Scripture can be found here…
It’s a strange thing, let me tell you, to learn that you are pregnant from your husband carrying a message from an angel. It is a stranger thing still to learn this news when you are… my age. And in my situation. I think our ancestor Sarah put it well: “At my age, shall I know pleasure?” (I’m sure she was speaking of the pleasure of being a mother. I’m sure that’s what she meant.)
My reaction was, How can this be, seeing as I’m as old as the hills and twice as rocky? But sure enough, the signs I’d looked for all those years ago began to become apparent. The angel had spoken the truth. God had looked upon us with compassion and given us… well, you know all about John.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’d heard women with 6 and 7 children complain bitterly about pregnancy, the aches and the sickness, the soreness and the kicking, but I was delighted by all of it, even the queasiness. How could I complain? It was life! L’Chaim! I could worry about my boy’s strange calling later.
Six months after the angel’s announcement, Zechariah and I had settled into our extremely strange situation. Me blossoming like a newlywed, and Zechariah as silent as… well, not the grave. There was nothing morose or deathly about his silence. It was as if… well, as if he were pregnant with something, too, but hadn’t figured out how to talk about it.
So I filled the silences with reports on my condition—some of them daily, some hourly. To my astonishment, this husband of nearly thirty years who had only deigned to talk about the intricacies of scripture and temple life actually seemed interested! I would tell him some mundane detail—my stomach is stretching!—and his eyes would widen like those of a child being shown a magic trick. Sometimes his eyes would fill with tears, and then I would be struck silent. A great love had descended upon us, and there were many times when we honored it by gazing at one another, astonished.
That is how Mary found us, on a warm afternoon as we sat in the shade of our home, a slight breeze making the curtains stir every so often. Even the baby in my womb, active earlier in the day, had settled into sweet stillness. We saw her figure on the road, indistinct at first, then clearly a woman, and finally, a kinswoman whom we knew and loved! Zechariah helped me to my feet, and took a silent signal from me to retreat into the other room. I stood, expectant (of course) at the door. This was to be the first of my kin who had come to see me… since. I watched as the small figure moved more quickly, broke into a run, and then, stood, breathless, in the doorway.
Elizabeth! she cried.
As I have mentioned, I had felt my child’s movements for a few weeks by then. But at the sound of my niece’s voice, it was as if John burst into action. It almost seemed as if he were dancing! But as I looked into her face—the slightest fullness that hadn’t been there before; and then, into her eyes—I knew. With John’s dance, I knew. With my whole body I knew.
I reached out to hold her… my heart and mind felt as if they were exploding with what I knew.
“You are blessed,” I cried. “You are so blessed…” “And the babe—” at this, Mary looked down at my own great belly, and I shook my head. “YOUR babe—your babe is also blessed, a blessing from the Most High.” At this her head dropped back, and her eyes closed, and I pulled her close to me.
“You are blessed, both of you, blessed.” And she nodded, not speaking. I held her—rocked her, rocked the babes inside of both of us. I whispered into her ear. “My own child danced with joy at the sound of your voice. He knows. How can this be…?” my words trailed off, and I stood again, holding her shoulders while looking into those dark eyes. “Why does the mother of my Lord come to me?”
Now Mary’s eyes were swimming with tears. She took a step back, and turned away from me. She walked to the window, as if she needed to take in the soft breeze. It was blowing more steadily now. I moved nearer to her.
“Blessed are you,” I said, “Blessed is she who heard the Lord’s promise and believed.”
We stood together in silence. I wondered that she had come to me, but it made sense. I knew how I’d retreated into my home when I received my angel announcement. A young girl such as Mary couldn’t retreat into her home without signaling to the whole community that something was wrong—a pregnancy she couldn’t easily explain to her fiancé. No wonder she had walked the long miles to our home. She needed to be with someone who had some understanding of all these strange events. She needed a place she could feel safe, even as she came to understand the wonder of it all. She needed sanctuary.
I don’t know how much time passed. After a while, I could hear that she was humming quietly, then more loudly. Finally, she sang out, as if singing to the fig tree that stood in the garden. At first, I thought, “She is singing Hannah’s song!” I had sung that song myself in the weeks and months since the angel’s announcement. But no. This was a new song.
Mary sang her praises to the Lord, the Almighty.
She sang of how the Almighty had turned the world upside down,
beginning with her own body.
She who was lowly, she who was humble, had been honored,
had been blessed beyond all measuring.
The compassion of the Almighty had been shown for all those,
generation after generation, who had been faithful in their love and devotion.
Now, the power of the Almighty was being unleashed, she sang.
The Lord was taking a stand against the proud and the arrogant.
The Lord was raising up the lowly ones, and bringing down the powerful rulers.
Even the hungry would be hungry no more;
and those who had stuffed themselves would know want.
The Almighty had remembered.
The Almighty had remembered God’s covenant people!
The Almighty had remembered those promises made long ago.
Blessed was she, who had lived to see those promises remembered,
who would bring them to birth.
By the time Mary had finished her song, Zechariah stood in the room once more. She turned to look at us, breathless, her face shining. My husband gestured to a chair, and she sat. He left and returned with a jug of water and cups for both of us. And then he left and returned again, only now with a dish of figs. And… my husband. The high priest. The one who was privileged to enter the holy of holies… he placed himself at Mary’s feet. He sat before her, with the wide eyes of a child, ready to hear more. Ready to learn. Ready to be witness to yet another astonishing thing that our God had done, and would do.
Mary stayed with me until it was my time, and she assisted the midwife, gently placing John in my arms. He was howling, and we couldn’t stop laughing. Blessed was she—blessed were we, we who believed in the promises of the Almighty.
Thanks be to God. Amen.