For others, it's a hectic time filled with schedules that barely leave us enough space in our planning calendars to get our shopping done

and the cards mailed out to everyone on our list. For the truly fortunate, it's a happy time of the year – an occasion when people gather with families

and exchange gifts, and eat too much, and laugh more than we have in a long, long time. But for many people who gather with their families and loved ones,

if we're really, really honest, it's a time of vulnerability. We are faced with some tough decisions at our annual holiday family get-togethers.

We must decide whether or not to come out as a gay man, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender person. Or we struggle over whether we should admit to our Republican family members

that we're a raging liberal or vice versa. Or we wonder if this is the right time to reveal our HIV status. Or we're not sure whether or not to admit that we've decided to walk away from the Church

because we no longer believe in what it teaches. We struggle with the risks of shame and rejection that comes with being vulnerable. And so we resist it.

We resist this idea of revealing to others the secret something about us that makes us feel unworthy of connection. And we all want to feel connected.

Brené Brown, a research professor at the University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work has spent the past ten years studying vulnerability, courage, authenticity, and shame.

And what you will hear from me this morning are some of the things that have come out of her findings. I've placed on this morning's screen a link to a 20-minute talk

she gave about this topic and I highly recommend it to everyone. Brown's big discovery after her years of research was

the only thing that separates those people who have a strong sense of love and belonging from those who don't is those who have this strong sense of love and belonging believe they're worthy of it.

That's it. Others don't; they feel shame instead. In this morning's Gospel reading, it's clear that Mary had a strong sense of love and belonging.

Although she was a pregnant unwed teenage mother and could have just as easily succumbed to the disgrace of her situation, she didn't.

We read that "she set out and went with haste to visit her cousin Elizabeth" instead of tucking herself away in shame.

She appears to have possessed all four of the characteristics which Brown says distinguishes people who feel worthy of love and belonging.

First, she had a sense of courage. Brown tells us that the Latin root word from which "courage" comes is "cor" or "heart." And the word "courage" originally meant

"to speak one's mind by telling all one’s heart." Mary had the courage to be imperfect when she high-tailed it to her cousin Elizabeth.

She was willing to reveal her whole self to Elizabeth. And she was also compassionate. People who feel worthy of love and belonging are compassionate, first to themselves,

and then to others. Mary accepted her situation with openness and joy that's revealed in her song which begins with the words "My soul magnifies the Lord,

and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior..." Next, she had connection as a result of authenticity. She was willing to let go of who she should be in order to be who she was.

She was willing to let go of who she should be in order to be who she was. People who feel worthy of love and belonging are willing to let go of the expectations

of others upon them and they live authentically; they remove all the masks that our culture and society try to impose on us.

And finally, Mary fully embraced her vulnerability. She was willing to reveal herself as she really and truly was. She was willing to allow the spotlight to shine on her seeming weakness.

She was willing to stop controlling and predicting the outcome. What would happen would happen. There's a certain sense of power that comes with that sort of vulnerability.

What makes you vulnerable also makes you beautiful. Vulnerability is the audacity to speak out on behalf of people who are voiceless.

It's the willingness to boldly walk into a room full of people bald as can be, not out of a sense of fashion, but because of the chemotherapy you're going through.

Vulnerability is the willingness to talk about your same-sex partner when others are talking about their spouse. It's offering the left cheek when the right one has been struck by your enemy.

It's continuing to pastor a church regardless of a mailbox full of hate-filled emails. And for some people, it's simply the willingness to say out loud the church you attend:

Metropolitan Community Church. People who feel worthy of love and belonging accept vulnerability as a fact of life. They realize that it is the birthplace of joy and belonging,

as in Mary's case this morning. It is the source of creativity and love. And without a willingness to be vulnerable, we just can't experience any of these things.

But it's also at the core of shame, fear, and unworthiness, isn't it? And so we do our best to numb those feelings. We do it by overspending, overeating,

and through all kinds of other addictions. We also do it by making the uncertain certain. That's seen in religion and politics.

People who insist their beliefs are the right beliefs, that God is on their side, and that everyone else is wrong and going to hell,

are simply doing their dead-level best to numb their feelings of vulnerability. We do it when we teach our children that they are perfect – or should be –

instead of teaching them that, although they are imperfect, they are still worthy of love and belonging. And we numb our sense of vulnerability

when we pretend that the things we say and do have no effect on other people. When we refuse to take responsibility for our words and actions,

when we deny that we can influence others to behave in inappropriate ways, we are simply numbing out any sense of being vulnerable.

But there's a problem when we numb ourselves in these ways. You see, you can't selectively numb your feelings. When we numb our shame and fear and vulnerability,

we also numb our love and joy and gratitude and happiness. And when we do that, we lose all reason for being. But here's the good news:

there's another way to live. We can let ourselves be seen, deeply seen, vulnerably seen. That's what Mary did in this morning's reading.

That's what she taught her son to do. Jesus was willing to live in a vulnerable way – so vulnerable that he was willing to accept death rather deny his truth –

and I believe he learned that from his mother. And we can love with our whole heart, even though there's no guarantee that you'll be loved back

or that you won't be altogether rejected. We've moved to an important place in our spiritual lives when we learn that giving love

is what makes us human, not receiving love. We can practice gratitude and joy, instead of catastrophizing what might happen. That's another way of saying we can live in the moment.

We count our blessings instead of worrying about whether we will lose any of those blessings if we take the risk of loving authentically.

And finally, we can believe that we're enough. When God created us, God pronounced us to be God's own beloved children, imperfect as we may be, but fully entitled to all the love that comes our way.

Our Gospel reading is all about vulnerability. That's its message for me this morning. Mary was so sure of her place in God's universe

that she was able to live as openly and authentically as could be. She believed she was loveable and, consequently, she was able to spread that love to others.

Can you even begin to imagine what it would be like if all of us were willing to be vulnerable with each other? To love even in the face of rejection? To let go of shame?

Friends, we would have the power to change the world! We really would! May God grant us the courage to love radically

and to live wholeheartedly and authentically. And may God bless us all this holiday season and in the year to come. Amen.