Second Sunday of Pentecost – Bill Harkins
Luke 1:39-57
1:39 In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country,
1:40 where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth.
1:41 When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit
1:42 and exclaimed with a loud cry, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.
1:43 And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me?
1:44 For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy.
1:45 And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.”
1:46 And Mary said, “My soul magnifies the Lord,
1:47 and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
1:48 for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
In the Name of the God of Creation, who loves us all…Amen.
Grace and peace to each of you on this Second Sunday after Pentecost, and welcome to Holy Family…we are so glad you are here. On Friday of this week we in the Episcopal Church observed the Visitation of Mary to the home of Zechariah and Elizabeth. These Feast Days often occur mid-week, so it isn’t always the case that we observe them on Sunday. Today, I’d like to focus on this beloved story in our heritage because like Mary, we too are waiting, and hoping in this season of transition. And this asks us to be resilient and courageous too.
In the story of Mary’s visit to Elizabeth, we are presented with two women living in expectation. Elizabeth, pregnant with John the Baptist, and Mary, with Jesus, both of whom embody the hopes and expectations of Israel. Theirs was not a passive waiting, but rather one full of promise. In his essay “A Spirituality of Waiting,” Henri Nouwen writes: “People who have to wait have received a promise that allows them to wait. They have received something that is at work in them, like a seed that has started to grow.” This kind of waiting is never a movement from nothing to something. Rather, it is a movement from something to something more. We, too, are in a season of waiting for something to be born…for something new to grow in this sacred place.
Back in Advent Pete and June Giglio graciously hosted the choir at their lovely home, and we sang what is actually one of my favorite Advent Hymns, “Mary Did You Know?” It’s a lovely hymn, but for the first time it occurred to me that this hymn is an example of “man-splaining” if ever there was one—that is, the assumption that until a man explains something to or about women, nobody else will get it. In any case, if the author of this hymn had read, or remembered the passage from Luke for this past Friday, he would have known that, of course, Mary did know—and she knew in ways no one of my gender could fully understand.
I hope it’s not too irreverent to think of this meeting of Mary and Elizabeth as a first-century baby shower of sorts. It was a gathering like 21st-century baby showers in some ways; pregnant women and their friends and family, getting together to support one another. Conversation that runs the gamut from the mundane to the monumental aspects of pregnancy and motherhood: cravings, hopes, and fears about a new role in life, which pediatrician to choose, and so on. Having been on the periphery of many such gatherings I can tell you that countries have been founded on less.
In other ways Mary and Elizabeth’s meeting was not like any shower I’ve ever been to—that is, when I was invited. There were only two women present, and the only gifts exchanged were those from God: an awareness of their place in salvation history, and the guiding, inspiring presence of the Holy Spirit in living out their roles. The other key difference is that the impact of this meeting extends many centuries into the future, to the present day, in several significant ways. This scene is part of a larger, overarching story of salvation. The overarching story line with which Luke opens his gospel is the story of John and Jesus, the relationship of the forerunner of the Messiah (John the Baptist) and the Messiah, Israel’s expectation and its arrival. The two stories of John and Jesus intersect in the meeting of their mothers. This meeting draws on prior themes in the traditions of bold women in Israel’s history and it reaches into the present to inspire us, men and women alike, with boldness today.
It’s significant that this is a scene the two women meet and converse without the presence of any male character (other than their unborn babies). Biblical scholar Richard Bauckham points out that the Bible is an “androcentric narrative” or male focused, and as such rarely includes scenes in which women appear together without men (51). There are some exceptions to that rule; several “women only” passages we find in the Hebrew Bible (from Bauckham, 51): this includes the lovely story of Ruth and Naomi in the Book of Ruth—Ruth refuses to leave Naomi in a deeply moving and compelling story, and the two travel from Moab to Judah and amicably work out the details of their future in a new land.
Well, I am so very grateful to have had female role models who were fiercely smart and independent, and to be married to a thoughtful, strong, and compassionate woman who is in many ways my superior. Our two sons have found bright and remarkable wives, and we now have two granddaughters who are such a joy to this father and grandfather—who learns from them all, every day, about seeing the world through their eyes. Here at Holy Family women are so often at the heart of our parish life in so many ways, leading, forming, teaching, serving on our vestry and nominating committee, caring for others and tending to this flock that is our beloved parish. For several weeks now a group of women have been learning together about women in history whose spiritual lives have inspired generations. We have added three
For a long time now, I have wondered what MARY might think about the passage from Luke’s Gospel. During the Evensong service in our tradition, the choir sings the Magnificat or, “the Song of Mary,” also derived from Luke’s Gospel. Once, as our choir sang this in the lovely way they do, I had what might be described as a vision of sorts. The vision, or daydream, was that I was watching the scene we just heard read, in the Gospel for today, from Mary’s perspective. And I heard those words of grace and forgiveness just as you must have heard them. I realized that every time I have imagined this, my thoughts eventually lead to that day on Calvary. I have imagined myself on some distant hill, watching from afar. Why? Would I, like others who loved Jesus, have been afraid, and kept my distance, when Mary and the other women remained steadfast and fully present there beneath the cross? And what’s more, how do I know I would not have been on either Jesus’ left or right. As my ordination brother Thee Smith reminds me, quoting Terence the Playwright, “Because I am human, nothing human is alien to me.” Perhaps I need to be prepared move closer to the cross, one way or the other. I wonder if during that time Mary spent with Sarah you had any idea how your life would unfold. I wonder what it’s like to look back on it now. I wonder.
And then I remembered a song by someone named John Prine, a songwriter and singer whom we lost not too long ago. It may be that thinking about John Prine during the Magnificat, as the incense fills the air, is like going from the sublime to the ridiculous, but bear with me. In one of his lovely songs he imagines what it would be like to be an old woman. He was intrigued by the idea of “a song about a woman who feels even older than she is.” And he had a vivid picture of this woman standing over the sink with soap in her hands…She wanted to get out of her house and her difficult life, filled with pain, and loss. “She just wanted an angel to come to take her away from all this, Prine once said.” The song goes like this:
I am an old woman named after my mother
my old man is another child that’s grown old.
If dreams were lightning, if thunder was desire
This old house would have burnt down a long time ago.
Make me an angel who flies from Montgomery.
Make me a poster from an old rodeo.
Just give me one thing I can hold on to;
to believe in this living is just a hard way to go.
Somehow, remembering this song helped me to imagine Mary’s life—almost as if I were standing in her shoes….almost, that is, as if viewing the world through her eyes, imagining how she might be feeling. And so I wondered about the view of the cross from the ground up real close, where Mary and the other women were that day.
I recalled these lines, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing.” Perhaps by staying in Jerusalem, Mary was teaching us, reluctant students that we are, that paradoxically it is through acknowledging and living into our vulnerability that we find courage, and what peace we may find.
I wonder if Mary stayed in Jerusalem because God’s own self remained just enough in the dust of the streets and the resilient mud of the walls to keep her deeply connected to the one to whom she gave birth. And the one whom you saw die here. You must have asked, as we are asking this morning in our season of watching, and waiting, and hoping, “Where am I? Where is my spiritual journey taking me?” I wonder, were Isaiah’s words in Mary’s heart? For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind. 18But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating; for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight.
I hope Mary was able to find joy in Jerusalem. She had so much perseverance. She must have longed for justice, and for hope, and perhaps that is what sustained her and what sustains us all, come to that, for hope is a good thing. It may be the best of things. Did she remember the words of Jeremiah? The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will raise up for David a righteous Branch, and he shall reign as king and deal wisely, and shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. 6In his days Judah will be saved and Israel will live in safety. And this is the name by which he will be called: “The Lord is our righteousness.” I have so many questions about how Mary and Joseph managed all that they did, in a time when women were stoned for becoming pregnant out of wedlock, and when the father was in question…a time when women were marginalized in so many ways. It is a story available to us all, in our own brokenness and vulnerability and deep fragile beauty, and our miraculous capacity for compassion. And that’s it, really, isn’t it? Compassion means to suffer with another, and to do justice in response to that suffering. It is no surprise that the Hebrew for compassion is Rachamim—which means “womb-ish” or womb-like. And so it was that the one who taught us compassion grew in you, and it is in God’s womb-like embrace that each of us is held, and in that image that we are created. And so it is that we, too, are called to do justice, and seek mercy, and walk humbly, just as Mary did, and as her son taught us. We need mercy, and justice, and forgiveness in this season.
So I imagine Mary in her old age, and I imagine her knowing that her son belongs to everyone. I pray that one day, God made her an angel, and she was able to fly. I pray that we might have even a fraction of her resilience and faith in our journeys in the ministries to which we have been called as the Body of Christ. It’s the inner journey that’s essential as we seek to be Christ-bearers. And I give thanks for the strong, resilient women in my life, and in this parish. Thank you for your steadfast faithfulness among us. As the mystic Meister Eckhart said, “What is the good if Mary gave birth to the son of God two thousand years ago if I do not give birth to the son of God today? We are all meant to be mothers of God. For God is always needing to be born.” And we are called, each in our own way, to prepare the way in our own hearts first. I am grateful for Mary, who taught us something about how to do this faithfully and well. Amen.