"carbonated holiness"

Anna Blaedel
First UMC, Osage
December 14, 2008

3rd Sunday of Advent—JOY

Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11
Luke 1:46b-55

I want to begin by sharing one of my favorite poems with you, written by one of my favorite poets. If you are comfortable doing so, I invite you to close your eyes as you listen. “Magnificat,” by Christina Hutchins.

What shall I do
with this quiet joy?
It calls forth the expanse
of my soul, calls
it forth to go singing
through the world,
calls it forth
to rock the cradles of death
gently
and without fear,
to collect the rain
in my spread hands
and spill it
like laughter,
calls it forth
to touch and carry
her suffering, his age
our dense flesh,
to bear into this world
a place
where light will glisten
the edge of every wing
and blade of grass,
shine along every hair on every head,
gleam among the turnings of every wave,
glorify
the turning open of each life,
each human hand.

What shall we do with this quiet joy, calling forth the expanse of our souls, calling us forth to go singing through the world?

Let us pray: Come, Holy Spirit, come. Come as the fire and burn, come as the wind and cleanse, come as the dew and refresh, come as the light and reveal. Convict, convert, consecrate, until we are, wholly thine…

Writer Anne Lamott has written one four word sentence I have remembered since first stumbling upon it, about four years ago. “Laughter,” she writes, “is carbonated holiness.” Laughter is carbonated holiness. When we give into laughter, when we stop taking ourselves so seriously, when we allow for interruptions of joy, the Spirit bubbles up, the Sacred flows and overflows.

Laughter is carbonated holiness. In our joy, we meet God. In our laughter, God meets us.

Today we light the Advent candle of Joy. And today, we gather to celebrate and learn from the children of this community. And today, we read two of my very favorite passages of scripture.

From Isaiah, where the Spirit of a living God is revealed. God who anoints the prophet to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners. To comfort all who mourn. It is God’s desire, the Holy One’s dream, to replace ashes with garlands, and mourning with gladness.

What shall we do with this quiet joy, calling forth the expanse of our souls, calling us forth to go singing through the world?

And from Luke, Mary’s Song of joyful praise, the Magnificat. Two pregnant women, dear friends, greet each other, and the child Elizabeth is carrying leaps for joy.

Another short sentence from Anne Lamott: “Gratitude is the secret to joy.”

In the midst of oppression, broken heartedness, captivity, imprisonment, and mourning, Isaiah proclaims the coming of the one who will bring good news, bind up the brokenhearted, proclaim liberty to the captives, release to the prisoners, and comfort all who mourn. Gratitude, giving way to joy.

And Mary, her future unknown, her faith tested. Mary, an unwed woman, waiting for a child, waiting for God. Her life turned upside down, her soul centered in God. “My soul magnifies God, and my spirit rejoices in God,” Mary sings. Gratitude, giving way to joy.

I want to close with another story, this one told by Carol Stigger.

“At the Christmas Eve church service, I sat with my two boisterous grandchildren, ages three and five. Their parents sat in front of the church to present a nativity reading titled "Silent Night." They had warned the children to behave. I had warned the children to behave. With scrubbed angelic faces and Christmas wonder in their eyes, they looked like model children posing for a magazine holiday spread. I indulged myself in a few moments of pride.

Alec pinched Aubrey. I was grateful that the organ thundered into the first hymn just then, drowning out her yelp. I grabbed her hand before she could return the pinch. During the Lord's Prayer, Aubrey shredded the program I had given her to color on. The crayons had already rolled under the pew. I watched bits of paper fall on the carpet like snow. I would help her pick it up later, but for now the naughtiness I was allowing kept her occupied and her brother quietly admiring. We were enjoying an uneasy truce when their parents stood to deliver the reading. "Mommy!" Alec yelled. She frowned, and he sat back in his seat.

"Silence," my son said to the congregation. "Think for a moment what that word means to you." My daughter-in-law signed his words. Earlier that year, she began to use her new signing skills for the benefit of the few hearing-impaired members of our church. Alec said a naughty word, thankfully too low for many to hear. I scowled at him, shaking my finger and my head. Aubrey grinned. Then she proclaimed, every syllable enunciated perfectly, in a clear voice that carried to far corners of the sanctuary, "Alec is a potty mouth!" Everyone stared. I was too stunned to speak. My son and his wife looked at each other. But instead of anger, I saw surprise. My son set aside his script and told another story. He told about their daughter being born profoundly deaf. He talked about four years of hearing aids and speech therapy with no guarantee she would ever learn to speak plainly. He talked about the rugged faith that kept the family praying she would have a normal life. He said Aubrey's outburst was an answer to prayer: the first perfectly enunciated sentence she had ever spoken. From the back of the room, a lone voice sang the last line of a beloved Christmas Carol: Hark! The herald angels sing, Glory to the newborn king. While the congregation sang four verses of the unscheduled hymn, my two little angels wiggled in their parents' arms, adding laughter and giggles to the joyful Christmas noise.”

Gratitude, giving way to joy. Laughter as carbonated holiness. Children, interrupting us that we might meet God. What shall we do with this quiet joy, calling forth the expanse of our souls, calling us forth to go singing through the world?

Amen, and amen.