Luke 1:39-45 · Mary Visits Elizabeth
Can You Jump for Joy?
Luke 1:39-45
Sermon
by Leonard Sweet
Loading...

So What?

All of us have one annual event, or one family tradition, that definitively makes Christmas official.

What is yours? What ritual do you perform that inaugurates the Christmas season?

For some of us it's the hanging of the greens the act of putting up the tree, decorating it and the house with all those much-loved cheesy, twinkly, shiny ornaments.

For others it may be a traditional cookie-baking marathon creating a multitude of different sweet delights and whose aroma brings the Christmas holiday alive in the home.

Or maybe for you it's the music the first sound of a Christmas carol in the mall, a special choral presentation at church, or maybe just endlessly rotating a personal supply of Christmas CDs on the disk player.

Whatever the event or activity that makes Christmas for you, the result is a sudden surge of joy in your soul, satisfaction of spirit, peace in your heart.

For our eight year old decorating the tree is the highlight of her holiday. This year as each old, beloved ornament was re-discovered, she crooned over it, declaring each in turn to be her favorite, and recalling the family history of each beautiful or bedraggled piece. As usual there were a few casualties a beak broken off a bird ornament, a tear starting to develop along one handmade snowflake, the hook missing from a decorated seashell. But tape and glue was quickly dispatched. No manner of chips, crunches, or cracks could squelch her joy.

After everything had finally been carefully placed on the tree, our daughter began jumping on the couch in flagrant disregard of the standard house rule: no jumping. At the peak of each jump, with her eight-year-old height no longer a limitation, our daughter could see the ornaments hanging at the very top of the tree, and then enjoy the expanding width and number of decorations as her bounce took her back down to the couch cushion. With every bounce up and bounce down, she reveled in the full glory of the brightly lit, weighted down tree. Squeals, oohs, and aahhs accompanied each jubilant bounce.

I had seen the Bible first-hand: She was literally jumping for joy.

Do you ever let yourself jump for joy? What gets you not only on your feet, but off your feet and into the air?

The only place adult jumping for joy is socially sanctioned is at sporting events. When the puck skids into the net, the ball swooshes through the hoop, the player speeds over the goal line, crowds get off their seat, spring to their feet, and jump up and down with the excitement of the moment. But other than celebrating a scoring victory in sports, we're pretty shy about expressing so much giddy happiness that we literally jump for joy. We leave the joyful gymnastics to children. We maybe even feel that such unabashed exuberance is genuinely childish.

In fact, in today's gospel reading it's a child who jumps for joy when the miracle of Christmas first appears.

In his first prophetic act, the still unborn John the Baptist leaped in his mother Elizabeth's womb when Mary walked in and greeted her kinswoman. The reason for the child's joy jump at the sound of Mary's voice was given to Elizabeth through the accompanying presence and interpretive power of the Holy Spirit. Elizabeth recognizes that Mary is pregnant, and that she has been chosen to be "the mother of my Lord" (verse 43). The messiah himself is now before Elizabeth and her unborn child. This awesome proximity immediately fills Zechariah's small home with all the joy, all the hopes, all the prayers for the redeeming messiah that the people of God have been waiting for. Redemption is at hand.

No wonder the yet-to-be-born John the Baptist jumps for joy.

Every few years some film studio puts out another "life of Christ" movie. Mo matter how pious or reverent, how controversial or creative, how inspired or insipid, all these films share a common vision of Jesus the Messiah, the Christ. He is always portrayed as some tall, long-locked, solemn, sermon-spouting fellow who walks as though he is treading on eggshells and whose face always looks as though he has just finished sucking on a big kosher dill. Do you find that interesting? Every film-maker is anxious to show how being the Messiah was a soul-sobering, mind-sombering business.

Think how scandalized even the most avant-garde film-maker would be if some radical director cast for Jesus a short guy with a round little belly, that shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly! Ha! It will never happen!

No, Jesus wasn't Santa Claus. But it's almost as if we need Santa at Christmas to free us to laugh and jump for joy at Jesus' coming. If we didn't have Santa, but just had Jesus, could we be merry at Christmas? Does anyone else find something tragic about this?

After all, Jesus did have enough spirit and spunk that he attracted flocks of disciples and entertained huge crowds with his words of wit and wisdom. Do you really think Jesus would have been such a popular party guest on the "A" list of all the local rowdies (the tax collectors, the rich, the morally lax) if he was nothing but a sad sack, a woebegone wet blanket?

When Jesus healed the man who had been confined to his bed for years, don't you think both the healed and the healer grabbed each other, whooped and danced, and jumped for joy at the audacity of such a miracle?

Do you really think Jesus would have just patted Jairus' daughter on the head and solemnly walked away from a child suddenly breathing again, suddenly filled with life again? Surely Jesus, who so loved to have children surround him, scooped her up and swung her around in delight, for her life was a miracle.

As the loaves and fishes began to multiply, filling the hands and bellies of more and more, until the whole hillside throng of five thousand were eating, and baskets of leftovers were being collected, did no one jump to his or her feet and let out a victory whoop? Did Jesus' disciples just plunk down their baskets and their bottoms next to a statue-still Jesus? For such hard-scrabble farmers and fishermen, the sight of such easy and abundant food must have been dizzying. Why can't we imagine Jesus and the disciples dissolving into a joyous food fight with all those baskets of leftovers, reveling in the unabashed excess of God's gifts?

Perhaps we need Santa at Christmas to help us be merry and joyous because we have a flawed understanding of Jesus. From today's gospel text we learn that the first reaction to Jesus' presence on earth, of God-in-our-midst, was joy. Joy so tremendous, joy so utterly overwhelming that it must somehow escape the bounds of earth itself and jump towards the heavens.

In John Ortberg's wonderful book The Life You've Always Wanted (Zondervan, 2002), he writes:

We will not understand God until we understand this about him: "God is the happiest being in the universe" (G. K. Chesterton). God knows sorrow. Jesus is remembered, among other things, as a 'man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.' But the sorrow of God, like the anger of God, is his temporary response to a fallen world. That sorrow will be banished forever from his heart on the day the world is set right. Joy is God's basic character. God is the happiest being in the universe.

Joy is what makes Christmas. Each of us may look to some annual family tradition to trigger that joy. But the trees, the carols, the cookies, the presents, the parties, are only various expressions of a single experience of the spirit JOY born again into our souls.

"The Christmas spirit comes on me more slowly than it used to," writes Joan Mills, a mother of three children, in her book Christmas Coming. "But it comes, it comes. Middle-aged (most of the time) and jaded (some of the time), I complain of plastic sentiment, days too brief, bones too weary. Scrooge stands at my elbow muttering, "Bah!" and "Humbug!" as I total the bills. But when I acknowledge the child I once was (and still am, somewhere within), the spirit of Christmas irresistibly descends."

"For Christmas is truly for children those we have, and those we have been ourselves. It is the keeping-place for memories of our age in lovely ritual and simplicities.

"I'm tired," I say fretfully. "There's just too much to do! Must we make so much of Christmas?" "Yes!" they say flatly.

"But bayberry, pine and cinnamon scent the shadowed room. Snow lies in quiet beauty outside. I hear someone downstairs turning on the tree lights while another admires. I lie very still in the dark. Form the church in the village on the far side of the woods, carillon notes fall faint and sweet on winter clear air.

"Silent night," my heart repeats softly. Holy night. All is calm All is bright.

"As I take the stairs lightly going down, no bones weary now, my whole self is thankful; once again, I am flooded with the certainty (call it faith) that there's goodness in the world, and love endures."

Eugene Petersen has a poem in which he calls the leap for joy in Elizabeth's womb a dance to the "'worldbeat of the womb's music.' . . . Beat in our heart and soul and womb, O God. Beat out the rhythm of calm and safety and salvation. Let us all hear the beat together. Amen." (Donna Schaper, All is Calm: Reflections for Advent and Other Busy Seasons [Winona, Minn.: St. Mary's Press, 1999], 81.)

Joy to the world, people of God. The Lord has come . . . let heaven and nature sing! Let the beat of your heart beat in rhythm with the universe.

Jump for Joy!

ChristianGlobe Networks, Collected Sermons, by Leonard Sweet