Mary makes her way to her relative, Elizabeth, having learned from the Archangel Gabriel of the latter’s blessed state. Her visitation was no mean feat. Mary is in her first trimester; Elizabeth, her third. Nazareth to Ein-Karem, in “the hill country of Judea,” was about 90 miles. That was about 90 miles on foot or on a beast, e.g., a donkey. In any event, it was a multiple-day trip and Mary was “in haste.” It must have been soon after the Annunciation, because Luke tells us Mary stayed with Elizabeth for “about three months.” Since traditionally we mark the Nativity of John the Baptist on June 24, her departure for Ein-Karem was rapid.

Today, the average donkey travels 15-25 miles a day, making Mary’s journey a four-to-six-day affair. (She’ll repeat that journey while pregnant in her third trimester, when a decree goes out from Caesar Augustus.)

Why did she go? Catholic meditation books will speak of “love of neighbor” and that’s true. In (and not just) antiquity, the women of an extended family would help a pregnant “kinswoman.” There would have been an even greater motive to do something in Elizabeth’s case. She was on in years, increasing the potential for complications in pregnancy and childbirth. And seeing what God had done for Elizabeth — giving her a child for whom she and Zechariah might otherwise have given up hope — Mary must have certainly felt some spiritual kinship between Elizabeth’s situation and her own.

So, Mary went to “the hill country of Judea.” And, when she arrives, she greets Elizabeth. And then some amazing things happen.

The Gospel says Elizabeth was “filled with the Holy Spirit” as is, apparently, her prenatal son. (Remember, the Holy Spirit has already “come upon” Mary, leading to Jesus’ conception, so clearly God is very much involved in this encounter.) Elizabeth’s greeting is unusual. It’s not “Hello, Miriam, daughter of Joachim! Welcome!” It is “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”

Elizabeth has given you the words you are praying in this Rosary.

Now, it was once commonplace to speak euphemistically of pregnancy as a “blessed state,” but Elizabeth’s greeting is more than that. Mary is “blessed … among women,” pointing to her singularity, as is her Child.

Elizabeth goes on: “How does it happen that the Mother of my Lord should come to me?”

Elizabeth is much older than Mary. In traditional Semitic cultures, youth defers to age, not the other way around. Elizabeth’s words would have been atypical. They speak humility. Knowing the tradition of extended female family support Elizabeth, like Mary at the Annunciation, exudes humility: though Mary has come to help her, she is honored by her presence.

And the presence of her Child. Clearly, in both instances, Elizabeth-John and Mary-Jesus, mother and child are seen in indivisible relationship. How does that contrast with today?

Indeed, “the moment your greeting reached my ears, the infant in my womb leaped for joy.” Now, a child in the third trimester moves: “quickening” has long happened. But this child “leaped” in a particular circumstance, one his mother explains.

Especially when “filled with the Holy Spirit.”

And, by the way, the word Elizabeth uses for “child” — brephos — is the same word the Gospel uses for a child after birth, e.g., when six months from now Mary will “wrap the child in swaddling clothes.”

Mary acknowledged Elizabeth’s greeting, not with a “thank you” but with her beautiful hymn, the Magnificat, redirecting it all to God. God has not put her in an “impossible situation” — “my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.” Mary has no inflated self-sense, but she has a sense of truth and reality: God “has looked upon his handmaid’s lowliness; behold, all generations will call me blessed.”

Such regard for the “lowly” is God’s way. Three more times in the Magnificat, Mary highlights God’s care for the meek and poor in spirit. God “casts down the mighty and lifts up the lowly.” He feeds the hungry but dispatches the rich. He shows his mighty arm by scattering the proud.

None of these wonderful things are her own doing; all our good is God’s work: “The Almighty has done great things for me.” But notice her humility: she refrains here from calling him “G-d” directly, but she acknowledges only divine omnipotence could account for her situation.

But divine omnipotence is not raw power: it is mercy, and God’s mercy aims to save. “His mercy is from age to age on those who fear him,” not those who presume upon him or his mercy. He has helped Israel, “remembering his mercy.” And that is not momentary. Mary acutely feels the significance of the moment: what God has done is part of the bigger picture of his involvement with his people, with “his promise to our fathers” and it is intended to last “forever.”

Although the “Almighty has done great things for” Mary, things that profoundly changed her life (and the world’s), Mary’s focus remains not on herself but on others. She goes to her relative’s aid. She is available.

Are we? Are we available for the needs of those who ask us, especially those in our own families? Our modern world is dying of “loneliness.” Would we pick up and take a four-to-six-day trip on the back of a pack animal to help somebody? Or would we be more like the householder of whom Jesus speaks in the parable, the one who can’t be bothered to get up and give the neighbor a loaf of bread but who, finally, relents due to persistence? (Luke 11:5-8, the same chapter where Jesus gives his Apostles the “Our Father” you are praying.)

Do we recognize the other in need? In our day, there may be no one more in need than the prenatal child who, in the wake of the Dobbs decision, no small number of our fellow citizens seem willing to exclude from legal protections. Like Elizabeth, do we recognize the child — the brephos — who is God’s work? Because, while Elizabeth was “filled with the Holy Spirit” to give voice to her Son’s reaction, every child is touched by the Holy Spirit, given the simple fact that he or she exists. After all, no human parent can create a soul: only God can. And, every Sunday, we repeat: “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord and Giver of life.”

Today’s Mystery is depicted in a late Gothic work from early 16th-century Hungary. The painter, like Mary, has faded into the background: the most we know about him is his name, the “Master M.S.” because of the initials on one work.

I chose this painting because of its “flowing” appearance and its tenderness. The clothes of Elizabeth and Mary “flow” — look at Mary’s veil. It visually embodies what the Gospel tells us: Mary went “in haste.” Mary could not wait to help Elizabeth. It also incorporates tenderness: Elizabeth greets both her guests, not with words but gestures: she takes and kisses Mary’s hand while putting her other hand on Mary’s belly, on Jesus. I also particularly like it because it has a small detail immersing it in history: on the right, in the distance, are two small figures going about their business. That’s what it must have been like on that day: while two women and their important children met, the rest of the world went on turning with its usual business.

The rugged countryside reminds us of the “hill country of Judea.” As the commentary of the Hungarian Gallery of Art notes, the painting is also unusual, in that most depictions of the Visitation occur at or near Elizabeth’s house, in which the Gospel locates their exchange of greetings. Master M.S., situating the encounter in the open, manages also to put the full accent on the main figures alone, while situating it in time with our people way in the back. (Many depictions of the Visitation typically show other people in Mary’s and Elizabeth’s trains, not realistic for a poor girl from Nazareth or likely for a priest’s wife like Elizabeth, either.)