Mary, Elizabeth, and Trust
And then the angel left her. Mary didn't waste a minute. She got up and traveled to a town in Judah in the hill country, straight to Zechariah's house, and greeted Elizabeth.
--Luke 1:38-40
For three months, Mary and Elizabeth stayed together, and then Mary went back to her own home.--Luke 1:56
So much happens in the 30 seconds between Mary's arrival at Elizabeth's home and the end of the Magnificat--maybe my favorite verses in the Bible--that I never noticed the simple sentence that opens the story in a new direction.
"Mary didn't waste a minute." How is it possible that after all of these years of practicing Advent, all these years of reading these stories over and over, I didn't realize she ran to Elizabeth before even consulting with Joseph--right after the Angel Gabriel left her?
I was equally surprised, when reviewing the text, that she stayed with Elizabeth for three months. Right after verse 56, we are catapulted into the birth and childhood of John the Baptist, followed immediately by the birth and childhood of Jesus. It's not surprising, then, really, that I had never pondered what might have happened between the Magnificat and those sacred births.
Personally, after that amazing conversation, I would have probably thought, it doesn't get any better than this--time to go before I mess things up. I have plenty to ponder now, thank you, so I'd better hit the road.
But Mary didn't do that. Though we don't know why for sure, what we do know is that she trusted Elizabeth enough to know she could stay--and Elizabeth trusted her enough to know she would be present for as long as she could or should, and not to hold on too tightly or push her away too soon.
What else did Mary and Elizabeth need to say to one another, after the best greeting any two people have ever exchanged?
Maybe Mary admitted that even though the Holy Spirit had things to say through her, such as the ever-so-lovely poem she'd blurted out inadvertently in response to Elizabeth's greeting--she wasn't actually all that excited to have a central role in shaking the whole world to its core. She was terrified, not feeling particularly poetic or brave.
Maybe they made a plan for the very real possibility that Joseph would send her to the authorities for adultery, have her and the baby killed--or maybe they knew him better than that, knew he wouldn't do that but had no idea what he would do, or say, or what to expect. Maybe Mary and Elizabeth mused about all the possibilities and finally realized together that he was very likely to stick it out, that maybe, just maybe, he'd been visited by an angel too.
Did they know then about the census? Did they talk about the provisions Mary would need for that arduous journey?
Did they talk about local politics? Did they have any idea that King Herod was going to be a very real threat?
Maybe they simply sat in silence a lot of the time, drinking the tea that expectant mothers were supposed to drink (every culture had one) and simply being present, fully present, with one another and the beings growing in their wombs.
Surely they paid attention--and compared--how their bodies were changing. Surely they touched one another's bellies when each baby kicked.
Surely they got irritated with one another. Three months is a long time to be together. Mary ate too much, Elizabeth clicked her teeth in the most irritating way when sweeping the floor, Mary snored, Elizabeth cried out in her sleep...
The Bible has a habit of skipping the character development, the parts of the story that help us see how those flawed and holy people actually sustained themselves and one other and built community and did relationships. It was written by and mostly for men at the time, I imagine, so there's that--and there was likely a sense of urgency to get it down, to make sure it justified whatever theology had arisen at the time of each gospel's writing.
But maybe the spaces in the story are a blessing. They allow us to bring our imaginations to the text, to grapple with it in ways we might not otherwise have to do.
The reasons Mary ran to Elizabeth were likely quite complex: a need for an older mentor and friend, a mother figure, a caretaker; a need to connect with the only other person who had any idea what she was going through; a need to retreat from her ordinary life, to contemplate the "yes" she'd offered and its consequences.
But whatever her primary motivation--a desire to share awe and joy or a desire to have a friend help her through her fear, or both--she "didn't waste a minute." She got up and went. She trusted Elizabeth so much that she didn't have to think too hard about who she wanted to be with right after the strange conversation with Gabriel.
And then, she stayed for as long as she needed, and Elizabeth didn't (as far as we know) send her back. Or if she did, she did so gently, letting her know that after three months it was time to go, that she was ready.
It takes trust to know when to "not waste a minute," get up and go, when to linger, and when to it's time to leave again--trust in yourself, and trust in the person who is welcoming you, being with you.
It takes trust to stay with one another through moments of irritation and exhaustion and deep awe and joy.
It takes trust to linger, to believe that there's always more to the story, to believe that moments of deep awe and joy--like the moment John lept in Elizabeth's womb, the moment Mary spoke the Magnifat--aren't moments we should run from, or stake our whole stories on.
Maybe in those three months, Elizabeth taught Mary to trust in herself, in her own story--and vice-versa.
The Big Moments, like the Magnificat, are moments we grow out of and grow into. They are punctuation and capital letters in the long, interconnected sentences of our lives.
As our story unfurls, clicking its teeth while sweeping its floors, snoring and calling out in the night, bumping up against the stories all around it in the most irritating and ordinary ways--we learn to stop once in awhile to see the Big Moments from new vantage points. We aren't afraid to look. We aren't afraid when we begin to see them differently.
This process of writing our stories with intention requires, perhaps, the greatest trust of all.
--Luke 1:38-40
For three months, Mary and Elizabeth stayed together, and then Mary went back to her own home.--Luke 1:56
So much happens in the 30 seconds between Mary's arrival at Elizabeth's home and the end of the Magnificat--maybe my favorite verses in the Bible--that I never noticed the simple sentence that opens the story in a new direction.
"Mary didn't waste a minute." How is it possible that after all of these years of practicing Advent, all these years of reading these stories over and over, I didn't realize she ran to Elizabeth before even consulting with Joseph--right after the Angel Gabriel left her?
I was equally surprised, when reviewing the text, that she stayed with Elizabeth for three months. Right after verse 56, we are catapulted into the birth and childhood of John the Baptist, followed immediately by the birth and childhood of Jesus. It's not surprising, then, really, that I had never pondered what might have happened between the Magnificat and those sacred births.
Personally, after that amazing conversation, I would have probably thought, it doesn't get any better than this--time to go before I mess things up. I have plenty to ponder now, thank you, so I'd better hit the road.
But Mary didn't do that. Though we don't know why for sure, what we do know is that she trusted Elizabeth enough to know she could stay--and Elizabeth trusted her enough to know she would be present for as long as she could or should, and not to hold on too tightly or push her away too soon.
What else did Mary and Elizabeth need to say to one another, after the best greeting any two people have ever exchanged?
Maybe Mary admitted that even though the Holy Spirit had things to say through her, such as the ever-so-lovely poem she'd blurted out inadvertently in response to Elizabeth's greeting--she wasn't actually all that excited to have a central role in shaking the whole world to its core. She was terrified, not feeling particularly poetic or brave.
Maybe they made a plan for the very real possibility that Joseph would send her to the authorities for adultery, have her and the baby killed--or maybe they knew him better than that, knew he wouldn't do that but had no idea what he would do, or say, or what to expect. Maybe Mary and Elizabeth mused about all the possibilities and finally realized together that he was very likely to stick it out, that maybe, just maybe, he'd been visited by an angel too.
Did they know then about the census? Did they talk about the provisions Mary would need for that arduous journey?
Did they talk about local politics? Did they have any idea that King Herod was going to be a very real threat?
Maybe they simply sat in silence a lot of the time, drinking the tea that expectant mothers were supposed to drink (every culture had one) and simply being present, fully present, with one another and the beings growing in their wombs.
Surely they paid attention--and compared--how their bodies were changing. Surely they touched one another's bellies when each baby kicked.
Surely they got irritated with one another. Three months is a long time to be together. Mary ate too much, Elizabeth clicked her teeth in the most irritating way when sweeping the floor, Mary snored, Elizabeth cried out in her sleep...
The Bible has a habit of skipping the character development, the parts of the story that help us see how those flawed and holy people actually sustained themselves and one other and built community and did relationships. It was written by and mostly for men at the time, I imagine, so there's that--and there was likely a sense of urgency to get it down, to make sure it justified whatever theology had arisen at the time of each gospel's writing.
But maybe the spaces in the story are a blessing. They allow us to bring our imaginations to the text, to grapple with it in ways we might not otherwise have to do.
The reasons Mary ran to Elizabeth were likely quite complex: a need for an older mentor and friend, a mother figure, a caretaker; a need to connect with the only other person who had any idea what she was going through; a need to retreat from her ordinary life, to contemplate the "yes" she'd offered and its consequences.
But whatever her primary motivation--a desire to share awe and joy or a desire to have a friend help her through her fear, or both--she "didn't waste a minute." She got up and went. She trusted Elizabeth so much that she didn't have to think too hard about who she wanted to be with right after the strange conversation with Gabriel.
And then, she stayed for as long as she needed, and Elizabeth didn't (as far as we know) send her back. Or if she did, she did so gently, letting her know that after three months it was time to go, that she was ready.
It takes trust to know when to "not waste a minute," get up and go, when to linger, and when to it's time to leave again--trust in yourself, and trust in the person who is welcoming you, being with you.
It takes trust to stay with one another through moments of irritation and exhaustion and deep awe and joy.
It takes trust to linger, to believe that there's always more to the story, to believe that moments of deep awe and joy--like the moment John lept in Elizabeth's womb, the moment Mary spoke the Magnifat--aren't moments we should run from, or stake our whole stories on.
Maybe in those three months, Elizabeth taught Mary to trust in herself, in her own story--and vice-versa.
The Big Moments, like the Magnificat, are moments we grow out of and grow into. They are punctuation and capital letters in the long, interconnected sentences of our lives.
As our story unfurls, clicking its teeth while sweeping its floors, snoring and calling out in the night, bumping up against the stories all around it in the most irritating and ordinary ways--we learn to stop once in awhile to see the Big Moments from new vantage points. We aren't afraid to look. We aren't afraid when we begin to see them differently.
This process of writing our stories with intention requires, perhaps, the greatest trust of all.
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