Colossians 3:12-17
Luke 1:39-57
Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, Paul wrote in his beautiful Christocentric letter to the Church in Colosse. Well, yes. May it be true for you and for me. Nevertheless, I find myself wondering if, for young Mary of Nazareth—who so gracefully accepted her unique role as God-bearer—there might have been something of a “be careful what you pray for” quality to this charge. She of all people knew that the indwelling of the word comes with a cost. Despite the courage and prophetic power of her words in the Magnificat we just heard, could she possibly have imagined the implications of saying “Let it be with me according to your word” when the angel Gabriel came to announce her pregnancy?
So what do we do when we are thrust into the middle of a calling we don’t understand? Among the many ways in which Mary is a model for all Christians, I’d like to suggest that her visit to Elizabeth teaches us something profound about faith lived out in human community. Whatever we are gestating within ourselves—joy, grief, confusion, anxiety, hope—today’s gospel reminds us that we don’t have to go it alone.
Our text is silent about exactly why the pregnant Mary set out in haste to the Judean hills where her cousin lived, but whatever her intentions may have been, we do know is that she sought out and was given was friend and fellow traveler who could hear her and understand her.
And it could have gone so many other ways, right? The older relative Elizabeth could have scolded her teen mom cousin, or tried to rescue or fix her. But instead she welcomed Mary as a blessing—just as she was, no questions asked—and because of this, she had the privilege of hearing the words that have comforted and afflicted the Church for two millennia. “My soul magnifies the Lord… he has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty… according to the promise he made to our ancestors…”
These words, just like the babies growing within each woman, promise conflict as well and comfort. But surely the intimate relationship sorrow and joy would not have a surprise to either of these prophetic women. They both had known shame—Elizabeth for being childless until very late in life, and Mary for bring pregnant too soon—and they both knew what it was to nurture hope within their very bodies. What they evidently needed—in order to fulfill their God-given roles—was the understanding of each other.
As we do, even now. I have been a part of a women’s community of prayer for almost fifteen years, and today’s lessons bring to mind the many small and large ways in which we have been like Mary and Elizabeth for each other. Last Sunday night one of our members brought a prayer by contemplative activist Edwina Gateley. It’s called “The Sharing,” and I’ll let it have the final word—
We told our stories – That’s all.
We sat and listened to each other
and heard the journeys of each soul.
We sat in silence
entering each one’s pain and
sharing each one’s joy.
We heard love’s longing
and the lonely reachings-out
for love and affirmation.
We heard of dreams
shattered
and visions fled.
Of hopes and laughter
turned stale and dark.
We felt the pain of isolation and
the bitterness of death.
But in each brave and lonely story
God’s gentle life broke through
and we heard music in the darkness
and smelt flowers in the void.
We felt the budding of creation
in the searching of each soul
and discerned the beauty of God’s hand
in each muddy, twisted path.
And God’s voice sang in each story.
God’s life sprang from each death.
Our sharing became one story
of a simple lonely search
for life and hope and oneness
in a world which sobs for love.
And we knew that in our sharing
God’s voice with mighty breath
was saying love each other and
take each other’s hand.
For you are one though many
and in each of you I live.
So listen to my story
and share my pain and death.
Oh, listen to my story
and rise and live with me.
Amen.
