Through Paul’s letters, we learn that Luke was a companion and co-laborer with Paul, who calls Luke, “the beloved physician” (Col 4:14).  Unlike every other writer in the Bible, Luke was not Jewish but a Gentile.  Luke’s account of the Jesus story, however, is still dense with Jewish ways, customs, and history.  It couldn’t be otherwise, considering that God’s Word was addressed first to the Jews, who were to be the ones to address the world for God.  The world, however, had a much greater interest in co-opting the Jews, or in subjugating, terrorizing, and killing them, than in listening to anything Jews had to say.  It became clear to some among the Jews that the only way they could live into God’s call and claim upon them was if God Himself would come to them, be with them, empower them, bless them in a way as yet unseen.  The people waited, some watched, listened for a word.  Over generations, many found they had more pressing, interesting, and better things to do.  Life in this world has a way of drawing us away.

This is where Luke begins the story, introducing us to “a priest named Zechariah” (1:5), not so very elderly and no longer young.  He and his wife, Elizabeth, could both trace their lineage back to the first high priest, Aaron, brother of Moses, some fifteen centuries before their time.  No one not descended from Aaron could ever hope to be a priest: the priesthood forever belonged to the sons of Aaron.  The priests were to bring the people to God and God to the people.  The priests were specially directed to live and teach the faith.  From the perspective of the priests, the faith had been embodied, not to say enshrined, in the law.  The law was God’s revealed will for a conduct of life markedly different from the idol-worshipping, sin-indulging peoples always all around the Jews.  The law was like a sheepfold, a place of safety, and blessing.  Try living in a functionally lawless place for any length of time, and I think you’ll understand.

Luke tells us that Zechariah and Elizabeth “were righteous in the sight of God, observing all the Lord’s commands and decrees blamelessly” (1:6).  We might pause just there and wonder what Luke—writing as a Christ follower—may mean by righteous.  He says they followed “the Lord’s commands and decrees.”  Is that what it is to be righteous?  I don’t doubt the couple were earnest about their faith, conscientious.  It may even be the case that living by the law was a joy and source of peace for them rather than some grim, laborious chore.  Luke calls them righteous.  How is anyone righteous in the sight of the Lord?  We know the answer is faith, trusting and loving God; faithful living—righteous living—is the consequence, the outgrowth, of trusting and loving God, relying upon God.

Luke has told us something to make us glad: the couple are what you and I would call good people; then he tells us something sad: Zechariah and Elizabeth are “childless” (1:7), and not from lack of trying or wanting.  We can trust, love, and rely upon the Lord all our lives, yet not receive from His hand some special blessing for which we have hoped and prayed for many years.  Not receiving doesn’t necessarily diminish or erode our faith, but I think it has to tint that faith.  We know God has all wisdom, and we don’t understand.  What Scripture reminds us of, many times, is that God has plans, the power to carry out His plans, and that God carries out His plans according to His own schedule.  We can trust God, or we can fret; we can hand our disappointments over to Him, or we can nurse them over years, making a dark, polished little idol of them.

Luke wants to tell us of a very momentous event in the life of Zechariah, of the priesthood, and indeed, of the entire worshipping community.  Zechariah had been chosen by lot—the short stick, the white stone, the Yes rather than the No: this was how the ancient Hebrews believed God typically chose to speak to His people after the days of Joshua.  Zechariah was chosen “to go into the temple of the Lord and burn incense” (1:9).  The altar of incense was just this side of the curtain separating off the most holy place, into which only the high priest himself could enter, only once each year.  The incense smoke evoked the cloud that led the people in the wilderness by day, evoked the clouds at Sinai that acted as a safety barrier, concealing the unbearable glory of God from the eyes of the people; the incense was also a visible sign of the prayers of the people, offered through the priests, going up to God; I wonder what prayers of Zechariah’s were ascending, that day—if any.  Maybe Zechariah hadn’t prayed in a long time.  Prayer is a habit, and we can fall out of habits as well as start them.

The wonderful thing about the God whom we expect—and Advent is all about expectation—is how He always arrives so unexpectedly.  “Then an angel of the Lord appeared to [Zechariah], standing at the right side of the altar of incense” (1:11).  A messenger from God, a message from God—answered prayer.  This angel, however, doesn’t manifest himself to all the people, gathered outside, praying, hoping, trusting, relying, or just doing their duty, their routine, habitually.  This messenger has something particular to say to Zechariah.

It comes as no surprise that Zechariah is beyond surprised: he “was gripped with fear” (1:12): the old translation says that “fear fell upon him,” how?—like something heavy, hard, or like a soft rain, or maybe like sudden sunlight through the clouds?  It’s not that God had never happened for Zechariah before, it’s just that God hadn’t happened in a long time, and Zechariah—at some point even he couldn’t pinpoint—had stopped expecting God.  Even serving God, life in this world has a way of drawing us away, and we get distracted, preoccupied, neglectful, forgetful, or just worn down.  Oh God is out there, of course, and we aren’t really expecting Him.

God acts, God speaks: this is wonderful!  Let’s not overlook how amazing it is, and blessed, for us.  God tells us what He will do.  He wants us to know; He wants to include us.  “[T]he angel said to him: ‘Do not be afraid, Zechariah; your prayer has been heard’” (1:13).  Good news!  In a fear-mongering world, we need not be afraid.  It’s not God’s intention or desire to smash us.  He wants to talk.  He wants us to know He is listening, and He is responding.  That hasn’t changed.  That doesn’t change.  The angel tells amazed, trembling Zechariah that he and his wife are going to have a son.  The angel is particular about the name of the boy: John, which even today remains one of the top names for a boy.  Maybe people don’t think about it much, but the name means “God is gracious.”  The angel is announcing an awe-inspiring sign, a stunning reminder of God’s grace.  The message, the news, is grace.  Grace is what comes to us undeserved: no right, wage, or award but a gift, given because the Giver loves to give.

The angel tells the priest, there in the incense cloud—prayers of trust, hope, reliance—that “many will rejoice because of [the child’s] birth” (1:14), and no wonder: the miraculous child will be a holy reminder that God is indeed listening, that God is indeed acting for the blessing of His people, that God offers His people a future, and a hope, and a way.  More, the angel tells Zechariah that John “will be filled with the Holy Spirit even before he is born” (1:15).  We’ll hear, repeatedly in Luke’s telling of the Jesus story, and again in the story of the church, that the Spirit is already present, already active, powerfully at work.  The Spirit is power, which means ability.  The Spirit is light.  The Spirit is truth.  The Spirit guides and transforms those whom he guides.  He guides to God.  The Spirit finds us, claims us, opens eyes, ears, minds, hearts, souls to the Word.  We don’t go out from here in our own power: we go out empowered by God.  The Spirit speaks, testifies, witnesses through our words and deeds of grace, acts enabled by God.  When you share Jesus with someone, in whatever way you share the blessing of Jesus, that’s the Spirit, empowering you.  When someone with whom you have shared Jesus listens and responds with hope and faith, that’s the Spirit, empowering that person.

What is the Spirit going to do, through John?  “He will bring back many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God” (1:16).  Many is good.  Many is more than a few.  Many isn’t all.  The Bible never wears those rose-colored glasses we’ve heard about and sometimes try on.  The prophets centuries before announced that a remnant would remain, preserved only by His free, sovereign grace.  The remnant hadn’t done anything particularly to deserve rescue, although they were the ones who refused to conform to the ways and worship of this world—by grace.  The remnant would be a fraction.  The Good News in what the angel says is that God would use John’s proclamation to bring back many.  How many might God bring to Himself through us?  We’ll never know until we set ourselves to try: a New Year’s resolution?  A Christmas gift for God?

John will be preparing the way.  There is another on the way, after him.  Our translation says John will “go on before the Lord, in the spirit and power of Elijah” (1:17).  Elijah, remember, was expected to return (from where?) before the coming of the Messiah.  The angel is telling the priest that the Lord, the Savior is on his way.  Through the spirit and power of prophecy—God’s Word—through the presence and power of God’s Spirit, John’s proclamation was “to turn [. . .] the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous—to make ready a people prepared for the Lord” (1:17).  The people needed to be readied, needed that preparation.  Ready and waiting: that’s also the spirit of Advent, surely.  Expectancy, listening, willing to listen, to receive, and to be changed because of receiving.

John’s proclamation—the Spirit’s proclamation through John—would turn people “to the wisdom of the righteous”: the beginning of wisdom, as Scripture reminds us, is the fear of the Lord.  This fear is not some knee-knocking, paralyzing terror but reverential awe of the Mighty One: Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer.  The wise person reverences the Lord; the wise person stops to listen, attentively, thoughtfully, prayerfully.  The wisdom of the righteous is truly wisdom for life: applying God’s Word to daily duties, decisions, and routines.

But Zechariah—all those years devotedly serving God, fulfilling his priestly duties, lifting prayers, offering sacrifices, going home to his beloved wife and their childless home—maybe Zechariah wanted to believe, but all he could see, all he had known of life here, seemed against what the angel was saying, so overwhelmingly against that possibility, so entirely against that power.  He questions the angel, as if to say, “What you’re saying sounds just too good to be true.  Life is hard, and the longer I’m here, the more sorrow I see.  How can I be sure it’s true?  How can I know for sure?”  A sign?  But wasn’t the angel’s message even better than a sign?  Had the angel come to trick Zechariah, or to lie to him?  Is that how God’s Word works?  We say, “Oh, no!” but there are plenty of people outside these doors even today who believe, angrily or indifferently, that all this Word is make-believe.  Oh, God “says” many things, but it all ends up in bitter disappointment!  Mendacity!

What God finds, time and again, is that, even among the faithful, faith must be reawakened, re-energized.  Zechariah was a good man: we’re given no reason to think otherwise; but goodness, you see, just isn’t good enough.  Something remains, missing, inert, that must complete the picture: faith.  Faith gives goodness purpose, direction, hope, fire; and we know that what gives faith hope and fire is love.  Zechariah served, dutifully, respectfully, but the love of God had grown old and cold.  God means to do something about that.

The angel gives Zechariah a sign, though it’s not one Zechariah himself would have requested: the priest’s voice is taken from him “until the day this happens”—until the child is named at his circumcision, the ceremony of his dedication to life God’s way (1:20).  Zechariah is made silent.  There’s nothing like silence to help us hear.

In this season of busyness already underway, I urge you, plead with you, to make time, also, for silence.  One of the beautiful things about our celebration of the Lord’s Supper—one of the many gifts of this Ordinance—is the silence.  Oh, there’s music, not that there must be, and a holy hush.  Receive this, also, as a blessing and an invitation to pray, to listen, to be in and with the silence, waiting, ready in faith, in hope, in love.