Advent 4: The Underdog

Sermon by the Revd Dr Brutus Green
Readings: Micah 5:2-5a; Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-45

It should be no surprise that Britain became a Christian nation in a relatively straightforward manner, largely in the seventh century.  Today’s readings bring out a central theme of Christianity which is also central to British identity: Favouring the underdog. Not because there was a corgi or greyhound at the birth of our Lord,  but in continuity with a great deal of the Hebrew Bible, God’s favour rests on the most unlikely of people in achieving the turn-around God desires.  God - like the English, especially, - prefers to cheer for the less likely candidate. This is also something of a trait in the Welsh and Scottish who will cheer for whoever is playing against England.

So it is in Bethlehem, one of the little clans of Judah, and it is Mary, a young girl - and no aristocat (she’s the underdog remember)  no fancy renaissance princess in a blue scarf, as we expect at our nativity plays - that is chosen for the task of bringing in God’s salvation.

When I was able to take assemblies in schools, I’d give the children a bit of a test to see whether they could tell Biblical Christmas from our post-Victorian Christmas. Usually they do correctly answer that Mary did not ride a reindeer down to Bethlehem.But the test comes in whether we can debunk the Waitrose Christmas myths - of the cosy manger, the silent night of picturesque snowy stables; the tired but satisfied parents, the jolly, apologetic innkeeper, the three kings. We would all like the Christmas story to be directed by Richard Curtis, but the Holy Family is much more like the worst-hit underdogs of today, refugees. Christ is born at Calais. Or this winter in Afghanistan.

This preference for the underdog is one of the most distinctive patterns of Christian theology. From the beginning it was vilified as the religion of slaves and women. Nietzsche described Christianity as “a European movement, [which] was from the start no more than a general uprising of all sorts of outcast and refuse elements”,  as St Paul agrees: “God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are.” Advent 4 in the last days before Christmas remembers Mary, a peasant girl of a conquered nation in an outlying region, with child;  the epitome of vulnerability and poverty.  Because God is with her.

But though she is the underdog it is the Magnificat she sings, the mainstay of Anglicanism in Evensong. And the Magnificat, echoing Hannah, Samuel’s mother’s song, after she gives birth to the Old Testament prophet, is the hymn of the great turn around:

he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree.
He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away.

Mary, then, is the revolutionary of her day – bringing down the powerful from their thrones and lifting up the lowly; but leading the revolution in her own meek  “be it unto me according to thy word: way. So really, rather than blowing away the fat cats by crying havoc and letting loose the dogs of war, Mary’s revolution is internal. Internal in that she is carrying God within her. Internal in that it is a turn to reliance upon God. Not all revolutions can be accomplished by keeping quiet and having a baby. But any revolution begins from within oneself. 

Which brings me on to the subject of prayer. The main problem, I think, that people have in regard to prayer is not the struggle to get hold of God; that God’s not there. It’s where are you - and where has your mind gone. Because God can’t speak to you, if you’re not actually present. And if every time you pray your thoughts scatter in every direction, they settle off in the future with thoughts of Sunday lunch, or you settle down for a nap it’s going to be difficult for God to get through.

There are two common mistakes in approaching prayer. The first is to think it’s about saying everything you need to, making sure you remember all your sick relatives, getting it all on the table. The problem with this is if you’re the one speaking all the time, how are you going to hear what God’s saying. This, by the way, also goes for our day to day human relationships. A friend of mine once told me that you know you’re with a good friend when, to paraphrase, you can sit comfortably with them and not say anything. And it’s true, when we’re uncomfortable, feeling awkward, when we want to impress, we tend to talk a lot. You’re in the best sort of company when neither needs to speak.

The second common mistake is to think prayer is about emptying your mind. That you need not to think, or to think about nothing, in some Zen master wizard sort of way. The Christian tradition has never taught this and it’s also something you would not find in most mainstream religious practices - including Zen Buddhism.

Rather, and certainly for the Christian, the central occupation of prayer (at least of Christian meditation) should be focussing on something quite specific. So the Orthodox use the Jesus prayer: “Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner” repeated over and over in time with our breathing. Roman Catholics will often use the Rosary which moves between “Our Father”s, “Hail Mary”s and “Glory Be”s. It is entirely possible to pray focussing on nothing more than our own breathing. Alternatively, one could use Mary’s prayer: “Be it unto me according to thy word”. The point in all this is to be able to be open to what God might be wanting to say to you. After all, God already knows what’s in our hearts. It’s us who struggle to know what’s in his.

But prayer is not just about bringing us closer to God, it’s also about bringing us closer to each other. As we are commanded to love God and our neighbour, so as we love one more, we will in turn love the other.  Spending time in prayer should open us up more to the needs and desires of other people. And, in particular, the underdog.  Any revolution begins from within oneself. 

But it also reminds us that God is not necessarily to be found in or with the people and situations we expect. Not necessarily with the rich and famous, in the impressive cathedrals or the university divinity faculties, and we should check ourselves to make sure we haven’t become too grand, or too comfortable.

But at the moment, we are still in Advent. It is the season of hope and expectation. Which means it is still the season of prayer and looking within ourselves for the miracle of grace that is coming at Christmas. We’ve made it through the patriarchs - the great men of renown - Abraham, Isaac, Jacob;  then the second week’s prophets, foremost of whom is Moses, the law giver, but especially also the prophecy of Isaiah who looks to the restoration of Israel;  our third candle was for John the Baptist as the last prophet - pointing towards Christ: ‘Make straight the way of the Lord’.  Finally we have Mary, the culmination of these great figures, a poor peasant girl who is to be the Theotokos - the God bearer - who will announce and through her body present Christ to the world. Christ, the star to every wandering bark.

So as we come to the end of this Advent season, Let’s remember the underdogs of our world. Let’s pray for God’s presence with us. And let’s try and turn our hearts so that we will seek him more, and recognise him in the more unlikely places.

And, as we also pray for our enemies and those who persecute us, let us also remember cats. Amen.