by Lynn C. Ramshaw

And he came to her and said, "Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you."
(Luke 1:28)

These words to Mary come to all of us. God speaks in our hearts, and we know that "the Lord is with us."

As long as I can remember, I knew at the core of my being that I would one day be ordained. That the church did not consider women for ordination in those days was irrelevant to me. The rector of my parish knew; he took me to see the bishop about my vocation when I was fifteen. He felt that presenting people who were called was preferable to silence, even though church canons and cultural realities required a negative response. In 1974, I presented myself again; the necessary canons were in formation. This bishop had established a local study program for women and African American men who sought ordination, and we were all re–directed to diaconal ministry as the goal of our "process." We could take one step, but that would have to suffice. Eventually, I was ordained deacon on the feast of Julian of Norwich in May of 1980.

I was the only ordained woman in my diocese for a while. I learned then that being a groundbreaker is not much fun. Even as a deacon, I was a threat to the existing order. The rules had changed, and traditionalists were frightened. Still, many opportunities opened up for me, and over time, more men and women joined this vibrant ministry. Even I began to think that the bishops’ rejections were in fact God’s will. Perhaps my call really was to be a deacon. I was privileged to be with the poor, the sick, the lost and lonely, discovering Christ among them. At the Eucharist, I proclaimed the Gospel and preached the word as I saw it in the world in which I worked. I prepared the table, administered the bread and wine, did the dishes, and dismissed the people of God, "Go into the world, rejoicing in the power of the Spirit!"

Then it happened. While I was serving as director of St. Laurence Chapel, a day center for people who are homeless, I heard the priestly call again, not only in my own soul, but from the mouths of the chapel guests. They brought me newspaper articles about the priestly ordinations of other women, even in England. They said if women can be ordained priest there, then it must be my turn.

I tried again. It took four more years; when I presented myself, the bishop who had ordained me deacon some twelve years earlier said, "Let’s see if your call lasts." Two years later, he approved my going to seminary, and two years after that, some twenty–two years after my first request, on the feast of Saints Peter and Paul in 1996, I was ordained priest in the chapel I had founded and directed. Homeless guests served as ushers; my children, now grown, vested me. Friends and colleagues participated and celebrated. Nothing could have been better. And after all that waiting, it was only the beginning.

My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior. (Luke 1:46–47)

Advent is about waiting. It’s about eager expectancy, knowing something is of God, even if it is apparently impossible. It’s about doing all we know to do, even if our actions are clearly inadequate to the task. It’s about persistence in the face of disappointments, when they come, and rejoicing in the small victories along the way. It’s about realizing that God works things out in God’s way, blessing some of our decisions, redeeming others. Advent is about embracing what is, rather than worrying about what might be. Advent is about listening in our waiting, expecting new life. Because Advent is about loving God and being loved by God.

The central biblical story of Advent begins centuries before Jesus, with a people chosen by God to reveal the Messiah to all the world. The people keep turning away from their vocation, no matter how many prophets God sends. Finally, at a particular moment in time, God chooses one woman to give human form to God’s eternal presence among us. The story is familiar: A young woman named Mary is told by an angel that she will bear the Son of God. The impossibility of such a thing is obvious: Mary is very young, betrothed to Joseph, not yet "known" by him. She and Joseph are called to wait for this unique birth in a particular way. They stand in our place for a moment, accepting the inexplicable gift of the Spirit of God, enfleshed, to live among us.

Mary and Joseph embody trust and live accordingly. She is shaped by God for the purpose of bearing God’s Son; Joseph is formed for the purpose of supporting, nurturing, protecting both of them. Pregnancy brings the need to prepare, providing safe space for the birth of an infant, and that’s what the two of them do, until the day they learn they must travel to Bethlehem, just when the child is to be born! What on earth is God thinking? Where we might resist, exasperated at the unfairness of it all, or at least the bad timing, they patiently persevere. Jesus is born and "laid in a manger" with only animals and parents to provide for his needs. With no idea of what is to come, they love him with the love of God. They bring forth new life in the midst of turmoil, and the world begins to be re-born.

His mercy is for those who fear him, from generation to generation. (Luke 1:50)

We are the generation called and formed to bear and nurture Christ in our world now. Our vocation is awesome; personally and corporately we are continually to give birth to him ourselves. Christ–bearing simply means becoming who it is that God is creating us to be. God not only gives us life, God is forming us. Our role is to respond to God’s initiative. Advent provides the annual opportunity to remember and re–experience that. Mary and Joseph always provide our example. No matter that it makes less sense to us now than it did to faithful Mary and Joseph then. No matter that Gabriel has not come to any one of us to announce this news. Our baptism is our annunciation. We are to await and bear Christ. Now.

Looking back, that’s what I was trying to do for those two decades in the discernment process. Looking back, that’s what I was trying to do for those two decades in the discernment process. Perhaps, had I been aware of the presence of God in everything that happened, either blessing or redeeming, it would have been less painful, and I might have been more patient. Perhaps, had I been aware of the presence of God in everything that happened, either blessing or redeeming, it would have been less painful, and I might have been more patient. What I did know, as Mary and Joseph knew, was that my call was within me by the grace of God. And, like them, I did what I knew to do. But when my disappointments came, it was difficult for me to see the small victories, never mind rejoice in them. Mary and Joseph seemed simply to accept that which they could not change and go with it. I resisted, often becoming angry and frustrated. They seemed to know innately that God was working God’s purpose; I kept blaming the church for inhibiting me, not accepting God’s will. They embraced; I fought. They never lost faith; I almost gave up. They kept listening and expecting God’s new life; I was utterly amazed when at last it came.

The primary difference is in the patient trust that kept them moving forward, hearing God’s word, discerning God’s direction. One of the three vows in Benedictine spirituality is the vow of obedience. I repeat it every day now; I did not know it then. Obedience means to listen for God’s word and respond to it faithfully. The process is not intense, but gentle. God’s word is spoken everywhere. We need to learn to recognize it.

This is the intimate gift of Advent. It is time to listen. To notice. To be with Mary and Joseph as they wait. Scripture comes alive for us as we wait with them. We learn from them to appreciate the living word in our history, in the silence at the center of our souls, in the companionship of family and friends, in the glorious creation of God as the seasons change, in Eucharistic celebration. We come to know that he is being born in us, and we are in awe.

The dawn from on high will break upon us...to guide our feet into the way of peace. (Luke 1:79)

That’s when the cosmic gift of Advent begins to break through to us. The Christ born in us announces that he will come again, and we wonder what that might mean. We know that it has something to do with the ending of time and space, and we know that it has something to do with the peace of God.

I believe that whatever it means already is being revealed to and in us. Genesis says that God creates our universe out of nothing. Physicists today are discovering the same thing. They now see that the core of our physical world is continual creation–out–of–nothing. Several contemporary theologians, Madeleine L’Engle and Diarmuid O’Murchu among them, use the metaphor of story–telling to describe the process: All the cosmos is God telling God’s story. God creates with Word; God’s story discloses truth.

Perhaps Jesus’ Second Coming will be revealed in the perfect, Spirit–inspired surrender of all the cosmos, including us, to being God’s story. While we are limited by time and space, we are able to see only our part, and that "through a glass darkly." Let us pray for the desire and the will to respond faithfully, entrusting the rest to God.

The child grew and became strong in spirit, and he was in the wilderness until the day he appeared publicly to Israel. (Luke 1:80)