Mary’s song is more than a sweet lullaby. It names God’s justice with courage. It says the proud will be scattered, the powerful will not keep their thrones, and the hungry will be filled. This is worship that refuses to pretend everything is fine when it is not. It is praise that tells the truth and trusts God to act.
When you sing like this, your voice becomes part of God’s resistance to what harms and dehumanizes. Singing can be a prayer that takes sides with the poor, the overlooked, and the weary. You are not just expressing feelings—you are joining God’s future, calling it into the present with melody and breath.
Luke 1:46-55
Mary says, “My soul lifts up the Lord, and my spirit celebrates God my Savior. He has noticed my smallness and done great things. His mercy keeps showing up for those who revere him. He bares his strong arm, unsettles the proud, brings down rulers, and raises the humble. He fills the hungry and turns away the rich. He remembers his promise and helps his people, just as he said.”
Reflection: Name one local injustice (a neighbor underpaid, a school short of supplies, a policy harming the vulnerable); where and when will you sing a stanza of the Magnificat or another justice-filled hymn today as a prayer over that situation, and who will you invite to join you?
God’s people have always sung in the dark. Spirituals rose from fields of suffering. Carols drifted across trenches in wartime. These were not songs that denied pain; they were songs that told the truth about pain while clinging to a deeper Promise. Advent invites us to do the same—to light a small candle and sing while night is still night.
Your song does not need to be strong to be faithful. Even a whisper counts. When you sing in the dark, you lean toward the dawn. You are agreeing with God that light is on the way, even if your eyes cannot see it yet.
Luke 2:29-32
Simeon said, “Now I can die in peace, Lord, because I’ve seen with my own eyes the rescue you prepared for everyone—a light that will open the truth to the nations and bring honor to your people Israel.”
Reflection: Tonight, light a candle, name one fear or grief out loud, and sing or hum “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” for two minutes—what do you sense shifts in you as you do?
There are days when words won’t do. Gratitude is too full, sorrow is too heavy, hope is too fragile. Song gives these deep places a way out. When breath meets melody, what is buried begins to rise. This is not performance. This is prayer that moves through your body and returns you to God.
You don’t need a trained voice; you need a truthful one. A simple line, sung over and over, can steady you like a handrail in a storm. Let your heart move first. Let your mouth follow. Trust that God hears even the trembling note.
Luke 1:67-79
Filled with the Holy Spirit, Zechariah began to bless God: “The Lord has come to help his people and set them free. From his mercy, a new day is breaking—a sunrise from heaven—to shine on those sitting in darkness and under death’s shadow, and to guide our feet onto the path of peace.”
Reflection: Set a three-minute timer now: breathe slowly, choose one simple line to repeat to God (for example, “You are near”), and sing it softly—what emotion rises to the surface as you do?
In Luke’s story, the singers are not the famous or the powerful. They are women carrying hidden promises, shepherds on night shift, and an elderly man waiting at the temple. God trusts ordinary people with extraordinary songs. Their voices become the first testimonies to the Messiah’s arrival.
Your voice belongs in that chorus. In kitchens and classrooms, in hospital rooms and break rooms, your song tells the truth about God’s nearness. Do not wait until you feel impressive. Sing now. Let your ordinary life be a witness that the Savior has come.
Luke 2:8-20
Shepherds were watching their sheep at night when an angel announced, “Good news—great joy—for everyone. A Savior has been born.” They went quickly, found the child lying in a manger, and told what they had heard. Mary treasured these things and turned them over in her heart. The shepherds went back to their fields, voices full of praise to God for all they had seen and heard.
Reflection: Identify one overlooked person you will sing with or sing over today—a child at bedtime, an elder by phone, or a co-worker on break—and plan the time and song now.
The hymns and carols of the church are not just tradition; they train our hearts. Every time you sing “Joy to the World” or “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” you practice hope. You step into a story where God keeps promises, where peace is possible, and where creation itself joins the chorus.
Singing becomes a daily rehearsal for the world God is bringing. It shapes how you wait, how you choose, how you love. Let a carol become your rule of life for a season. Let it carry you into courage and kindness today.
Luke 2:10-14
The angel said, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here with good news that will make many hearts rejoice: today in David’s town a Savior is born—the Messiah. You’ll find a baby wrapped up and lying in a feed trough.” Suddenly the sky filled with angels praising God: “Glory to God in the highest places, and peace on earth to those embraced by his favor.”
Reflection: Choose one Advent carol to be your hope practice this week, memorize one stanza today, and schedule a daily moment to sing it before a hard task—what specific decision will you allow its words to shape by day’s end?
of the Sermon**
In this sermon, Rev. Catherine Oxenford-Grant reflects on the deep reasons why we sing, especially in the context of faith and the Advent season. Drawing from Luke’s gospel, she highlights how singing is woven into the story of Jesus’ birth—Mary, Zechariah, the angels, the shepherds, and Simeon all respond to God’s work with song. Singing, she suggests, is not just an expression of joy, but also an act of resistance, hope, and faith, especially in difficult circumstances. The sermon connects these biblical songs to the songs of oppressed people throughout history and to our own singing today, especially as we proclaim Christ as the light in the darkness. Ultimately, singing is presented as a necessary, overflowing response to God’s goodness—something that words alone cannot contain.
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Luke uses songs in the first chapters of his story about Jesus: Mary sings, Zechariah sings when his son is born, the angels sing of peace, the shepherds sing their good news, Simeon sings farewell. That's a lot of singing.
The slaves of the South sang what we call "Spirituals" and theirs was an act of faith and of resistance to their captivity and encouragement to one another.
There is the story of the First World War where soldiers stopped their fighting on Christmas Eve and sang carols for one another.
These weren’t important women. They were tucked away in the hills, in their little corner of Judea, a long way away from the power brokers of the day.
Life was hard under Roman occupation, and yet they chose to celebrate in their own way, how extraordinary their own situations really were.
They sang because the Romans could not stop them from expressing themselves in this way; they knew that God would find a way to lift up all those who had been oppressed and maybe, just maybe change the fortunes of an unjust world.
Their song was nothing short of an act of resistance. They were singing of light in a world of darkness.
Joy and praise just bubbled up inside them and would not be contained – they sang because words just weren’t enough.
We light Advent candles and sing of light. The nights have been darker and come earlier these past weeks – and we sing as we combine the reality of our world with the promise of Christ, the Light of the World.
As a Christian and ordained minister in the United Church of Canada, I give thanks for our music, our song that inspires us and gives us voice to proclaim our faith.
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