Luke 1:67-79
Have you ever wanted something for a long time? Worked for it, waited for it, dreamed of it, only to finally get it and then find out that it wasn’t what you thought it would be?
I am a priest. This is not a chosen vocation. It is my lineage. I am of the line of Abijah. My wife Elizabeth is also from a priestly family—the line of Aaron. Had she been born male, she too would have been a priest, but of course there are no female priests. That would be silly.
Because our people have been plentiful, there are many priests. We are divided into several orders of priests, and we only serve in the temple two weeks per year. During that time, we cast lots to see which one of us has been chosen by God to make the incense offerings and pray the prayers of the people. It is a great honor to be chosen in this way—chosen by God—so it is what we priests look forward to our entire lives. Some poor souls never get chosen. Others get chosen as young men. You can never predict what God will do.
We are taught, of course, what to do when we enter the holy of holies. But when I was a young man, I wanted to know everything. I spent extra time talking to the priests who had served in this capacity, to find out what it was like—what it looked like, what it felt like. I was eager. I was ready. I was worthy.
And then I never got chosen. Year after year after year. I am now an old man, and I thought I might be one of those priests who never gets to serve—which is not only disappointing but also embarrassing, for clearly God did not deem you worthy, in spite of your lineage. I kept praying—“God, I am ready! I am willing! I am worthy!” And still . . . nothing. I just about lost hope. I had only a sliver of hope left, and that seemed to pierce my soul more than soothe it.
Then it happened. The lot fell on me, and my first thought was: “I am worthy! God thinks I’m worthy!” But just as quickly as that thought came, another followed: “I am not worthy! I am not worthy to enter the inner sanctuary of the temple of the Lord! Who could be worthy of such an honor?”
But I had prepared, and I had been chosen, so I entered the holy place, and as I looked around it was just like I imagined . . . until I got to the angel. At first I thought, “Why didn’t anybody tell me about the angel?!” And then I realized, he’s not usually there. He had come with a message for me.
He told me that Elizabeth and I would have a son. Now, I know the Torah. I know the stories of our people. So I know about Abraham and Sara, and how an angel promised them a child late in life, and I know that Sara laughed and the angel didn’t like it. So when an angel told me that my wife—who is barren—would bear me a child this late in life, I did not laugh. Not out loud.
The angel went on to say that I should name the child John, and he would be great in the sight of the Lord and would be filled with the Holy Spirit and would lead people to repentance. He said that my son would prepare the way for the coming of the Lord. That means the Messiah! Do you know how long my people have waited for the Promised One?
But I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “How will I know that this is so?” You might be thinking that’s an odd question. “Well, you’ll know when your old wife is suddenly with child.” But you see, because I know my Torah, I knew it was a long time between when God made that the promise to Abraham, and when it came to be. So when I asked, “How will I know this is so?” I meant, how will I know in-between? How will I know, when it doesn’t happen right away? How will I know that you still mean it when, five years down the road, we are still without child? How will I keep believing?”
The angel did not like my question. I think he was offended, actually, because he said, “I am Gabriel and I stand in the presence of God and I bring you this good news and you don’t believe me!” And then he told me I would be unable to speak until these things occurred.
I was confused. I had never been the most articulate of men, but I had spent all those years preparing to offer the incense and say the prayers, and I finally get a chance, and now I can’t speak? What good is silence?
And then I had many months of it. I think I spent the first two months angry about that—frustrated every time I couldn’t communicate. Finally I decided that there must be a reason other than punishment. Perhaps there was something to be learned in the silence, or something to be learned from the silence.
It’s odd. When you can hear but not speak, you hear better. Sometimes I used to think I was listening, but really I was just waiting . . . waiting for the other person to stop talking so I could have my turn. But when I knew I couldn’t respond, I learned to really listen.
I heard surprising things. I heard my wife’s stomach growling as she served me. I heard her footsteps around the house—slower at the end of the day than at the beginning. I heard a woman singing three doors down. I heard the pain in my friend’s voice when he said he was fine. I even heard fear in the voice of a young Roman soldier, when he was pushing around some of my neighbors.
And I thought about our Messiah, and how desperately we need to be freed from Roman rule. But for the first time, I realized the Romans need to be free of it, too. Their occupation forces their own citizens to oppress others, which means they still stand at the end of a whip. Sure, most people would rather be at their end than ours, but oppression hurts us all. We all need the Prince of Peace.
My son will not be the Messiah, but he will be the one to prepare the way for the Messiah. And then I began to worry: “How in the world am I supposed to raise this child? Should I be lenient with him, because he is special? Should I be harder on him, to prepare him for his task? Should I expect more from him than other children his age? Of course I will take him to temple and teach him Torah, but beyond that—how do I prepare him spiritually? How do I mold his heart so that one day he will be able to turn other people’s hearts to the Lord?”
Before I had an answer, I had my son placed in my arms. I still couldn’t speak—probably would have been speechless, anyway. It wasn’t until I officially named him John in the temple that my tongue was freed. And suddenly words poured out of me like never before . . . words that sounded as if I had been practicing them for months, when really they just flowed off my tongue in praise to God. I guess sometimes you need the silence in order to find your voice.
I praised God, and then I looked at my son and I said to him, “And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways.” And that’s when I knew. That’s when I figured out exactly how I will raise this child. I will be gentle but firm, so that he will learn the strength in kindness. I will teach him to share, so that he will know that “sharing the gospel” means it is for everyone. I will teach him to be brave, so that he can stand up to oppression. I will teach him to listen, so that he can hear the voice of God.
In other words, I will raise him like I would raise any child . . . for although this child has been identified by God, aren’t we all supposed to prepare the way of the Lord? Aren’t we all supposed to point people toward God? Aren’t we all supposed to give light to those who sit in darkness and guide one another’s feet in the way of peace?
You, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High. And you, child, will go before the Lord to prepare God’s ways. And you, child, will bring light to those in darkness. And you, child, will be called. And you, child, will be called. And you, child, and you, child, and you, child, will be called.
Prepare ye the way of the Lord.