When the Time Comes

In the stillness of a village dusk,
under the wide stretch of heaven’s canopy,
a girl stands—young, ordinary,
hands calloused from the labour of life,
heart tender, yet unprepared for what is to come.

The angel arrives,
not with trumpet blast,
not with a roar to shake the mountains,
but in the quiet flame of presence.
“Greetings, favoured one,” he says.

What favour is this?
What world will she now inhabit?
Her name, Mary, is whispered in heaven,
and with it, a calling
that will break her open and fill her to overflowing.

“Do not be afraid,” he tells her.
And oh, how she wants to believe it.
“Do not be afraid.”
Yet her heart beats like a drum in the silence.
Her mind races. Her soul trembles.
“You will conceive and bear a son.”

“How can this be?” she asks.
Not out of doubt,
but out of wonderment.
Not out of resistance,
but with the ache of one standing on the edge
of a mystery too vast to comprehend.

The angel speaks, and the words are both comfort and fire:
“The Spirit will come upon you,
and the power of the Most High will overshadow you.”
Shadowed by the holy, held in divine light.
“What is your answer?”

“Here I am,” she says,
her voice steady now, before the wind of God.
“Let it be with me according to your word.”
And the heavens rejoice.

And yet, this favour is not without its cost.
Will Mary lie awake at night,
her hand on her stomach,
already feeling the weight of the world
pressing against her ribs?

She knows enough to tremble.
Knows enough of the stories that play out
over and over again—
of kings who destroy to keep their power,
of prophets rejected and silenced.
What would they do to this child?
How would this small one,
this holy gift,
bear the weight of justice in a world
that loves its thrones more than its people?

Will the neighbours talk when her belly swells?
Will Joseph stay,
or will she raise this child alone,
an outcast in her own village?
Will her parents look at her with disappointment,
or will they believe the impossible truth?

And the larger fears:
What will the Roman soldiers do
if they hear whispers of a new king?
What will happen to a boy
who carries God’s kingdom in his veins?

Mary does not know the answers,
but still, she says yes—
not from fearlessness,
but because like so many brave women before her,
the dream of a world made right
burns brighter than the fear of the unknown.

Two thousand years of patriarchy
will try to steal her voice,
but her yes endures—
a melody of agency,
ringing through the ages.

Later, in the quiet of Elizabeth’s home,
her cousin’s arms around her,
Mary sings the song that will echo through the halls of eternity:

“My soul magnifies God,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour,
for they have looked with favour
on the lowliness of their servant.
Surely, from now on
all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is their name.

Mary’s voice rises like a psalm,
like a hymn for the downtrodden,
for the weary, for the cast aside.
Her words the battle cry of hope:

“They have shown strength with their arm;
they have scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. They have brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly;
They have filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.”

She sings it with conviction,
though her voice trembles.
This is a song of revolution,
a cry for the world to be turned upside down.
What would the mighty think if they heard
this peasant girl singing of their fall?
What would Herod do if he knew a child was coming
that would count down his time?

She anticipates the danger, but also the joy.
She dreams of the day
when mothers will no longer cradle empty bellies,
when fields will yield bread for all instead of profit for a few.
She dreams for a time when swords
will be beaten into plowshares,
and the cries of the oppressed will be silenced by justice,
not by force.

This is not an empty dream, but a fierce one.
It is a dream born within labour pains,
a dream that knows the cost of love and chooses it anyway.

And then comes the waiting.
The long months of carrying the weight of promise.
The days of swollen feet and sleepless nights.
The hours of feeling him move within her—
the flutter of tiny hands and feet,
the stirrings of a life destined to change the world.

Does she wonder,
as her belly grows round,
what it will mean to mother the Messiah?
Does she imagine the looks on the faces of the shepherds,
the joy and fear mingling in their rough-hewn voices?

Does she cry in the night,
her fears slipping from her lips in the form of quiet prayers?
“God, will I be enough?
Will I be able to carry him,
to raise him,
to let him go when the time comes?”

When will she discover that this was the work of love?
To hold close and let go.
To nurture and release.
To protect and to witness as the one you adore
steps into danger for the sake of others.

And when the time comes,
it is not in a palace,
not in a place of power or wealth,
but in the raw, earthy reality of a stable.
The cries of labor mixed with the smell of hay.
Her sweat mingled with the dirt of the earth. 

With a final push, the world shifts—
and there he is, wet and wailing,
his first cry splitting the silence of anticipation,
the light of the world cradled in her arms.

Fragile and perfect.

She holds him close,
this boy who is God and flesh,
bone and spirit.
Tiny hands grasp her finger.
Eyes barely open meet her gaze.
And she whispers,
“You are here. You are real. You are mine.”

But even now, she knows—
he is not hers alone.
This child belongs to the world,
to the poor and the broken,
to the hopeful and the lost.

Mary, oh Mary,
The enfleshed God’s first teacher,
Your Magnificat still resounds.
Teach us to sing with you,
To dream with you,
to carry the promise of a better world within us.

Teach us to magnify the Divine,
to lift up the igored,
to fill the hungry with only good things.
Or, perhaps, to believe that change is coming for us too.
Teach us to wait, to trust, to wonder.

For the child you bear is the dream
of all with hearts that long;
the love in the night,
the peace that will not let us go.

Your song becomes our call
Your dream becomes our work.

Could your "yes" becomes the yes of the world?

Amen.