Hannah: Prayer for Justice

1 Samuel 2:1-10

Hannah prayed and said, “My heart exults in the Lord; my strength is exalted in my God. My mouth derides my enemies, because I rejoice in my victory.

“There is no Holy One like the Lord, no one besides you; there is no Rock like our God. Talk no more so very proudly, let not arrogance come from your mouth; for the Lord is a God of knowledge, and by him actions are weighed. The bows of the mighty are broken, but the feeble gird on strength. Those who were full have hired themselves out for bread, but those who were hungry are fat with spoil. The barren has borne seven, but she who has many children is forlorn. The Lord kills and brings to life; he brings down to Sheol and raises up. The Lord makes poor and makes rich; he brings low, he also exalts. He raises up the poor from the dust; he lifts the needy from the ash heap, to make them sit with princes and inherit a seat of honor. For the pillars of the earth are the Lord’s, and on them he has set the world.

“He will guard the feet of his faithful ones, but the wicked shall be cut off in darkness; for not by might does one prevail. The Lord! His adversaries shall be shattered; the Most High will thunder in heaven. The Lord will judge the ends of the earth; he will give strength to his king, and exalt the power of his anointed.”

---

It wasn’t intentional that we saved Hannah’s prayer for the week of International Women’s Day, which was this past Sunday, but sometimes happy, holy accidents just happen. So it’s good and right that we hear a prayer for justice from one of our ancestors – a woman – who prays a beautiful, bold, faithful, full-throated appeal like what we just heard; and another, which we’ll hear shortly.

Hannah, we know, was the mother of the prophet Samuel. And it’s knowing that Hannah was one of two wives to a guy named Elkanah. Elkanah’s other wife was a baby-making machine – she had sons and daughters aplenty, though we don’t know how many. And Elkanah’s other wife, described as Hannah’s “rival,” was terrible about it. According to the story, she “provoked” and “irritated” Hannah, which I imagine means she mocked her and made fun of her and shamed her for not being able to have children as easily or as prolifically as she could.

And, as Pastor Cogan reminded us on Sunday, in teaching about that un-named woman at the well who’d had five husbands by the time she met up with Jesus, having children – back in the day – was confirmation of your worth as a woman; it assured your status and place in a family; it was a very practical source of security (you’d have people to protect and provide for you, should you ever be widowed or alone); it was how you mattered as a woman in a misogynistic, patriarchal, man’s world.

So Hannah may have wanted a child because her mothering instincts were in full effect. She may also have wanted a baby because she wanted to make her husband happy. (The Bible tells us that Elkanah loved Hannah, in spite of the fact that she hadn’t given him a child, yet.) But Hannah may have wanted a child – and a boy, in particular – simply because she longed for affirmation of her worth, of her value, of her esteem, in her own eyes, in the eyes of God, in the eyes of the world … and maybe so she could tell that “sister wife” of hers … Elkanah’s other wife … to take a hike – or something similar.

That’s why Hannah prayed to and bargained so intensely with God. She promised she would commit her baby boy to a life of sacrifice and service to the Lord. And then it happened. God delivered. And Hannah delivered. And she kept her promise, too. She loved, cared for, fed and nurtured her little boy Samuel until she handed him over to the Lord; to live in the house of the high priest, Eli, and to become one of the greatest prophets in all of Israel’s history.

And Hannah’s prayer for justice that we heard was prayed in celebration and with thanksgiving for God’s answered prayer … for the gift of her baby boy. And Hannah’s song sounds like the original to the Virgin Mary’s cover version, so many generations later, in the Gospel of Luke – the Magnificat – which gets a whole lot more air-time because … Jesus.

See, in Hannah’s song, her heart “exults in the Lord,” she “smiles at her enemies” because she “rejoices in God’s salvation.” Likewise, Mary’s soul “magnifies the Lord” and her spirit “rejoices in God her savior.”

Hannah says, “the bows of the mighty are broken,” and “the feeble gird on strength.” Mary says “the mighty are cast down from their thrones” and “the humble in heart are lifted up.”

For Hannah, “Those who were full have hired themselves out for bread, but those who were hungry are fat with spoil.” Mary says the same, just more simply, “God has filled the hungry with good things.”

You get the picture.

The undeniable similarities between Hannah’s prayer, like Mary’s, show a profound theological understanding about our God. A God who treasures and cares for the least among us. A God who protects the vulnerable and who challenges the powers that be. A God who listens to and uses the least likely suspects to bring justice, to provoke peace, to proclaim grace, to practice mercy, to do hard, holy, brave, beautiful things for the sake of the Kingdom.

Of course, justice of all sorts is worth praying about and working for in the world today. And since, as Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere,” because it’s International Women’s Month, and in honor of our ancestor Hannah, I found some things we could pray about, very specifically, where justice for women is concerned, and that impacts us all – or should:

• Did you know that every year more than 2 million girls are subjected to female, genital mutilation?

• Also, every year, 12 million girls in the world are married before their 18th birthday.

• 3.9 billion women live in countries with at least one law restricting their economic opportunities or access to the same justice as men.

• 90% of the world’s current billionaires were born before women could even get a line of credit.

• In the US, women get paid something like only 81-85% of what men do.

• Still, 6 in 10 Gen Z men believe/agree that we – men – are being expected to do too much to support gender equality. (For what it’s worth 4 in 10 Gen Z women believe the same.)

So, not only is there plenty to pray about because there’s plenty to be mad about, too. Which brings me to my last point for tonight. And that is the righteous anger I hear in the spirit of Hannah’s prayer, as much as all the rest. It’s what I hear when she prays that the lord “cuts off the wicked,” “shatters the adversaries,” and “thunders in heaven,” too.

So, I’ve asked Mallory to read again … something I’m taking liberties to call a modern-day protest prayer – not for babies, or for value that’s found in men’s approval, or for worth by way of society’s unfair standards – but a prayer for freedom and justice, generally, for women. It’s a poem by the play write and feminist Eve Ensler. (You might remember her as the creator of “The Vagina Monologues” from back in the day.) This is a slightly abridged piece, minimally edited for content that’s safe for worship.

I Am Leaving My Father’s House by Eve Ensler

I am leaving my father's house.

Stepping out, stepping off, free falling outside the confines of what is acceptable and known.

I am leaving this cage which suppressed me, depressed me, made less of me so thoroughly I came to call it my legacy, my country, my home.

I am leaving those angry men whose broken hearts and wounds became more painful and urgent than my own.

I'm not going to be sorry anymore or responsible or wrong.

I'm going to stop believing I can wake you up or break open your shell or get you to feel your grief, your tenderness.

I'm going to stop mainlining my life force into your self-esteem.

Air pump girl blowing up boy rubber ball. You can stay flat and go nowhere by yourself.

I am leaving my father's house.

I'm not going to whisper anymore or tiptoe or lay flat on my back.

I'm not ducking, flinching, waiting till you finish or whimpering in the dark.

I am moving out. I'm not going back.

I am leaving my father's house.

Because I no longer believe your lies about freedom and democracy – that it hurts you more than your whips or words or policies hurt me.

I'm going to believe what I see: bruises on my neck, Iraqi women with their voting fingers chopped off, emaciated polar bears in the Arctic melting from corporate greed.

I'm fleeing your disguised terror of my bigness, my hunger, my vagina, my tongue.

I am leaving my father's house.

I don't want a position there.

I'm not going to leash your prisoners.

I'm not going to starve your workers, organize your lynch mobs, or camouflage your crimes.

I'm not going to be a trophy on your arm or smile till my face breaks off.

I am leaving my father's house.

Corporate towers, cathedrals, mosques, and synagogues, picket fence houses and pentagons.

I'm going out.

Past the neighborhoods, past nations, fundamental doctrines and misinterpreted laws, past the reach of your fist, past the fire breath of your rage, past the tentacles of your seductive melancholy or your unspoken promises to change. I am willing to be alone, disliked, slandered, and misconstrued, because my freedom is more important than your so-called love.

Because my leaping will be the ultimate jumping off, will be the new beginning where we all get to start without a daddy in charge, on top, in control of all the goods, ideas, interpretations, and cash.

I'm going out there by myself.

But I know I will find the rest of you there waiting, ready, knee deep in the garden, hands raised in the water, way, way out past my father's house.

So, many thanks to Hannah tonight for her patient faithfulness, for her selfless sacrifice, for her powerful proclamation;

…for professing her faith, for promising justice, for proclaiming hope;

…for pronouncing God’s good news, mercy, abundance;

…and for her righteous anger, too, that should stoke and give permission for our own.

May we all pray in similar ways … for us and for others … until “the moral arc of the universe,” as the saying goes, “bends towards justice” … until righteousness and peace kiss one another … and until all of God’s people – men, women, and everyone in between – a re found ready, waiting, and knee deep in the garden, hands raised in the water, and moved beyond the house of the world’s patriarchy.

Amen

(The “Not Safe for Worship” version of Eve Ensler’s poem can be watched below.)

That's What She Said: Elizabeth

Luke 1:39-45

In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country, where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth. When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit and exclaimed with a loud cry, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my lord comes to me? For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy. And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.”

---

Like Hannah from last week, Elizabeth plays an important part in Mary’s story – and so the story of Jesus, too. However, Elizabeth, John the Baptist’s mother, is a contemporary of Mary and Jesus, less obscure, and more familiar to most of us than Hannah was. Still, Mary’s Aunt Elizabeth, for whatever reason, doesn’t make it into any of the other Gospels. And the two seem an unlikely pair.

Elizabeth was old. Mary … young. Elizabeth had been married for years to Zechariah, the priest. Mary was merely betrothed to a carpenter named Joseph. Elizabeth had tried and prayed and hoped to become pregnant but, unsuccessful, decided she was too old and barren for childbearing. Mary may very well have believed herself too young even to get pregnant – not to mention the whole issue of her virginity. This isn’t something she would have wanted, but there she was, “in the family way,” as they used to say; at least if what that angel said was true.

So you can’t help but wonder why Mary would want to visit with Elizabeth out there in the hill country. (Remember, that’s where we heard John the Baptist was, just this past Sunday, baptizing people out in the wilderness of Judea – apparently not far from where he was born and raised.)

- Maybe Mary was frightened of what her own parents might say, but knew she had this cool Aunt Elizabeth who would understand.

- Maybe Mary – in spite of all her best intentions to do the right thing by God – had thoughts of disappearing so that all of this might be kept a secret somehow.

- Maybe she wanted to confirm what the Angel told her: if her aunt really was pregnant after all these years, then perhaps what the angel had said about Mary really was going to happen after all, too.

- Maybe Mary hoped her Aunt Elizabeth could offer advice about what to expect and about what she could do to get ready for whatever was to come.

We may never know or be able to imagine all the things running through the mind of a young, pregnant, unmarried, first-century peasant girl as she made her way to visit Elizabeth, out in the wilderness of those hills. But I suspect at some level – no matter what her fears and plans might have been when it came to explaining all of this to her friends and family – Mary just needed to share it with someone who she knew would understand and who would love her, even if others might not.

See, I like to imagine Aunt Elizabeth – the wife of Zechariah … the priest, remember – was the kind of woman who laughed too loudly in polite company, and said more than she was supposed to sometimes; that maybe she even cussed a little – that she was a bit rough around the edges, for the wife of a priest, anyway. And I imagine the people in Judea loved her for it – and that so did Mary.

So I like to imagine Elizabeth was the cool aunt who explained things to Mary that she hadn’t learned at home, yet, about birds and bees, and babies – and about how all of this would have, should have, could have happened, had her lost virginity not been such a mystery.

And I like to imagine Aunt Elizabeth was a first century feminist, too – had there been a word or a way for such a thing in those days – who helped Mary see and even sing about the power a woman could hold – the power they both held, actually – alive in their wombs, growing in their bellies, that they would cradle in their arms, that they would gift to the world. The power to raise up their boys, I mean, to “cast the mighty down from their thrones,” “to raise up the lowly,” “to send the rich away, empty” and all the things Mary sings about and likely learned from Hannah, as we wondered about last week. Maybe Elizabeth was the one who prayed and unpacked and pointed all of that out to Mary during that visit.

Anyway, I imagine Mary had her suspicions about that angel and his promise to her – who wouldn’t?! – and that she wanted Elizabeth to tell her … to assure her … to promise her … that there was more than she could see about all of this at the moment.

See, that angel never told Mary to go and visit Elizabeth but I believe all of that is why Mary ran to see her: for camaraderie, for support, for encouragement, for someone with whom she could share common ground – for hope. I believe their visit was about one woman seeking another when she needed help, advice, a life-line, perhaps; someone to tell her this would be okay, in the end; that she could do this, after all; that she wasn’t as alone or as in danger or as unprepared and incapable as she must have felt … when she wasn’t talking to angels, anyway.

And isn’t that something all of us have felt at some time or another? Uncertain, overwhelmed, out of our element … afraid, alone, certain no one understands or has traveled this road before … unprepared, over our head, out of faith …

Like Mary, don’t we want to share questions with someone who’s asking them too? Don’t we want to name our fears with someone who’s been scared, just like we are? Don’t we want to be free to wonder, to dream, and to ask hard questions with a like-minded soul – with someone who’ll feel free to wonder and dream and ask hard questions, without judgment, right along with us?

Don’t we all long for someone – filled with the Holy Spirit, if we’re lucky, like Elizabeth was – to remind us how blessed we are; inside and out, even when it doesn’t always feel that way? Someone who’s always glad to see us coming, no matter what or when, and who welcomes us without reservation? Someone who can’t be shocked or surprised by whatever news we have to share – good, bad, something to celebrate or to be ashamed of, even. Someone to affirm that we’ve made the right, faithful choice – even when it’s hard, even when no one else is likely to agree? Someone to remind us of God’s place in our midst and God’s power in our life? Someone to show us how loved we are, not just to say it?

That’s who Elizabeth was to Mary, I believe. And I don’t think it’s too much to say that Elizabeth was a picture of Christ for Mary – and for all of us, still. Elizabeth was to Mary who Jesus means to be for each of us and for all people.

When we want someone who understands the questions we ask – God promises us Jesus.

When we want someone who knows about the things that scare us most – God promises us Jesus.

When we want someone who shares our pain and our joy and our dreams and our destiny – God promises us Jesus.

When we want someone to confirm and promise that we are, indeed, blessed in the eyes of our Maker – God promises us Jesus.

And, in the meantime, all of us need – or maybe we need to be for someone else – an Aunt Elizabeth.

Maybe we need – or need to be – one who listens without judgment.

Maybe we need – or need to be – one who believes the unbelievable on behalf of someone we love.

Maybe we need – or need to be – the one who encourages when others won’t, who loves when others don’t, who abides, who hopes, helps, comforts, commiserates; who shows up, sits with, supports, and stands by, no matter what.

Because that’s what she said… and what she did - Elizabeth for Mary, thanks be to God.

Because who knows what might have come of Mary, had Elizabeth not come through for her in the first place? Would she have found the practical help she was looking for? Would she have mustered the courage required to endure what was coming? Would she have found the faith it took … to answer her call … to do God’s bidding … to sing her song so that we could, too?

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.