Not
that it wasn’t that way with Penninah; after all, the children took their cues
from her . . . her taunting could be
devastating, leaving Hannah in tears. Of
course, dear, sweet, clueless Elkanah
never saw it, because Penninah was careful to be miss goody two-sandals around him, then when his back was turned,
she’d throw Hannah a dirty look or a rude gesture.
Things
would get really bad when they’d all
head up to Shiloh once a year, so her husband could make sacrifice to the Lord,
as was required of every head of household.
For some reason, Penninah would use these opportunities to really lay it
on thick, to really provoke Hannah,
who would stand there, outside the gate of the temple (in those days, it was
not fixed in Jerusalem), weeping hot, bitter tears. When her husband would see
her, he would ask what was the problem, she’d explain that she was heartbroken
because she could not give him sons. Elkanah
would always say the same thing: “Am I not more important to you than ten
sons?” and he would give her a double portion.
Such is the arrogance of men.
One
day, the priest Eli is sitting on the seat next to the temple doorpost, and he observes
her crying, and she is moving her mouth, but no sound is coming out. He concludes that she’s drunk—she is a woman;
she couldn’t be praying—and he says
“How much longer will you be drunk? Put
away your wine.” But in fact, she is praying, and she tells him: “Please don’t consider me a worthless woman; I
have made a vow to the Lord, that if the Lord will give me a son, I will
dedicate him to God all of his days.”
And moved by her plight and her evident humility—or perhaps just trying
to get rid of her—Eli says “Go in peace, and the God of Israel grant your
petition that you have made.”
And
lo! God grants her request, and she bears a son whom she names Samuel. And true to her vow, she dedicates her son to
the Lord, and Samuel becomes the last and greatest of the judges. More important, as he grows in wisdom and
stature, he guides Israel in the choosing of Kings: first the ill-advised
Saul, it then King David, whose return
and eternal reign all of Israel awaits.
And
Hannah, now joyous beyond belief, and though she knows none of the future of
her illustrious son, nevertheless gives God all the thanks and glory, singing “My
heart exults in the Lord; my horn is exalted in the Lord. My mouth derides my
enemies, because I rejoice in your salvation.”
Mary
was frightened . . . She’d told the angel, messenger of God “Behold, I am the
servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word,” because what else
was she going to do? She knew a done
deal when she saw it. This was an angel
of the Lord who was talking, not some
penny-ante, two-bit sprite. An angel of
the same Lord who created the earth and the heavens, who brought her people out
of the land of the Pharaoh, and who restored the faithful remnant after the
captivity in Babylon. And Mary, just a
slip of a girl, barely of marriageable age, had about as much chance of
resisting the will of that Lord as a
camel had of fitting through the eye of a needle.
And
now she was scared, and it was not hard to understand why: the local
authorities, the Lord bless them, had a way of dragging adulterous women into a
plaza and pummeling them with rocks until they were dead. And Mary did not like the finality of that
one little bit. Besides, she was
betrothed to a wonderful, gentle man, the son of a carpenter, who made her feel
safe and warm, and she just knew what
he would do when he found out, and
she couldn’t blame him . . . after all, Joseph hadn’t seen the Angel, hadn’t
felt its power, hadn’t seen its golden . . . she guessed they’d been wings, swirling diaphanously about them both.
What
Mary doesn’t know is that Joseph—a kind man who’d been prepared to put her away
quietly—would have his own
visitation. But because she doesn’t know, as soon as she can tell
she really is with child—she just feels different, somehow—she flees to the
countryside, and her distant cousin Elizabeth’s house, who is going through her
own identity crisis. While Mary had gone
overnight from young bride to marginalized outcast, her cousin had gone from
scorned childless woman, to an aged
woman with child, with all the dangers that entails.
When
Mary arrives, Elizabeth is preparing supper for her husband Zechariah, a
somewhat minor priest. And immediately
when Mary comes in the door, she feels a lurch in her belly as her child leaps in
her womb. A smile of wonder slowly
spreads on her face, and a stream of laughter comes burbling out, not one filled
with derision, but overflowing with joy. And in that instant, their eyes meet, and each
one knows what has come to pass with the other, and an instant bond comes about
between them. Mary’s uncertainty and
fear vanish, while not exactly gone, are
diminished, and she feels safe and valued for the first time in a long time.
Now,
Luke is focused on the Savior’s coming, and we can’t blame him for that, so he
doesn’t give any but the barest details of that visit. But we have the time to stop and consider the
dynamics of that remarkable encounter. Do
the women speak—as women are wont to do—about their respective men? Do they speak in that loving, yet
exasperated, way about straight-as-an-arrow Joseph and crotchety old
Zechariah? I imagine they did . . . But
I also think they spoke of other things, deeper things . . . How they both felt
about their lives and roles—Elizabeth’s now, and Mary’s soon to be. I imagine the older cousin gives advice to
the younger, and holds her hand as she pours out her hopes and fears, and that
Elizabeth worries aloud about the dangers of a late-in-life pregnancy, and Mary
is bears witness to that as well.
In
fact, I imagine that what the visit is for both of them is pastoral care, what
we call a ministry of presence. But it’s
not some hierarchical, one-sided relationship where one person listens to the
plight of the other, as important as that can be. The women are instead present for one another. It’s a presence based on mutuality, based on
trust, based on compassion.
A
thousand years earlier, Hannah—reviled and considered of value only as a brood
mare—had two potentially pastoral encounters.
The first, with her husband Elkanah, ended up being all about him: “Surely I am worth more to you then
ten sons,” he told her. In the other, with the priest Eli, she is
reviled as a drunk, before he remembers himself, and offers his assurance that
her wish will be fulfilled. But still
and all, she sings a song of joy to the Lord.
Luke
tells us that the Holy Spirit came upon Elizabeth and Mary, and though he may
not have meant it this way, I like to think that the Spirit was there in the relationship between the two. After all, the Spirit is relationship, is in relationship,
an eternal dance with God the Creator and God the one who saves.
And
Mary, like Hannah before her, sang her joy and wonder to the Lord: ““My soul
magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, who has looked on the
humble estate of his servant.” Amen.
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