I’m happy in my skin. I’m content being a “guy.” But after my petite wife Sarah gave birth to all 9 lbs., 6 oz. of our first son, she wanted to trade places.

Feeling as if her pelvis had snapped like the wishbone of a Thanksgiving turkey, she looked at me a week or two after Will’s birth and with tears streaming down her cheeks said, “Next time, Jim Rand, you get pregnant!”

“I wish I could,” I said. She stared at me in silent shock, dumbfounded that I would ever wish so much pain and discomfort on myself. (It’s a wonder we ever had Joe!)

Yet even now, the thought of life stirring in my belly for 9 months … the physical exertion of pushing a child, kicking and crying into the world … My one big regret as a guy is that I’ll never know the feelings of pleasure – or pain – that entails.

So I’m probably not the best resource to tell you what Mary went through. If I were to interview her, I’d ask dumb questions and not catch the nuance of her wise answers. Nothing in my experience can relate fully to her experience in the days before Jesus was born. So I “borrowed” today’s sermon from someone who probably gets what Mary was feeling – a woman – Sylvia Guinn-Ammons.  

Since we don’t know Sylvia personally, I suggest we pretend we’re overhearing Elizabeth talking to Mary, who has come to visit and sings while doing chores.

“O, Mary,” Elizabeth sighs, “why are you singing?” You should be weeping, child! You’re pregnant, betrothed to an honorable young man who knows this is not his doing. Why aren’t you on your knees sobbing?

Such a child yourself. Perhaps you sing because you are so young. But even children know when they have broken the law. Haven’t you noticed how people treat those who break social mores: raised eyebrows, turned heads, chuckles and gossip whispered behind cupped hands. You will be shunned at best, stoned at worst. Are you aware that the “nice” girls aren’t quite so nice to you any more?

Poor one, have you any idea where all this will lead? Here you are, away from home … out of town … hidden in my house because of the embarrassment you stirred up. And destined for a crude barn at the time of the birthing …

Poor one, little do you know about that not-so-merry chase your boy child will lead you on as he goes about his Father’s business. Beginning at the temple in Jerusalem, it will end at Golgotha. Tax collectors and lepers for friends! I suppose it is best that you don’t know the future. Sing on, little innocent one.

But child, take heed of your words! Have you any idea what you are saying? What makes you think a girl-child like you would be noticed by mighty, mighty Yahweh, the Lord God, much less be “magnified”? Be careful who hears you!

Childish boasting is one thing; but revolutionary lyrics in Roman territory is another. Your song moves from flirting with sacrilege to a whole new arena of political incorrectness and inflammatory statements.

You’re walking through landmines, where few maidens dare to tread, fields of politics and economics. You sing of God scattering the proud; but, Mary, don’t you know? The proud hate to be scattered. You sing of God bringing down the mighty from their thrones. Perhaps a few of the powerless will sing with you while glancing nervously about; but they’ll scatter and run before the rooster crows at the first sign of trouble. How long do you think the rulers of this world will let your song echo?

The hungry are filled with good things, you proclaim, and the rich are sent away empty. But the rich are used to getting their fill. Do you think they’ll just ignore you? Or will they come to devour you when you deny them their bread?

Perhaps you should stop singing, child. If this song captures the imagination of the poor, they’ll turn the world upside down. Mary! For your sake and for your child, keep a low profile! Is this really the kind of mother you want to be? Will you rock your baby to sleep with radical lullabies that make him want to grow up to be a radical too? A woman they can dismiss; but a sturdy young man? What if he remembers your words, and believes them and starts teaching them to others?

How long will he get away with it – a year or two? Mark my word, it won’t be more than three. After him, will a soul remember what he stood for, a thousand years later? Or two thousand years? Will the good news of great joy continue so long?

Why, Mary? Why are you singing? Maybe it’s the power of expectation, having a bright dream in the deep darkness of winter. Birth is like that. And this is a song of birth, of a miracle beyond all rational description, a song staccatoed by tiny kicking feet, a song full of hope for a child yet unseen.

Young girl, don’t get me wrong! We need your song. We need it in hospital rooms and board rooms and the smoky rooms where political deals are hammered out. We need it in soup kitchens and classrooms, in rural huts and highest heaven.

We need people who sing that God is vital, active … today and tomorrow. People who rejoice that God is fresh as birth, and as promising as a babe. That God loves justice, blessing the merciful and feeding the hungry. That God comes to us, unbeknownst, unpredictable, and unstoppable. And that God can wear the face of your child … and every child.

We need songs that lift us up and move us forward with hope. We need songs that remind us there is always more to life than what we see at the moment.

Others look at the dying and killing, the diseases and hunger and war. They cry out, “No hope! Tremble in fear! Each man for himself!” But you sing us past all the bombs and empty bellies.

Because of your song, sick children paint rainbows. Because of your song, old women like me sew springtime clothing in midwinter and old men plant gardens in war zones. Because of your song, the oppressed look for peace, and labor for justice to arrive any day now.

So, little Mary, keep up your brave singing! They need it. So do we. Help us harmonize with you of unborn dreams kicking within us.

Sing on, girl, about God’s merciful love, and righteousness ruling over the face of the earth. Assemble choirs to sing with you! Though the rich are still rich, the poor still poor, and the hungry still starving, let the world know that your promise is already fulfilled through the child you bring into being.

Let your promises grow in us like the child gestating in you, hidden but real, and sure to arrive in the fullness of time.

We are not naive. Like you, we see the real world, but we also hear your song. After weeks of preparation, anticipation, expectation, we are ready – now! – to dance a stumbling step to your song over winter sidewalks and through crowded malls. Ready to lead the honking parade down busy streets, into crowded post offices, to carousing holiday parties, and down dark streets glittering with house lights that the darkness can’t overcome, all because of the melody that echoes from you down the corridors of time.

So, sing, brave young Mary. Let loose and sing glad tidings of great joy. And let us sing with you … and the angels of heaven as well.