Advent 4, Year B
The Rev. Rob Fisher
St. Dunstan’s, Carmel Valley

Texts: 2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16; Psalm 89:1-4, 19-27; Romans 16:25-27; Luke 1:26-38

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.

A few days ago I found myself in Salinas, and I treated myself to something I have never done but have been wanting to do for years.

I went to the great pilgrimage site of one of my all-time favorite writers, the National Steinbeck Center.

As a life-long Steinbeck fan, I find it fun to live here, and to brush up against some of his history in this area quite frequently.  I know one parishioner whose grandfather used to be a childhood playmate of his growing up in Salinas.  Over at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Salinas, in one of their hallways, they have a picture of him in front of the church, vested as an acolyte.  According to legend, he once lost his position as head crucifer when he accidentally dropped the processional cross on a visiting bishop.

Late in his life, when he went off across the country with his French poodle, Charley, he came back to see Monterey one last time.  One of the families he visited was that of Nancy Costello.  (She tells me he was really nice, and so was the dog.)

Once I got a chance to go into the small, wooden lab on Cannery Row where the marine biologist Ed Ricketts used to live.  Ed was probably Steinbeck’s best friend in life, and the two of them used to spend hours philosophizing about marine life and human society.  Ed lived upstairs, and collected marine life specimens downstairs and in tanks outside in the back part of his lot overlooking the water.

Much of his book, Cannery Row, is actually set inside the lab.

The day that I got to walk around it I showed up expecting there would be a big crowd, but it turned out that I was the only one there for the tour.  So, it was just me and the tour guide.

As we walked around the creaky, wooden rooms, he told great stories of what all went on there.

There was something a little off about the scene, though.  The stories were a little too hallowed.  Steinbeck loved to poke fun at anything or anybody who took him or herself too seriously, and I thought he’d be turning in his grave to see his old buddy’s place treated so reverently.

But then, all of a sudden, the tour guide started to interrupt himself, and say things like, “Woo wee, I am sorry about that.  It must have been something I had for lunch.  I really do apologize!”

With all the flatulence, it wasn’t such a sacred moment after all, and I really believe Steinbeck would have loved it.

***

Why is Steinbeck such a big deal, anyway?

More than anything else, he could tell a story.

He was a famously shy person, but he loved conversation.  He could soak up the stories of other people, and then he was compelled to pass these stories along.

He was a messenger.

The stories he told were not always pretty, but they were always true—or at least they strove to get at the truth of what makes life meaningful.

The story we hear this morning is a central part of the Christmas story.

A beloved story.

And it is about a messenger: the angel Gabriel.

The angel calls out to Mary, “Greetings, favored one!  The Lord is with you.”

And he tells her about the baby she will have, whose name will be Jesus.

Imagine what it must have been like for her to hear this.

She is now going to be at the center of history.

She is now going to be at the center of the good news for the world.

The angel tells her at this moment what her son’s name will be.  It is not just any name.  Jesus is the Greek version of the name Joshua, which means “God is salvation!”

***

In a short while, we will here a piece of music by Felix Mendelssohn, based on the words taken from the book of Romans:

“How lovely are the messengers that preach us the gospel of peace!  To all the nations is gone forth the sound of their words.  To all the lands their glad tidings.”

The angel is a messenger who brings the gospel of peace—the “good news” of peace—to the world.

And the world that is in darkness needs this good news badly.

We are now deep into Advent.  For some, it is the brightest and most joyful of times.  For others, it is a very hard time.

And for many, it is actually a mixture of both.

This glorious message coming to us now is a little like a stained glass window.

A stained glass window looks totally different whether you are standing inside of it or outside of it.

If you are inside of it, you can see the light shining in through the glass, bringing all those wonderful colors to life.

If you are standing outside and looking at the window, you see only a dark surface to the glass.  No bright and glorious colors.  The lead lines between the pieces of glass just random squiggles.

It is up to us to be like Mary and to let the light of God shine through us.

It is up to us to make the good news of this story more than random lines and colors, but to let it truly come alive.

For the world to see.

We’ve heard this great message.  It has filled us with light.  And now it is up to us to let this glorious light be spread.

Because God knows that the world needs it.

Steinbeck, when he was at his best, told the truth.

The angel told the truth.

We, too, are called to tell the truth.  And the ultimate truth of all the world is the glory of God, which consumes both the good and the bad and draws all things into himself.

Darkness and light to God are both alike.

How lovely are the messengers that bring us the gospel of peace.

—Amen.