Luke 1:39-45
In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country, where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth. When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit and exclaimed with a loud cry, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my lord comes to me? For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy. And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.”
So many in the world know something of Mary’s story: a young girl – a virgin – betrothed / promised / engaged to a man named Joseph, told she will become pregnant and that she would give birth to a child more special and holy and chosen than any other child in the history of history.
Less popular is the story of Mary’s Aunt Elizabeth, who, for whatever reason, doesn’t make it into any of the other Gospels. The two seem an unlikely pair.
Elizabeth was old. Mary, young. Elizabeth had been married for years to Zechariah, the priest. Mary was merely betrothed to a carpenter named Joseph. Elizabeth had tried and prayed and hoped to become pregnant but, unsuccessful, had decided she was too old and barren for childbearing. Mary may very well have believed herself too young even to get pregnant – not to mention the whole issue of her virginity. This isn’t something she would have wanted, but there she was, “in the family way,” as they used to say; at least according to that angel.
So you can’t help but wonder what Mary want to visit with Elizabeth out there in the hill country.
Maybe she was frightened of what her own parents might say, but knew she had this “cool” Aunt Elizabeth who might understand.
Maybe Mary – in spite of all her better intentions – had thoughts of disappearing so that all of this might be kept a secret somehow.
Maybe she wanted to confirm what the Angel told her: if her aunt really was pregnant after all these years, then perhaps what the angel had said about Mary really was going to happen after all.
Maybe she hoped her Aunt Elizabeth could offer advice about what Mary should expect and about what she could do to get ready for what was to come.
We may never know or be able to imagine all the things running through the mind of a young, pregnant, unmarried, first-century peasant girl as she made her way to visit Elizabeth, out in those hills. But I suspect at some level – no matter what her fears and plans might have been when it came to explaining all of this to her friends and family – Mary just needed to share it with someone who might understand and who would love her, even if others might not.
See, I like to imagine Aunt Elizabeth – the wife of Zechariah, the priest, remember – was the kind of woman who laughed too loudly in polite company, and said more than she was supposed to sometimes, that maybe she even cussed a little – that she was a bit rough around the edges, for the wife of a priest, anyway.
So I like to imagine Elizabeth was the cool aunt who explained things to Mary that she hadn’t learned at home, yet, about birds and bees, and babies – and about how all of this would have, should have, could have happened, had her lost virginity not been such a mystery.
I think it’s pretty likely that Aunt Elizabeth was a first century feminist – had there been a word or a way for such a thing in those days – who helped Mary see and even sing about the power a woman could hold – the power they both held, actually – growing in their bellies, that they would cradle in their arms, that they would gift to the world. The power to raise up their boys, I mean, to “cast the mighty down from their thrones,” “to raise up the lowly,” “to send the rich away, empty” and all the rest.
Because I like to imagine Aunt Elizabeth knew her scripture just as well as her husband, the priest, and that she prayed and unpacked “Hannah’s Song” from the book of 1 Samuel with Mary, preparing dinner around the fire. This is some of what Hannah sang about, generations before the days of Mary and Elizabeth, when her prayers for a child were answered:
“My heart exults in the Lord; my strength is exalted in my God. My mouth derides my enemies, because I rejoice in my victory. “There is no Holy One like the Lord, no one besides you; there is no Rock like our God. … The bows of the mighty are broken, but the feeble gird on strength. Those who were full have hired themselves out for bread, but those who were hungry are fat with spoil… [The Lord] raises up the poor from the dust; he lifts the needy from the ash heap, to make them sit with princes and inherit a seat of honor.”
There’s more to it, but “Hannah’s song” sounds an awful lot like Mary’s “Magnificat,” the song she sang just after her time with Elizabeth, which we’ll sing together shortly.
Anyway, I imagine Mary had her suspicions about that angel – who wouldn’t?! – and that she wanted Elizabeth to tell her … to assure her … to promise her … that there was more than she could see about all of this at the moment.
See, the angel never told Mary to go and visit Elizabeth but I believe all of that is why Mary ran to see her: for camaraderie, for support, for encouragement, for someone with whom she could share common ground – for hope. I believe their visit was about one woman seeking another when she needed help, advice, a life-line, even; someone to tell her this would be okay, in the end; that she could do this, after all; that she wasn’t as alone or as in danger or as unprepared and incapable as she surely felt … when she wasn’t talking to angels, anyway.
And isn’t that something all of us have felt at some time or another? Uncertain, overwhelmed, out of our element … afraid, alone, certain no one understands or has traveled this road before … unprepared, over our head, out of faith …
Like Mary, don’t we want to share questions with someone who’s asking them too? Like Mary, don’t we want to name our fears with someone who’s been scared, just like we are? Like Mary, don’t we want to be free to wonder, to dream, and to ask hard questions with a like-minded soul – with someone who’ll feel free to wonder and dream and ask hard questions, without judgment, right along with us?
Which is why I like to hear the story of Mary’s visit to Elizabeth right before Christmas. Because it’s a story that’s bigger than Mary and Elizabeth. It’s as big as whatever questions and yearnings and fears may consume our daily living, too.
The story of Christmas is about people, estranged in so many ways, being called together by a common ground that is so much bigger than all we pretend can keep us apart.
It’s why God comes into the world with the birth of Jesus. God – in Jesus – is the common ground on which every one of us is invited to find our footing. The incarnation of the Creator, in Christ, is God’s gift of common ground for the world.
Like Mary, we want someone who knows about the questions we ask – and God sends us Jesus.
Like Mary, we want someone who knows about the things that scare us most – and God sends us Jesus.
Like Mary, we want someone who shares our pain and our joy and our dreams and our destiny – and God sends us Jesus.
Like Mary, we want someone to confirm, assure, promise that we are, indeed, blessed in the eyes of our Creator – and God sends us Jesus.
And, in the meantime, we all need – or maybe we need to be for someone else – an Aunt Elizabeth. Maybe we need – or need to be – one who listens without judgment. Maybe we need – or need to be – one who believes the unbelievable on behalf of someone we love. Maybe we need – or need to be – the one who encourages when others won’t, who loves when others don’t, who abides, who hopes, helps, comforts, commiserates; who shows up, sits with, supports, and stands by, no matter what.
Because who knows what might have come of Mary, had Elizabeth not come through for her in the first place? Would she have found the practical help she was looking for? Would she have mustered the courage required of her? Would she have found the faith it took … to answer her call … to do God’s bidding … to sing her song so that we might, too? Thanks be to God we don’t have to know the answer to that question.
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.