DEC 23 | The Girl Who Sang Revolution
And Mary said:
"My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name.
And his mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts; he has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate; he has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, as he spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and to his offspring forever."
— Luke 1:46-55 (ESV)
Lord,
I confess I have domesticated this song.
I have heard it hummed in candlelit services and printed on pastel cards. I have let it become background music—something soft and seasonal, fitting neatly between "O Little Town of Bethlehem" and the passing of the offering plate. I have treated Mary's prayer like a lullaby when it was always, from the first breath, a battle cry.
Forgive me for not hearing what she actually said.
Because this girl—this unmarried teenager carrying a child the village will gossip about—opened her mouth and out came revolution. Not polite hope. Not gentle optimism. She sang of thrones toppled. She sang of the hungry fed and the rich sent away with nothing. She sang of a world turned upside down, and she sang it in the present tense, as if it had already happened, as if the baby in her womb had already won.
That takes a kind of faith I can barely imagine.
She had no evidence, Lord. The mighty were still on their thrones. The hungry were still hungry. Rome still occupied her homeland, and Herod still sat in his palace, and the religious authorities still ran their systems of exclusion. Nothing had changed. Everything looked exactly the same as it had the day before.
But she sang anyway.
She sang as if the future had already invaded the present. She sang as if what You had promised was more real than what she could see with her eyes. She magnified You—made You large—in a moment when her circumstances could have made her feel very, very small.
Teach me to sing like that.
I look at my own life, Lord, and so much feels unsettled. The things I hoped would be resolved by now are still unresolved. The prayers I thought You would answer quickly are still hanging in the air. The injustices that make my chest tight are still injustices. The world does not look like Your kingdom has come.
And I am tempted—You know I am—to let the visible define the real. To believe only what I can measure. To shrink my expectations down to what seems possible instead of holding them open to what You have promised.
But Mary didn't do that.
She stood in the gap between promise and fulfillment and she worshiped. She didn't wait until the evidence arrived. She didn't hold her praise hostage until she could see the outcome. She looked at a world that had not yet changed and she declared—with her whole body, with the child growing inside her—that You are a God who keeps Your word.
She called You mighty before the mighty had fallen. She called You merciful while mercy still seemed scarce. She called herself blessed when the world would have called her ruined.
That is what faith looks like, isn't it? Not pretending circumstances are different than they are. Not positive thinking. But trusting that Your character is more reliable than my circumstances—and then opening my mouth to say so.
Lord, I want to magnify You today.
Not because everything is resolved, but because You are resolving it. Not because the hungry are already filled, but because You are a God who fills the hungry and I refuse to believe You have stopped. Not because the proud have already been scattered, but because pride has never survived an encounter with Your presence, and it will not survive this one either.
I want to sing Mary's song with her—to join my voice to hers across two thousand years and declare that You are still the God who looks on the humble. Still the God who does great things. Still the God whose mercy extends from generation to generation, including mine.
And I want to mean it with my life, not just my lips.
So here I am—like Mary, standing between promise and fulfillment. Like Mary, carrying something I don't fully understand. Like Mary, holding hope in a world that doesn't look hopeful.
And like Mary, I choose to open my mouth anyway.
My soul magnifies You, Lord.
Not because I can see the ending. But because I know the One who holds it.
Amen.
Today
Before you go to bed tonight, speak one thing out loud that you believe is true about God—even though your circumstances haven't caught up yet. Say it to the room. Say it like Mary said it: in the present tense, as if it's already done. This is not pretending. This is practicing the faith that magnifies.
An Invitation to go Deeper….
If today’s message spoke to you, join the FaithLabz 30-Day Prayer Challenge and strengthen your connection with God’s unshakable love. You are never alone—let’s grow together!
