“May It Be Done”: The Unseen Courage of a Simple “Yes”
As the lights go up and carols fill the air each December, our minds naturally turn to the familiar scenes of Christmas: the manger, the shepherds, the star, the infant King. Yet, behind this serene tableau lies a far more human, more perilous, and more pivotal moment—one often passed over in the glitter of the season. It is the moment a young girl, alone with an angel, said a single sentence that changed everything: “I am the Lord’s bondslave; may it be done to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38).
This was not a casual agreement. It was a freefall into the unknown, a surrender that risked everything she knew—her marriage, her reputation, her safety, her future. In a culture where unwed pregnancy could mean social exile or even death, Mary’s “yes” was not a peaceful sigh, but an act of tremendous courage. It was faith, not in the absence of fear, but in spite of it.
In our own lives, faith is often conditional. We want to understand first, to see the plan, to weigh the risks. Like Zechariah, the priest in the same chapter, we ask for signs: “How shall I know this?” We base our trust on what makes sense to us, on what fits within our rational boundaries. But Mary shows us a different way. Her question was not “How can I believe?” but “How will this happen?” She did not demand proof; she sought understanding of God’s method. Her faith rested not on her ability to comprehend, but on God’s ability to accomplish.
“According to your word,” she said. Her trust was anchored not in a feeling, not in favorable circumstances, but in the specific promise God had spoken. In a world where our faith can sway with our emotions or our situation, Mary’s example calls us back to the foundation: God’s Word itself. Christmas is, at its heart, the story of the Word becoming flesh—God’s promise taking on skin and bone and breath. Mary believed that the God who spoke was able to perform what He said. Do we?
And then came the most personal, most costly phrase: “May it be done to me.” Mary did not outsource God’s plan. She stepped into the center of it. She offered not just her belief, but her body, her life, her future. She became the vessel through which the Savior entered the world. In doing so, she shows us that true faith is always incarnational—it lands in our reality. It involves our hands, our time, our relationships, our choices.
This Christmas, the invitation of Mary’s story remains open. God is still looking for those willing to say, “May it be done to me.”
In a strained marriage, it may mean saying, “Lord, I am willing to love patiently, starting with me.”
In a conflicted family, it may mean, “I am willing to forgive, beginning with me.”
In exhaustion or despair, it may mean, “I am willing to trust that Your strength is made perfect in my weakness.”
In the daily grind of work and responsibility, it may mean, “I am willing to do this for Your glory today.”
Christmas is more than a memory. It is a present-tense reality. Jesus is still being born—into our struggles, our decisions, our ordinary moments—whenever we, like Mary, choose to let God’s will take shape in and through us.
Two scenes from Luke 1 linger in contrast: the majestic temple where Zechariah’s doubt brought silence, and the humble home where Mary’s faith sparked a song of praise that echoes through history. This season, which scene does our own life reflect? A place of knowing but not trusting, of ritual without resonance? Or a place of willing surrender, where praise flows freely from a heart that believes God keeps His word?
Mary’s “yes” set redemption in motion. Today, in the quiet of our own hearts, God still speaks. His Word comes. And our response—whether fearful, questioning, but ultimately willing—can still change the story.
May we have the courage, not just to celebrate the Child in the manger, but to join the mother who said, “I am willing. Let it be to me as You have said.”
Amen.