The Silence of Angels

Christmas Eve Sermon, December 24, 2008, St. Paul's L'Amoreaux

During my years in college and seminary I worked part-time at a radio station. Mostly I helped with some community programs and Sunday morning I was the announcer for an hour or so of gospel music. It was a small assignment, but I was thrilled. I loved the work, I got a great kick out of meeting the announcers. I was fascinated with the inner life of a radio station. And I picked up some of the jargon which I was ever so eager to show off.

One day at home, we were listening to the radio, when suddenly, between a song and a commercial, all went quiet - for two, possibly three seconds. My ears pricked up, I pointed at the radio, and authoritatively proclaimed: “Dead air!”

My mother did not know pop radio jargon. “Dead what?,” she inquired.

“Dead air,” I said. “The announcer missed his cue. One thing must follow the next without interruption. It's big trouble if there’s ‘dead air’.”

And I always remembered my mother's reply: “I would have called that silence,” she said. “which, sometimes, is golden.”

It would take a while to sink in, but in what I came to realize is a very noisy world, my education about silence had begun. And as years passed, the liturgy of the church played a big part.

Those under whom I trained for the liturgy would often insist that there are times for silence. In the presence of God there are times when you simply cannot improve on what is taking place. There are times when you had better not try.

A few years ago I was baptizing a beautiful little baby girl. The church was full and it was a big and special day for all of us - except, it appeared, for the little girl who began hollering from about the moment she entered the church.

Duly warned, I guess, about the serious undertaking about to be thrust upon her.

And for the first part of the liturgy, her father took her out to the entrance so that the congregation could hear what was going on, and so she could holler at the bulletin boards and all the late-comers. But then her fateful moment arrived, her father brought her back in - and she hollered.

It was, in fact, genuinely awkward. Her parents were embarrassed. The people were fidgeting, because it was hard to hear almost anything but this beautiful little creature sounding the alarm. And I remember thinking, maybe I should say something to lighten the moment. Maybe I should tell a joke. But I thought of what my instructors had said. “There are times when, for better or worse, you cannot improve on what is taking place. There are times when administering the sacraments, you had better not try.”

And so I didn't. And it came time for me to receive the little girl, to baptize her in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, to etch a little cross on her fore-head, the symbol of the cruciform life a Christian is destined to lead, and to present her family with a lit candle for her mission in the world. And apart from those ancient prayers, and for the entire time of her baptism, our little angel - and the angels attending here - were silent.

And none of the rest of us dared whisper.

This, no doubt, is a very small point, but over Advent I noticed something about Zechariah and Mary, the two to whom the angel Gabriel came, announcing the births of John the Baptist and Jesus.

Zechariah and his elderly wife were righteous and faithful people from the hills of Judea.

It says he was on duty at the temple in Jerusalem. On first reading, we probably miss the point. But at the time there were thousands of priests in the nation, as many as 18,000, and the chance to offer incense in the temple sanctuary was at the throw of the die and came only once or twice in a lifetime, if at all. This may have been Zechariah’s only opportunity.

And so he enters the Holy of Holies in the temple, and wouldn't you know it, first time in and the Archangel Gabriel appears. Gabriel has descended from heaven with the astonishing news that Zechariah and his barren wife will give birth to a child - the forerunner of the Messiah. First time in the temple and Zechariah will leave with a tale to tell - except, that at the critical moment he blows it.

You’d have thought that surely, somewhere, tucked away in a footnote in one of those old seminary textbooks he would have read the assurance that personal messages from the Archangel Gabriel are trustworthy. Instead, and unfortunately, Zechariah doubted, and was silenced by the angel until the appointed time.

Indulge me for a moment.

Gabriel has another announcement. The earth trembles at this one. We all do. And there are three things to be aware of in Gabriel's message to Mary.

First, the hopes of the nation are being fulfilled.

To her will come the Son of David. The hope of her people. The hope of the world.

". . . in the latter time he will make glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations. The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness- on them light has shined." (Isaiah 9:1-2).

Secondly, the same power of God that was at work at the beginning of the world in at the time of creation is now at work - in unexpected Galilee, in the unopened womb of a young woman, in a person who was otherwise not seeking anything for herself.

“The power of the most high will overshadow you.”

A better word might be ‘hover’, making it clearer what the Archangel is saying.

When does the Spirit of the Lord hover?

In the tabernacle and the temple, when the Spirit descended and hovered over both, expelling all inside.

In the beginning, when the Spirit hovered over the waters, bringing life out of the chaos of water and darkness.

And in despised Nazareth where no one expected anything, over a simple handmaid from whom no one expected much, the Spirit of God descended to bring light and life. To do what only God can do, where only God can do it.

The Archangel explained that the Spirit would hover over her. It is a stunning announcement.

But thirdly, extended to Mary - and to the world - is the divine compliment. The humbling of God's power and holiness among the people he created. With with whom he chooses, out of love, to be present. Among whom he chooses, out of love, to redeem heaven and earth.

“I will give you as a light to the nations,” says the prophet, “that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” (Isaiah 49:6)

It is, I think, the stunning moment. We see it here tonight at the creche. The presence of the Almighty God in the arms of Mary. God who comes to us in his only beloved Son. A presence and an offer extended to each one of us. Here in its purest form. God here among us, in search of our response.

It’s a simple thing, and you may not want to make too much of it. Zechariah was a righteous man. God would use him to bring the Herald, John the Baptist, into the world. But for a few days, in response to his doubts, he would be silenced by the angel, given some time to think it through.

But when the question is put to Mary, to the one, some might say, who doesn't get much out of it.

To the one whose chief characteristics will be to ponder, and wonder, and witness and obey.

To the one whose joy would be the joy that shines through the tears.

When the Almighty reaches out to Mary, when the glory, purity, beauty and holiness of God is offered to Mary, she answers:

“Here I am, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

Unlike any other exchange between a human and an angel in Scripture, Mary has the last word. And the Archangel Gabriel is silent.

For whom will we live? For ourselves or for the One who has created us. Today I invite you to accept the invitation that God extends to us in Jesus Christ. To offer your life in humility and repentance. To receive the gift of God’s own life and to permit yours to be made over by his presence. And to become a light in the world to the glory of God. Amen.