A Drawn Out Song
Luke 1:57-80
I was so sick when I was pregnant the first time. My husband, who has seven sisters, couldn’t comprehend it. He said several times, “none of my sisters were sick.” I wondered at the time whether that was true. Or whether, like many women, they just hid what was going on with them and their bodies from the men in their lives. So, I got to the place where I talked only with my sisters and sister-friends, some of whom sang to be to calm my fears or to make me laugh.
Every time I read the story of John’s, later called “The Baptizer,” birth, I wonder whether the elderly Elizabeth was sick, if that’s why Mary stayed with her for three months. I wonder whether she talked to Zachariah about the changes happening in her body: the leaping and kicking baby, the heartburn, the backaches. She had to have had them, and for three months, Mary bore witness to her pregnancy as much as she bore witness to Mary’s. I wonder whether Mary continued to sing to her, or whether she hummed to herself while rubbing her belly. Were the two women together for both of their sakes—tending one another, holding each other, rocking each other, combing each other’s hair, soothing one another? Neither of their pregnancies are “normal,” after all. And as a graying woman with attending aches and pains, I wonder how Elizabeth felt carrying a child after all those years of longing for one. I wonder whether she feared miscarriage or dying while giving birth, since both possibilities were common in her times. I wonder if that’s why Mary stayed.
But Mary left before the child was born. I have questions about that as well. Why? Why wasn’t she among the neighbors and relatives who rejoiced with Elizabeth, sang the songs of Zion in their rejoicing? I find it difficult to believe that she wouldn’t be there for that pinnacle moment. But that’s what Luke wrote.
I have always known that birth is the fragile door between life and death for both mother and child. I experienced it bringing both of my sons into the world, both of whom spent time in neonatal ICU. I wonder what Elizabeth was thinking and feeling while the village folk were rejoicing. I wonder if she was worrying about her son. Birth is tiring and she was older. I wonder about her. When my younger son was born, I was so out of it from the cesarean I had to bring him into the world that I misspelled the name my husband and I had agreed upon. Birth is disorienting and scary, and sometimes, you forget things.
But Elizabeth didn’t forget the name, “John.” When “they” came to circumcise John, I’m sure Elizabeth was tired and sore, but she remembered the name the angel had spoken. And remember, at the angel’s words, Zechariah was mute because he was so shocked and disbelieving at the idea of a child in their old age. Didn’t he remember the story of Abram and Sarai? I guess it was a fairytale to him. “None of your relatives has this name,” “they” said. I keep putting “they” in quotation marks because who is “they”? The priests? The midwife? The neighbors? The relatives? All of the above? I don’t know. But Elizabeth, tired and probably in pain, didn’t relent to them. But patriarchy being what it is, “they” had to get it from Zachariah, who wrote his name on a tablet. “They” were amazed and wondered what would make John, later the Baptizer, special. Like Mary sang in Elizabeth’s presence, Zachariah now sung a song about his and Elizabeth’s son, the prophet.
Elizabeth drew the song out of both Mary and Zachariah. I know. I should say it was Jesus, then John. But if you look really closely… Elizabeth’s son: John the Baptizer, the preparer of the way, the one without a family name, grew up and took to desert-dwelling, to the wilderness. But not until after Elizabeth drew a song out of Mary and Zachariah. I hope you’re singing your way into these last days of longing that Advent represents, these last days before Christmas. I hope you have an Elizabeth in your life that draws the song out of you. I hope you’re singing of God’s tender mercies and singing of the God who guides our feet. Advent blessings, friends. Let the season draw the songs out of you.
Rev. Valerie J. Bridgeman, Ph.D. is the founder, president, and CEO of WomanPreach! Inc. She is the Dean and Vice President for Academic Affairs at the Methodist Theological School in Ohio after serving one year as Interim Dean. She also is Associate Professor of Homiletics and Hebrew Bible since 2015, after having served as Visiting Professor for a year and a half. She is an alumna of Austin Presbyterian Seminary (MDiv), and received their Distinguished Alumna Award in 2018. She holds a Doctorate of Philosophy in Biblical Studies, with a concentration in Hebrew Bible, from Baylor University.
Dr. Bridgeman has taught preaching/homiletics, liturgy, and Biblical Studies for over twenty years. Licensed in 1977 and ordained in 1985, she is a dedicated preacher, Biblical scholar, visionary, and artist. Her experience includes decades of preaching, pastoring, leading workshops, mentoring, writing, and creating art that has inspired generations of clergy, community leaders, and artists.