Love Embodied: A pregnancy to change the world

Sermon on Luke 1:26-38

During the last couple of weeks, I noticed something. It started with a weird feeling in my stomach. It moved into my bones. And I realized: I physically miss being in churches. Inside old buildings where people have been worshipping God for years. I miss the smell of wooden pews and fresh flowers mixed with wine and people. I miss the sound of turning hymnal pages and organ and old and young voices singing along. I miss feeling the church feeling. I was fine for 8 months, really. But Advent hit me hard. Advent without being at church, physically, has been tough.

When I was a kid my parents travelled as much as possible with us through Northern Europe. We drove everywhere and always camped. And we visited every church on our way. At least that’s what I remember. Every village, town, or city we passed through we would stop by a church. Be it for a short snack break, for a walk in the cemetery, for a visit to the actual building. We learned that protest churches are usually closed during the weeks and catholic churches are mostly open. We lit candles, inhaled the smell of frankincense and touched holy water to make the cross. If there was a mass or a prayer going on, we always stayed. Even if we didn’t understand the language.

When I was 11 my brother and I went to a skiing camp for the first time for a week in Czech Republic. We hated the trip because we had to do cross country skiing instead of downhill skiing and the food was bad and the other kids were weird. Well, we simply didn’t know them, I guess. But there was one highlight of the trip. Half a day we spent in Prague basically by ourselves. And for a couple of hours we got to walk through the nearby town by ourselves. Those were the times when middle school kids could discover foreign places by themselves. While everyone else went shopping, we did what we had always done. Especially since it was cold outside and there was nothing to do to kill the time. So, we visited churches. Among all the strange people churches felt like home. Like a safe place to be. There was only one in the little town and it was closed. Yet, we were determined and didn’t give up. So, we rang the bell. A pretty surprised priest came out and we explained to him in a mix of English and German that we wanted to visit the church. “Do you want to pray?”, he asked us and we nodded. Not that we wanted to but we figured that was our only way to get in.

It must have been Lent and so the priest didn’t just walk to the altar. He fell down to his belly after every step. We watched and then just copied what he did. He sure must have thought we were crazy. But he showed us around the church, gave us candy and a booklet with postcards. We were so proud. Mission accomplished. We had seen the most important building of the city. Just that it had taken longer than expected and when we returned to the tour bus everyone was mad at us for being late. And our excuse seemed pretty odd, too. To this day it’s one of my dearest memories when thinking about churches. And I don’t even know the name of the town anymore. And the church was fairly normal. Some kind of an old gothic-style church in Europe. Special was the encounter with the priest. Our efforts to communicate across language barriers. Our wish to connect as Christians. Our shared faith. And the postcards. All of this made that church a special place. A holy home.

Today’s readings are all about places where God feels home. Surprisingly enough, none of those places are churches. In our first lesson God told king David not to build a fancy temple for him after all these years he had traveled in a simple tent. “No”, God tells David. “You don’t build me a house. The Lord will make YOU a house. You, the people of David.”

The basic message is: God doesn’t need a house. Sure, church buildings are awesome. They often have a holy atmosphere. And by that, I mean, they tell stories of all the people who have prayed in them, cried in them, hoped in them. They are witnesses to years of faith. But God doesn’t need a house made out of wood or stone, guarded by walls and doors and locks. God travels with the people and makes them a home. God makes people feel at home. Just that somehow that works really well inside of church walls for me. But that might really just be me.

And if you find that surprising considering all the money people have been spending on church building over the centuries, today’s Gospel spices things up even more. And yes, we all know the story of the annunciation. We know the images of Mary meeting the angel Gabriel. We know that she will be pregnant and give birth to Jesus, son of God.

Yet, this story is about more than a single pregnancy. It’s even about more than Jesus. It’s about where God takes home in this world.

The obvious answer is: in a young girl. In Mary, the favored one. There is no account, why she was favored. At least no biblical account. There is really no special reason why Mary.

Except that God chose her. God chose an ordinary young girl to be his home. A home made of flesh and blood for his flesh and blood. God moved into the body of a woman.

What a scandal. I mean it. God took home in a woman’s body. That same body that the church has claimed to be either too holy to look at or too weak or even unworthy to preach and serve God publicly. That’s the place God trusted with his life.

And that’s the place God still trusts. Human bodies. People like you and me. No, we aren’t Mary. We didn’t give birth to the Savior of the world. No matter how great we think our kids are. But God chooses to be with us. God takes home in us. In our homes that have become our castles since March and our churches. In our hearts that have been hurting so much since March over all the losses, all the lives, all the changes. God builds a home in our soul and fills it with something that’s a crazy mix of joy, hope, fear and love. Mary puts it in words singing “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord… the promise made to our forebears, to Abraham and his children forever.”

God doesn’t need a house. God will make us a house. Even in our own house. God will sanctify the ordinary. Our living-rooms, our kitchens, our bedrooms, our offices, our bodies. Wherever we encounter God, God has made a house filled with God’s presence for us. A tent will do. The body of a young girl will do. Or an old woman. Any body can be home to God. Any body can be a church. Any voice at an any place can speak of God.

Our God is a walk-in-God, a God-to-go, a God-within-me and you. Basically, the perfect Covid-God. Big worship services are awesome. But the greatest God moments seem to happen one on one with God, with angels or in dreams. God didn’t choose a certain country or building back in the days. God chose a people. A church made out of living, ordinary bodies.

And yes, I still need churches. I need them as reminder of God’s presence in this world. But this year it’s good to remember, that we aren’t the ones building God’s house or keeping it open. That God doesn’t need a church to be close to us. As much as I miss being inside a church.

God promised to be with us. And as long as we have a body, we can trust that we bring everything God needs.

And then God does what God does best. God moves in. God surprises us. God shakes things up. God is with us. Amen.