Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Robert Sevensky, OHC
Advent 4 B - Sunday, December 20, 2020
The contemporary writer Denise Levertov (1923-1997) begins her marvelous poem Annunciation as follows:
“We know the scene: variously furnished, almost always a lectern, a book;always the tall lily. Arrived on solemn grandeur of great wings, the angelicambassador, standing or hovering, whom she acknowledges, a guest. But weare told of meek obedience. No one mentions courage. The engenderingSpirit did not enter her without consent. God waited.”
How right Levertov is when she says we know the scene. We have seen the frescoes, the great paintings, the icons, and all the other visual representations of the events recounted in today's very familiar gospel passage from Saint Luke. Indeed, it has become so familiar that it risks becoming a cliche, and we fail to see the depth of meanings which are present, layer upon layer, in the visit of the Angel Gabriel to the Virgin Mary.
Levertov is, of course, heir to a great tradition of reflection on the Annunciation. I hear echoes in her poem—which is well worth reading and meditating on—of a homily of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux in praise of the Virgin Mother which we read here at Holy Cross on the feast of the Annunciation in March, exactly nine months before Christmas. That, too, is a masterpiece of Christian art and spirituality which revolves around the question of waiting. Who is waiting? Saint Bernard says:
“The Angel is waiting for your answer: it is time for him to return to the One who sent him. And we too are waiting, O Lady, for this word of mercy, we who are overwhelmed by misery under sentence of condemnation.”
Bernard continues that it is not only the Angel who waits on Mary, nor us alone, but a whole world, a whole cosmos which awaits her response. He develops the dialogue in exquisite detail.
“Adam asks this of you, O loving Virgin,” he says, along with all his poor children. “Abraham begs this of you; David begs this of you; all the holy patriarchs, your very own ancestors, beg this of you, as do those who dwell in the valley of the shadow of death. The whole world is waiting, kneeling at your feet.”
Now Bernard of Clairvaux is no shrinking violet by any means. So he dares to go so far as to pressure Mary saying:
“Give your answer quickly, my Virgin. My Lady, speak the word which earth and hell and heaven itself are waiting for… Why delay? Why be afraid? Believe, speak, receive!”
The oration reaches its climax:
“Behold, the long desired of the nations is standing at the door and knocking. Oh, what if he should pass by because of your delay and again in sorrow you should have to begin to seek for him whom your soul loves? Rise up, then, run and open! Arise by faith, run by the devotion of your heart, open by consent. And Mary said, ‘Behold I am the handmaid of the Lord. Let it be done unto me according to your word’.”
Whew! That's pretty intense and, some might say, rather purple prose for a 12th century Cistercian abbot. But the truth is that it is only the poet, the fiery preacher, the artist, the singer, or the mystic who can begin to open to self and to others the drama and the meaning of this event. We must thank God for them.
As most of you know, we have been reading in our refectory a book by former Presiding Bishop Frank T. Griswold titled Tracking Down the Holy Ghost: Reflections on Love and Longing (2017). It's a delightful combination of spirituality, memoir and theology, peppered with incidents and observations from Bishop Griswold’s life and ministry. In his chapter on our human inclination for and need of community, Bishop Griswold reflects on how ordinary events or situations in our lives can be the place or moment where our world is enlarged as we become, or recognize that we already are, part of something that transcends us, something that is much bigger than our individual selves. Sometimes, he says, community catches us quite by surprise. Let me quote:
“I remember once having dinner with friends in a crowded restaurant when suddenly a young man at a nearby table leapt to his feet and cried out: “She said yes!” All conversation stopped, all heads turned, and then everyone in the restaurant burst into cheers and applause. His new fiancée blushed and beamed. In that instant, we all became one in our shared joy for the young couple. Very moved by the moment, I sent them a bottle of champagne!”
Such serendipitous events have the capacity to move us deeply and with a variety of reactions. Joy, yes. And perhaps also nostalgia, or longing, or even a certain sadness for what has been or may be. It is why we find ourselves moved to tears at life events such as baptisms, weddings, religious professions, and any other rites of passage, even secular ones such as the swearing in of new citizens or the inauguration of a new President. They fill us with joy and a certain hope, chastened by our life experience, individual and corporate.
But I wonder if we could use Bishop Griswold’s experience at that restaurant as one way of imagining anew the Annunciation. And perhaps also appreciate better Bernard of Clairvaux’s wonderful rhetoric. What if the Annunciation is not a very private event in a sequestered chamber with the Virgin, the Angel, and the lily? Rather, what if it is enacted in the restaurants of our lives, and it is Gabriel the
suitor who jumps up and shouts, “She said yes!” And what if we, along with the whole universe, were to break out in cheers and applause? And what if, like the good bishop, we are moved to offer the champagne of our prayers and our joy and our tears. It's all quite a bit more dynamic than, say, Fra Angelico or Botticelli or Tanner or countless other artists.
Levertov continues her poem by asking:
“Aren't there annunciations of one sort or another in most lives? Some unwillingly undertake great destinies, enact them in sullen pride, uncomprehending. More often those moments when roads of light and storm open from darkness in a man or woman, are turned away from in dread, in a wave of weakness, in despair and with relief. Ordinary lives continue. God does not smite them. But the gates close, the pathway vanishes.”
Well, of course there are annunciations of one sort or another in our lives, probably all lives. And not, I think, once or twice, but over and over again. Like Mary, we need to be attentive and aware. Like her, we need to ask the wise questions. And like her, we need to be prepared to say Yes at the right moment, in the right circumstances. Most of us, if we have survived long enough, recognize that there have been times when we said No and have come to regret it. Or perhaps even more tragic, we said Yes prematurely or without asking the right questions or without real freedom, interior or exterior. But we also trust that God is endlessly creative and may have yet other and even more enticing invitations for us. Yes, as Levertov says, the pathway vanishes, at least for a space, for a time. Perhaps for a very long time. But by God’s mercy, new pathways may appear.
During this late Advent and into the coming Christmastide and at the end of this very, very difficult year, our task is to prepare ourselves to recognize and welcome the Angel when he arrives; to realize when we are being courted and proposed to in the restaurants of our lives; and, cooperating with God's grace, to have both the wisdom and the courage to say Yes.
And who knows? Maybe we, too, will be sent a bottle of rare and expensive champagne from a nearby bishop. Stranger things have happened. And I’m told that they happen every day.
Amen.
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