In the days of King Herod of Judea, there was a priest named Zechariah, who belonged to the priestly order of Abijah. His wife was a descendant of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. Both of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord. But they had no children, because Elizabeth was barren, and both were getting on in years.
It was a reasonable doubt I had, when I asked the angel, “How will I know that it is so?” Who wouldn’t after all, at our age, after all those seasons of our private, burdened, lonely prayer. But I digress. Let me tell you what happened one unexpected day long ago. May name, Zechariah, it means “God remembers.” That meaning made it a common name — kings a few, prophets, and a bevy of farmers. Elizabeth and I, we come from priestly families. Our ancient family tree led us back into the Holy surprises of Yahweh, but God’s activity had long since ceased, or so it seemed. People would speak my name and roll their eyes and grumble their sense that God’s remembering had turned to forgetfulness.
Twice a year we traveled to Jerusalem, to gather with the thousands of other priests and all the people of Israel. As on each holy day, there were four responsibilities; the burnt offering, the meal offering, tending to the candlestick in the great sanctuary, and the offering of incense. The first three carried a certain prestige, and the fourth was the most honorable of all. Only once in a lifetime might a priest get the chance to light the incense of God, and that only if you’d win the lottery. Safe to say I had only a numb shock when one day the lot fell on me, and I would offer the Lord the evening incense.
I remember my legs trembling that night as the crowd watched me enter the great temple sanctuary. Two men were there, waiting for me. One opened a silver firepan and poured bright coals onto the altar. The other set a dish of incense at its side. They both left, slamming the massive doors behind them, leaving me alone. Here I was making ready the prayers of all Israel. I had imagined it a thousand times, and now, here I was, and it was unimaginable! I could never have imagined in my wildest dreams what happened next.
In an instant, just as the instant touched the coals, and angel was standing beside me. I struggled for breath, shook with fear, and lost my ability to stand, falling against the side of the altar and almost into the burning incense. Then, suddenly, my fear turned to deepest joy because the angel spoke the two most comforting words I have ever heard…my name, Zechariah, and then “Don’t be afraid.” I had heard what it sounds like when God says your name. What followed was a thoroughly unbelievable tale, that God had been listening to our barren lament, and that Elizabeth was in fact going to become pregnant. The angel at the end of the altar told me that this child would be named John — “God gives grace” — and that he would be the messenger announcing Messiah’s appearance. Well, I reminded the angel that “I am an old man” and found kinder words for Elizabeth — “and my wife is getting along in years.” As I said before, my doubts were reasonable, don’t you think?
Things ended there quickly. The angel told me his name was Gabriel, that he was sent straight from the presence of God to give me this news, and that though seeming impossible, the process was already underway. Then came one more holy surprise, another announcement that I would be silent, muted, unable to speak until the child was born. And just like that Gabriel was gone.
The crowd keeping Vigil outside was impatiently waiting and worried about the incense delay, and when I came out it was a much like anything a game of charades. They couldn’t understand what had happened, and I couldn’t tell them! Put yourself in my shoes; just imagine what that moment and the days and months following were like for me…holding onto the news, aware of the promise, desperately wanting to tell everyone about what happened to me when the powder hit the coals. And that day when Mary came, and she told us a story about an angel visiting her, and Joseph too, and all I could do was nod and draw pictures with stone edges on rocks, and play more charades, which helped us all figure out together that God was up to something holy and new. We celebrated together, and we were scared.
The day the boy was born I remained reduced to silent rejoicing. I danced and drew and did what I could, but my voice didn’t come back, and I was scared; thank God for that blessed eighth day, when we brought him to the synagogue for his circumcision and blessing, and I couldn’t do the father’s job, which was to speak his name for the first time. Instead it was back to the drawing board, as I listened to my relatives project him to be another Zechariah, I scribbled almost violently “His name is John….John!” and right then it was like something invisible punched me in my chest and knocked the wind out of me…AND I COULD TALK AGAIN! And you can only imagine how much I had to say! Finally I could join Elizabeth and Mary in singing my own song.
Though Gabriel never came back to me, I felt a strange and wonderful sense of God’s presence the rest of my days.
I was no longer present on the earth that day when John was a grown man standing in the water and saw Jesus and pointed at him and said, “Here comes the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.”
Peter Hawkinson
Winnetka Covenant Church Blog 