Sermon – Advent 3 – The Song of Mary
Sermon Preached by Reverend Tracey Gracey on Sunday, 15 December, 2025
In 2009, I travelled to Turkey with a group of close friends. My brother-in-law Rodney was the one who did all the research and organised our itinerary.
During one of our planning evenings, Rodney — who would happily describe himself as an atheist — excitedly told me that he had found a tour in Ephesus that would take us to the house of the Virgin Mary.
I didn’t quite have the heart to tell him that I really wasn’t that excited about this visit. I was much more excited about seeing the places where Paul preached — which, to me, felt a little more believable!
On this leg of the trip, we were on a bus tour. We had met some of the people travelling with us but hadn’t shared anything about what we did for a living.
When we arrived, there was a statue of Mary. Rodney — once again far more excited than me — said, “Go over to the statue, Trace, and I’ll take your picture.”
So I dutifully wandered over, stood beside the statue, and smiled… when a woman from our tour walked past and said,
“Well, you could at least try and look religious.”
A funny thing to say.
You could at least try and look religious.
How do we look religious?
Did this woman want me to try and look like her construed image of Mary which I can only assume was one of a young angelic woman who to her was humble, meek, mild, obedient and oh so calm.
These are the images many people carry of Mary. And too often, those images put her on a pedestal — out of reach, unrelatable, and disconnected from real human experience.
But I wonder…
I wonder how religious Mary looked when she discovered she was with child, when she had to tell Joseph, and when she shared her fear and hope with Elizabeth.
I wonder how religious Mary looked as she travelled to Bethlehem and gave birth in a stable, and when she treasured and pondered these things in her heart
As Mary began her journey of motherhood,
I wonder how religious she looked when Simeon told her that her child was destined for great things, and that a sword would pierce her own heart.
I wonder how religious Mary looked when she fled from Herod into Egypt, when she lost her son in the temple,
and when her concerns and advice seemed to go unheard.
I wonder how religious Mary looked as she watched her son carry his cross, as she stood at the foot of that cross, held him in her arms
and when she walked with the other women to lay his body in the tomb.
How religious did Mary look then?
I don’t imagine she looked meek or mild or serenely calm.
I imagine she looked very much like us — shocked, amazed, frightened, joyful, overwhelmed, confused, angry, fearful, and tearful.
When we let go of the overly pious images of Mary and allow her story to be fully human, she becomes someone we can recognise:
as she was a woman who, like us, lived with uncertainty, who knew loss and worry, who learned how to trust God through the everyday realities of life.
And we can recognise and learn from her, for she teaches us to listen with our hearts.
To make space to ponder our life experiences.
To notice where God is already journeying with us.
In the midst, of her fear and uncertainty Mary expressed her experience of God in a song, which we have titled The Magnificat. This song is not quiet or private.
It’s bold. It’s risky and it turns the world upside down.
Mary sings of proud hearts being scattered, of the powerful brought down from their thrones, and of the hungry being filled with good things.
This is not the song of a passive young woman.
It is the song of someone who believes that God is already at work — reshaping lives, challenging injustice, and lifting those who feel forgotten.
Mary gives voice to her faith not with explanations, but with praise:
“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour.”
If you were to write a song about your experience of God, how would you begin?
Would it start with joy and gratitude — like Mary?
Would you be able to name moments of blessing and favour?
Would you be able to say that God has done great things for you?
Would you be able to name the times when God has challenged you, steadied you, lifted you, or carried you when you were weary?
Mary’s song invites us to ponder these things in our own hearts.
Her song invites us to acknowledge how God has been present in our lives — and then to live that truth out in ordinary, faithful ways.
Because that is how, without even trying to look religious, we magnify God’s love.
Mary’s life — as the Scriptures tell it — also teaches us something honest and important about faith.
God did not keep Mary from suffering.
God did not protect her from sorrow or loneliness.
But her faith kept her from being consumed by bitterness or despair.
Somehow, Mary continued to trust.
Somehow, she drew strength from what she already knew of God.
Somehow, she held on — even in the midst of tragedy.
Mary did not try to appear religious.
She lived from a faith rooted deep within her being.
Mary’s story is our story.
And she invites us not to look religious —
but to trust, to treasure, and to believe in a God who is present in every part of our lives.
Amen