I have never yet been at a baptism ceremony where a dispute suddenly broke out over the naming of the child, but that’s exactly what happened at the ceremony for the naming and circumcision of John the Baptist. Such a shame about the child’s father, they thought, or even whispered to one another, as all the proper preparations were made. Poor old Zechariah seemed to have had something like a stroke, that day when he was on duty in the Temple, and was chosen to enter the sanctuary and burn the incense there. The stress must have been too much for him. But at least Elizabeth had now presented him with a fine young son. You’ll be wanting to call him Zechariah, they said, after his father. But then Elizabeth went off script – he is to be called John, she said. Consternation for a few moments, until someone thought of asking old Zechariah himself – that would sort it out. He couldn’t speak, poor old chap, but he could still write. Give him a slate, someone, and ask him what the boy is to be called. Another silence while he forms the letters. HIS NAME IS JOHN. And then a babble of excited comment which ebbs away into awe-struck silence as it becomes clear that Zechariah himself, who has been silent for nine months, is able to speak again. We didn’t read his song this evening, but you know how it goes: ‘Blessed is the Lord God of Israel, for he has visited and redeemed his people, and has raised up a mighty salvation for us in the house of his servant David …’ As Zechariah’s voice grew in strength and confidence, they were all amazed.
As well they might be – and yet, perhaps they shouldn’t have been so surprised As friends of Elizabeth and Zechariah they were probably good people, who knew and believed their Scriptures. They knew that one day this messy, complex world of good and evil would be resolved amid scenes of joy and restoration, such as those depicted in our first lesson, but also of challenge, judgment and devastation. A prophet like Elijah would come to prepare the people of Israel for that great and terrible day. The grand narrative of their faith pointed forward to a great culmination of history when all creation would be restored. We read this evening one of the passages that would have been familiar to them:
The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,
The desert shall rejoice and blossom,
Like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly,
And rejoice with joy and singing.
And the wonder of restoration would not be confined to the physical environment. Fallen humanity, damaged and spoiled as so many of us are, would also be healed and restored:
Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,
And the ears of the deaf unstopped;
Then the lame shall leap like a deer,
And the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.
They knew all that, but when it started to happen – when Zechariah found his voice, and began to sing for joy – it was too good to be true – as it had been for Zechariah himself. He and Elizabeth, we are told, were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord. But they had no children (Luke 1.6,7). Elizabeth felt it particularly keenly. She felt stigmatised, knowing that in the eyes of her neighbours her barrenness was not so much a misfortune as a disgrace, a sign that she must have done something wrong. The absence of children was a sadness to them both, but they had learned to live with it, placing their sadness in God’s hands, much as you or I might do, still praying, still trusting in God’s love, but perhaps no longer really expecting their prayers to be answered, or at least not in that way. So when the angel told Zechariah that he and Elizabeth were to become parents after all, he couldn’t make the connection. In one part of his heart and mind he had a faith which relied on a narrative of good news. But he couldn’t make the connection with his everyday life, the disappointment of childlessness with which he and Elizabeth had so nearly come to terms. In his confusion, he asked: How shall I know? As soon as he said that, he must have realised what a silly question it was, but perhaps it expressed an underlying ambivalence about his faith, which extended beyond the immediate question. There were so many things he used to believe, and still wanted to believe, but he was getting old, too old not merely to have children, but too old to believe in wonders. Perhaps he dared not risk another layer of disappointment if it turned out not to be true. And so he had to learn the hard way, by being struck dumb till the child was born.
As we prepare to celebrate Christmas, I wonder whether Zechariah’s predicament may not have something to teach us all. Like him, we attend to our duties in this world, including our religious duties. That after all is why we have gathered here this evening. Like him we do so because we are aware of the great narrative of salvation, which establishes the context within which our lives are set. As we remind ourselves regularly in our worship, and specifically in the creeds, we live in a world created by a God who loves us, and has entrusted the marvellously rich diversity of his creation to our care. We believe that he sent his Son Jesus to share our humanity, and by his death and resurrection to open the way for us to be reconciled and restored. We believe that one day He will come againin glory to bring all things to a joyful conclusion, in which justice will be tempered with mercy. We know these things in our hearts, but when our prayers are answered by God our Saviour, whose Spirit is at work in our lives and in the world about us, we have difficulty in making the connection between the narrative of salvation and grace with which we are familiar by faith, and the messy events of our daily life.
One of the most wonderful things about Christmas is the capacity of the Christmas story to restore our faith in the narrative of God’s loving purposes for us. We hear the message of the angels, we go with the shepherds to the stable, we kneel in wonder as we see ‘our God contracted to a span, incomprehensibly made man’. For a little while, the realism that so easily invades our hearts and minds as we observe the politics of the climate change negotiations, or as we wrestle with the challenges of our own work and our own relationships – all that is suspended as we allow ourselves to be confirmed in our belief that the child in the manger is none other than the Son of God, whose life and death and resurrection has created new pathways for the transformation of our world. It may be easier for a child’s imagination to ‘go even unto Bethlehem, to see this thing which has come to pass, and the babe laid in a manger’, and we are right to encourage them to go there, but the wonder is for us too. We should be deeply grateful for the annual opportunity to re-engage with the narrative that shapes our lives. .
They were all amazed, not least Zechariah himself, whose speech was restored along with his reaffirmation of the narrative he had always believed was capable of touching his life. The wonder of Christmas is not just for the children. It’s for us too. Let us allow ourselves to be touched by that wonder again this year, and inspired to carry it with us in our hearts, not just for the few days of the Christmas holiday, but as the powerful all-encompassing reality at the edge of our radar screens, even when the decorations come down and we have to re-engage with all the messy realities of our daily lives.