It was their weekly practice.

The meditation was over.

There was a concluding phrase that was to be said by each person in turn:

but it was surprising hard to say the words.

The small group of people sat in silence around the table-waiting.

Then, finally, one voice spoke.

But even after the phrase had been said out loud that first time, each person still had to draw breath on their own and test their ability to convert air into conviction.

The room was filled with silences of various lengths,
deep unspoken resonances sounded as each person repeated,
"With God nothing will be impossible."
I don't know how it is with you, but I deeply want to believe this phrase. I want to believe these words even as they provoke a quaver in my voice when I try to say them in a way that includes my own life and times.

It is one thing to look at characters in the Bible.
It is another to peer into our own character and culture
and claim "With God nothing will be impossible."
It is perplexing to see things as we think they are, and then hold that image up against the promises of God. "How can this be?" we might ask when we see the lack of conjunction.

We are not the first to be surprised by the possibilities which God presents.

Nothing in Mary's experience could have prepared her for the shocking reality of the angel standing in front of her. "Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you," the angel said.

The author of Luke reports that Mary was "much perplexed,"
and that she "pondered what sort of greeting this might be."
I wonder if that description is a fancy way of saying "terrified,"
because the next words out of the angel were "do not be afraid."
Have you ever noticed that every time an angel appears in Scripture, whether it is to a young woman or to grizzled shepherds, the first few words inevitably include, "Do not be afraid?"

An encounter with a message from God is an awesome thing.

Fear is often the initial response in the face of the unexpected. Then if one comes to believe that the contact is of God, the mind kicks in and wants explanations.

"How can this be?" Mary asks when she is told that God's son will be carried within her.

"Indeed," modern people echo, "how can this be?"
On the face of it, it does seem impossible.
How could Mary conceive in the way the story says?
This doesn't fit with our understanding of how things normally work.
It seems impossible that Elizabeth, known to be barren, could carry John in her womb.
It seems impossible that many of the things we read in Scripture could be true, for they are outside of our regular everyday experience.

But do we really have to have stood next to Moses at the Red Sea to believe that God can lead his people out of bondage?

Do we need to confirm all the intimate details in order to believe that God so loved us that he sent his only Son?

Do we have to have scientific proof of the resurrection in order to let ourselves be drawn into the reality of its power?

God presented a reality to Mary that she could not have expected.
It was a reality that she could hardly believe even though an angel announced it.
We will never know if Mary could have said "no," to this opportunity.

But we do know that she chose to say "yes."

Mary set aside the questions that she couldn't possibly answer. Mary believed that the word of God was more vast than her imaginings or her understanding.

"Here am I," she said, "the servant of the Lord;
let it be with me according to your word."

And with that statement Mary opened herself to infinite possibility. She allowed room for even the impossible to happen within her, and in that act of acceptance and participation, the angel disappeared.

For there is no longer need for a messenger
when the Word has been received.

There is no need for signs and wonders all around you when God is growing within you.

This is the fourth Sunday in Advent.
The time of waiting is almost at a close.
The distance between the annunciation and the nativity is but the blink of an eye.

The distance between the impossible and the ever creative possibilities of God will be bridged in the space of a heartbeat.

Unto us a Savior will be born, the outward and visible truth that lies hidden in an angel's words:

"With God nothing will be impossible."

Can we take these Sunday morning stories out into the light of day with us when we leave? Will they stand up to the rigors of the real world?

Yes. A real world is a world that is wise enough to admit the limits of its own wisdom; clear about the outrageous lengths to which God will go to be with us;

and humble enough to make room for a savior.

O come, O come Emmanuel.