The Wisdom of Pondering (Advent 2)

​The Wisdom of Pondering   Luke 1:26–38

There’s a line many of us know from the Beatles song Let It Be:  “When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be.”

Whether intentionally or not, it is a song that echoes the deep wisdom of the story of the Annunciation. In a moment of disruption, confusion, and fear, Mary becomes a voice of stillness in the midst of life’s turbulence. She becomes a picture of the soul that can pause, reflect, ponder… and eventually say, “Let it be.”

Today I’d like to explore this story from Luke through the lens of three simple words or phrases:
Ponder… Virgin… Let it Be.   But first, a brief word about the story itself.

The Annunciation is for many a literal historical event. But throughout Christian history there have also been those spiritual writers, mystics, contemplatives who have said that the deepest truth of this story lies in its symbolism. That it is not only the story of something that happened once, but the story of something that happens in us again and again.

The meeting of Mary and Gabriel can be read as a picture of the soul encountering mystery. Mary becomes a symbol of the receptive, open, gentle inner spirit within each of us. Gabriel becomes the voice of divine wisdom that still speaks within the depths of the human heart. And the conception of Christ becomes an image of divine love, divine wisdom, divine compassion taking “flesh” within us.  And so we read the story not only for what it says about Mary, but for the way it reveals dimensions of the spiritual journey, the journey of the soul awakening to love.

And that leads us to our first word today.

1. Ponder:  Luke tells us that when the angel appeared to Mary, “She was deeply troubled and pondered what kind of greeting this might be.”

That word ponder  is worth pausing on.

We live in a culture that no longer knows how to ponder.  Our lives are filled, saturated, with noise, stimulation, scrolling, notifications, busyness, the radio or tv on constantly in the background.
For many today, the moment there is silence, we instinctively grab for the phone… as Wendy and I were reminded about two weeks ago when our mobile network went down. For four or five days there was hardly any signal at all, and for the first three days we kept reflexively checking. It was astonishing how compulsive the checking felt. But then something else happened: after three days, slowly, we both began to relax into the quiet that opened up. Space to breathe.  Space to think. Space to feel. Space… to ponder.

Pondering is the art of giving something enough room in our minds and hearts for clarity to arise.
It is different from worrying. It is different from obsessing To ponder is to hold something gently in awareness, not forcing a solution, not rushing to an answer, but letting it settle.

This is where the Tao Te Ching gives us a powerful and vivid image.
It asks:
“Can you wait until the mud settles and the water becomes clear?
 Can you remain unmoving till the right action arises by itself?”

Whether or not the words “pond” and “ponder” are etymologically linked, the image is beautifully appropriate.  A pond becomes clear not by stirring it, but by letting it be still.

When we ponder, we become like that pond.  All the sediment of fear, anxiety, ego-stories, old hurts, agitation, slowly begins to sink.  And then the inner water becomes clear.

This is what Mary does. Before she speaks, she ponders. Before she responds, she reflects. She gives space for wisdom to rise.

And so the story invites us into the same practice. To create interior space. To stop filling every moment. To let some silence return. To let our souls unclench.

Without pondering, nothing new can be conceived in us. Which leads to our second word.

2. Virgin:   Mary responds to Gabriel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?”

The word virgin is overflowing with symbolic meaning. Beyond the physical meaning, the tradition has always recognised a spiritual dimension.  At the deepest level, virginity represents the untouched, unspoiled, original purity at the centre of every human soul, untouched by the ego’s calculation, cynicism, or bitterness.  It is that inner place of innocence, not childish naïveté, but the pure awareness beneath our fears, ego-stories, conditioning, and wounds.

Jesus said, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” And many contemplative teachers have suggested that this purity of heart is nothing other than the clarity of consciousness when the mud has settled.

It is the untainted core of our being, the place where love already exists, even when we feel we have lost it. The place to which the spiritual journey returns us.

Interestingly, we also use the word virgin to describe things in nature that are untouched by human interference:  a virgin forest,  a landscape unspoiled, a space where life can flourish freely.

In this symbolic sense, Mary the Virgin represents the inner sanctuary where love can be conceived;
that quiet, open, receptive part of us that listens deeply, that is capable of hearing the whisper of Spirit, that does not grasp or force but receives.

Love is always conceived in that inner virgin space: the space made clear through pondering,
the space made still enough for something new to arise.

And what arises next is the third phrase.

3. Let It Be

Mary’s final response to the angel is: “Let it be unto me according to your word.”

This is the wisdom of surrender. Not a passive resignation, not giving up, but a deep, trusting openness to the movement of God within.  It is the same wisdom the Beatles sang, 
perhaps unintentionally echoing Mary’s spirit:  “Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.”

Letting be is the natural companion of pondering. When we ponder, we create space. When we let be, we trust that clarity will come in its own time. We stop forcing solutions. We stop demanding immediate certainty. We stop fratically trying to push the river.

In the contemplative tradition, this “letting be” is essential.  Insight cannot be manufactured, it arises when conditions are right.  Compassion cannot be forced, it grows naturally in a softened heart. Love cannot be commanded, it springs up when fear relaxes its grip.

Neale Donald Walsch writes that there are only two basic energies in life: fear and love.
And Mary’s “Let it be” is the movement out of fear into love. “Do not be afraid,” Gabriel says, 
because only when the grip of fear loosens can love emerge. As the first letter of John reminds us, Perfect Love drives out all fear. 

Letting be means trusting the deeper wisdom within us. Trusting that God, the Divine, is at work even when we cannot see how. Trusting that something holy is being formed in the quiet places of our hearts.

This is how Christ is conceived within us: in pondering, in purity of heart, in letting be.

I’d like to share with you now two stories that perhaps give flesh to these insights today: 

The first is the story of Thomas Merton: 

Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk and writer, lived for years in silence and contemplation at the Abbey of Gethsemani. Much of his early monastic life was spent wrestling with questions of identity, purpose, and the tension between solitude and human solidarity.

One afternoon, after years of pondering, waiting, and letting the inner mud settle, he was given permission to go into Louisville for an appointment. Standing at a busy street corner, surrounded by shoppers, he suddenly experienced a profound moment of clarity.

His journal describes it this way:  “I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people… There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.”

That insight didn’t come from effort, analysis, or theological argument. It came after years of inner stillness, years of letting God soften and re-form him. When the mud settled, the water became clear, and he saw the divine presence in everyone around him.

He later said that moment changed the direction of his life.  It opened him to a more compassionate, outward-facing spirituality.

And secondly the story of Einstein and his quiet hour. 

Albert Einstein often said his breakthroughs didn’t come while working, but while walking, daydreaming, or simply sitting in silence.

He kept what he called an “hour of thought” every day. No papers, no equations, no distractions.
Just quiet sitting. Letting the problem rest. Letting the “mud settle.”

The breakthrough insight that led to his Theory of Special Relativity did not come during intense calculation, but rather it came when Einstein was daydreaming about what it would be like to ride on a beam of light.

Einstein’s greatest ideas emerged not from frantic activity, but from deep pondering, spacious awareness, and interior quiet.

And so the Annunciation becomes not only Mary’s story, but our story.  A story of how the divine meets the human heart. Of how wisdom speaks within us. Of how something new, something Christlike, can be conceived in our inner depths.

When we ponder, we give the waters time to clear.
When we honour the virgin space within, we return to our original purity and openness.
And when we say “Let it be,” we open ourselves to the gentle unfolding of divine love.

This Advent, perhaps the invitation is simple: Make space. Be still. Let fear soften. Let love arise.
Let it be.

Amen.