parish, Mt. Jackson & Woodstock
We’ve just survived the longest night of the year, a time when darkness envelops the
world more fully than at any other point. These long nights remind us of our deep need for light,
hope, and renewal. Winter’s chill and extended darkness provide the perfect backdrop for
Advent, a season that asks us to sit with the weight of the world while holding fast to the promise
of light breaking through.
Advent mirrors the rhythms of life itself, those times when we wait with both anticipation
and yearning. Sometimes, this waiting is joyful—preparing for a wedding, the birth of a child, or
the return of a loved one. But often, our waiting is marked by hardship, by the quiet cry of our
hearts for God’s help amid life’s struggles. Advent is not about holiday cheer; it’s about raw,
gritty hope—the kind that sustains a family in a homeless shelter as much as a mother laboring in
a maternity ward.
This season meets us in the weight we carry—our personal struggles, the suffering we see
in the world, and the relentless demands of daily life. Into all this, Advent speaks a bold truth: we
cannot save ourselves, but there is hope.
And I especially love Advent 4. Why? It’s all about the women.
Today, the Gospel invites us into the lives of two pregnant women—Mary and
Elizabeth—whose stories reveal the depth of God’s grace and the transformative power of hope.
Mary, a young girl, and Elizabeth, an older woman, are unlikely candidates for the roles they’ve
been given. Elizabeth, barren and advanced in years, is now six months pregnant. Mary, likely no
older than 15, is unmarried and pregnant. Both women face scandal and uncertainty, yet their
lives embody God’s extraordinary work.
When the angel Gabriel tells Mary she will bear a child, she accepts with faith but does
not immediately burst into song. Instead, she sets out “with haste” to visit Elizabeth. Why?
Perhaps because Elizabeth would understand. Mary, likely overwhelmed by fear and uncertainty,
finds solace in Elizabeth, who greets her not with judgment but with joy: “Blessed are you
among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb!”
This moment is transformative. In Elizabeth’s presence, Mary finds her voice. Her fear is
replaced by a song—a song of hope and praise we now call the Magnificat: “My soul magnifies
the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.” Mary sings not for herself but for the world,
proclaiming that the lowly will be lifted, the hungry filled, and the proud brought low. It is a
daring proclamation of God’s justice and mercy, a song that refuses to accept the world as it is
and trusts in God’s promises to make all things new.
This is the kind of hope Advent calls us into—not a fragile optimism, but a bold, resilient
hope. Optimism looks for reassurance in the past, but hope dares to look forward, trusting in
what only God can do. Optimism crumbles under the weight of the world’s brokenness; hope
endures, singing even in the darkness.
Mary’s song reminds us that hope is not meant to be carried alone. It wasn’t until she
stood with Elizabeth, someone who shared her experience of God’s miraculous power, that her
hope blazed into song. And maybe that’s why we gather as a community—to carry the weight of
hope together and to sing our songs of hope to a world in desperate need of them.
This kind of hope is dangerous. In The Hunger Games, President Snow warns that “hope
is the only thing stronger than fear. A little hope is effective. A lot of hope is dangerous.” Snow
fears hope because it has the power to upend oppression. That’s the kind of hope we proclaim
today—not small or controlled, but daring and transformative, trusting that God’s promises are
already breaking through.
A seminary classmate of mine put it beautifully: “That’s why I love Advent … Jesus
never doesn’t get born. We long, hope, wait, anticipate, and we are never let down at the last
minute.” Even in our exhaustion, grief, or overwhelm, the light of Christ always breaks through.
Always.
So, who in your life can encourage you to be Elizabeth—someone who offers joy and
affirmation to those around you? And where in your life can you seek support and guidance as
you wait for the light of Christ? These are the questions Advent asks of us.
Let us, like Mary and Elizabeth, ponder these questions in our hearts. This is why Mary
sang. And it is why we sing. Even in the darkest nights, we dare to hope, because God has
broken through before and will break through again. Amen.