Luke 1:57-66
“Then they began motioning to his father to find out what name he wanted to give him. 63He asked for a writing tablet and wrote, ‘His name is John.’ And all of them were amazed. 64Immediately his mouth was opened and his tongue freed, and he began to speak, praising God.” (Luke 1:62-64)
This part of John’s nativity story always scares the dickens out of me. I mean, what else could you expect when a pastor reads a story about a priest who loses his voice? It’s sort of like a recurring nightmare that I have nearly every year at this time in which it is time for the Christmas Eve service to begin, but I can’t find my preaching manuscript. Inevitably, I left it on the printer or it’s out in the hallway where I keep my robe and stole. Whatever the specifics, I’m always trying to get to the manuscript, but people keep getting in my way and pointing me back to the pulpit. Inevitably, I wake up and have to stress-eat Christmas cookies for breakfast until I feel better.
I don’t know if I have any profound reflections on my anxiety-induced dreams, but I am deeply curious about Zechariah’s life around the time of the birth of his first and only son. As a Temple priest, he had duties, most of which included being able to speak. And so, the last nine months have been a hardship both personally and professionally. Even in my worst nightmares, I’m still able to speak; I might be able to fake it at least! Not so for Zechariah. He is stuck, impotent, unsure of what is to come next.
Undoubtedly, this season felt like a severe hardship. The way the text presents it, his muteness was a punishment from God. He had likely concluded that this was just his abiding fate until the day he died. And yet, because of his time spent in silence, because of his suffering perseverance, he is blessed to know the right thing to say (or, well, write) when the right time comes.
I do my best when hardships come to keep stories like Zechariah’s in mind. I try to imagine that whatever present trouble is besieging me that it is part of a bigger plan that will somehow make me more faithful on the other end of it, more able to speak (or write) what God wills to be spoken or written.
We are days away from Christmas. Undoubtedly, each of you is filled with hopes and expectations. “The best Christmas ever” is what is marketed to us year after year and so it is inevitable that our hopes get so oriented. And so, in a season of such amped up expectations, it is good to pause and remember that even if this proves to be “the worst Christmas ever,” there is still hope. There is still good reason to consider how even the deepest disappointment might yet prove to be the means of tomorrow’s faithfulness. Amen.
p.s. When you see me Friday night before the service, make sure I have my manuscript. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re on the case with me. J
