Luke 1:5-20; Luke 1:26-38
Zechariah had a good life. Good–but not what he had expected. Good–but only after decades of working to claim the goodness.
Zechariah and Elizabeth were old. They had not been able to have a child. In biblical times, infertility was a source of tremendous grief and pain, as couples who were unable to have a child were considered to be cursed. Children meant your family continued beyond your life. Today, even in a culture that has made progress in honoring the different shapes our families take and the different ways we leave a legacy, infertility is a still a source of grief and pain for many families.
I find myself imagining what Zechariah and Elizabeth’s life might have been like. I imagine they struggled to come to terms with their inability to have a child. In a culture that considered a child a sign of God’s blessing, they would have felt perplexed and distressed. Why was God punishing them?
I wonder whether they were angry at God. According to Luke, they were blamelessly following the commandments and devoting themselves to service in the temple; why wasn’t God blessing them? Perhaps they followed the example of the Psalmist and cried out their rage to God. Or maybe they held it deep within, afraid giving voice to their pain would only make it worse.
I imagine they went through a period of blaming each other for their misfortune. The scripture assumes that it was Elizabeth who was, in biblical language, barren; we know that just as often, a couple’s infertility has to do with the man. Did Elizabeth accept the assumption that it was her failing or did she silently resent having all the blame placed on her?
Zechariah and Elizabeth were old; they had had their entire adult lives to work through the instinct to blame one another for their shared misfortune. They had had their entire married lives to claim their love for each other as more powerful than that instinct to blame. Perhaps they had come to celebrate that their love had grown stronger through hardship.
They had decades to re-imagine their lives–to grieve expectations that would not come to pass, to build up defenses against society’s judgments, to claim a new vision of what a good life meant for them.
When Zechariah the priest went into the sanctuary to offer incense, I imagine he did so with a sense of peace. Then the angel appeared. After all this time, after all their work to re-envision their lives, Elizabeth and he would have a child. Zechariah asked a reasonable question, “How will I know this is so? We are too old!” In response, the angel told him he would not be able to speak until the child was born.
The scripture implies that Zechariah’s sudden muteness was a punishment; I interpret it differently. After decades of grieving one vision for his life and coming to terms with a new one, Zechariah needed time to re-envision yet again what his life would be like. This time of silence wasn’t about resurrecting an old dream, for the child who would be born was not going to carry on the family line. It was about preparing for something entirely new. The nine months of silence was not a punishment; it was a blessing–a quiet time to look within and re-imagine.
First the angel Gabriel appeared to an old man, who had lived the human reality of dreams and disappointments, hope reshaped and reclaimed. Then he appeared to a young girl, who in her short life had had little opportunity to dream. Mary was already engaged, an arranged marriage to an older man. Her hopes were likely constrained by societal expectations: hope that her husband would treat her kindly, that her children would be healthy. Maybe she harbored a few out-of-the box dreams, of a life wider than the one set forth for her. Whatever she may have dreamt, it was surely not what the angel proclaimed: she would have a child out of wedlock who would turn the world upside down.
Mary asked a question much like Zechariah’s: “How can this be? It’s not possible.” Gabriel replied, “Nothing will be impossible with God.” Mary response was an immediate “yes”: “Here am I.”
Traditionally, Mary’s assent has been interpreted as the ultimate example of obedience. I wonder, though, whether her affirmation actually reflected a hint of rebelliousness in her nature. Gabriel’s appearance allowed her to claim her dream of a life deeper and broader than the one she had come to expect. It was more than she ever could have imagined–more complicated, more dangerous, and more wondrous. Her spirit leapt at the invitation to claim a new vision for her life.
Our Christmas decorations are filled with pictures of angels–winged ballerinas, heavenly choirs. Beyond Christmas, we often visualize angels as guardians, keeping us safe. Gabriel was none of these. He was an angel of disruption. He appeared to Zechariah and disrupted his hard-won acceptance of his life. He appeared to Mary and disrupted the plans that had been carefully laid out for her. In God’s name, Gabriel promised that there would be more to their lives than they had ever dreamed, that God would work through them in ways they could never have envisioned.
Who are you in this story? Are you an old soul like Zechariah, one who has lived the reality of dreams and disappointments, envisioning and re-envisioning life? Are you a young soul like Mary, who has barely begun to imagine what shape your life might take, who harbors deep within a rebellious dream that subverts everyone’s expectations? Perhaps you have a little bit of both in you.
Whether you are old or young or some combination of the two, this story is for you. The story assures you that God yearns to work in and through you to bring hope to our world. It invites you to listen to the angels who disrupt your imagining of what your life might be. The angels who appear to you probably will not have wings; they might seem so ordinary you won’t even realize they are bringing a message from God.
These ordinary-looking angels might challenge you to dream bigger than you ever dared to dream. How can you be part of transforming our city, advocating for policies that ensure opportunity for every child from every background? How might your voice be heard in the messy public discourse of our national life? How can you participate in changing public policy to address the global crisis of climate change? I think of the newly-retired librarian who takes the T into Boston to join climate protests practically every week, sometimes more often. I think of the science teacher who has written more letters to the editor than anyone else I know.
These ordinary-looking angels might urge you to focus in on something that initially seems too small to matter. Maybe they call you to trust that the difference you can make in a single person’s life can ripple out in ways you may never know. How can you reach out to offer one person a kind word? How can you claim your love for baking breads or crocheting shawls or making phone calls as a holy calling? What can help you trust that God works through your smallest acts of compassion? I think of the veteran who cleans up trash along the road every morning, in the process bringing people hope. I think of the seasoned musician who unofficially mentors new choir members, helping them experience the joy of singing.
Whether you are young or old or somewhere in between, God yearns to work in and through you to bring hope to the world. It will not be the way you envisioned it–it might be bigger than you had ever dreamed; it might be smaller than you thought would matter. It will disrupt your life. It will be complicated and messy. It will be more wondrous than you could ever imagine. Amen.