The Incubation of Hopes for Peace Preached at Wollaston Congregational Church on December 9th 2018 Scripture: Luke 1:68-79 The psalm we read today is not from the book of psalms, it is from Luke’s gospel. It is the song sung by Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, and it is a song of praise and prophecy. Zechariah’s psalm, is known as the Benedictus – for its beginning “blessed be the Lord God of Israel.” It is one of the four canticles the gospel of Luke uses to punctuate the birth stories of John the Baptist and Jesus. In our reading we heard the song, but we did not hear how it came about, and so, here is the backstory. Zechariah stands before the altar in the holy of holies of the Jerusalem temple. This is possibly the pinnacle of his life as a member of the priestly division of Abijah. He has been chosen, by lot, to go into the temple and burn incense. He has spent his entire life preparing for this great honor and responsibility. He focuses intensely performing the duty correctly, consistent with his life of obedience to God’s decrees. He is not expecting anything untoward to happen. Least of all, the appearance of the angel of the Lord, Gabriel, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John.” Years ago Zechariah and Elizabeth had hoped for children, even just one child. They had hoped and prayed, and anticipated. They’d planned their busy household. They’d imagined girls singing and dancing around the home, learning the how to prepare foods according to the law, from Elizabeth. And they’d imagined boys, laughing and tumbling, learning their letters and then going to synagogue to study the scriptures with Zechariah. And then, as time had gone by and nothing happened, they’d stopped imagining and stopped praying. They’d settled for one another’s company in their quiet household. And they had thought they were content. Now, here is a terrifying apparition, telling Zechariah that his prayer has been heard. He’s not even sure he wants that prayer anymore. He and Elizabeth have grown old. What would they do with a crying baby, a mischievous toddler, an energetic child? None the less, the angel goes on. “He will be great in the sight of the Lord, filled with the Holy Spirit even before he is born … he will be great in the sight of the Lord … even before his birth he will be filled with the Holy Spirit. He will turn many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God. With the spirit and power of Elijah he will go before him, to turn the hearts of parents to their children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous, to make ready a people prepared for the Lord." “How will I know that this is so? For I am an old man, and my wife is getting on in years." Zechariah dares to question the mighty apparition. “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to bring you this good news. But now, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will become mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur." And so, Zechariah the priest is silenced by the angel. It is a prolonged silence, the length of Elizabeth’s pregnancy and until the time of the child’s circumcision and naming. It was a particularly quiet time in their household. The child was growing and forming in Elizabeth’s womb: incubating. Her aging body was stretching and aching. She raised her swollen feet each evening, working on the swaddles and tiny clothes she would need. And she had the joy of greeting her young cousin, Mary, come to stay in their home. They kept their voices low, to avoid disturbing Zechariah in his strange exile. They hushed their chatter and laughter, both finding themselves in the same surprising condition. And at the same time, something was incubating in Zechariah. Something was forming in the silence, as his spirit stretched and ached. His consciousness began to grasp the gifts and the responsibilities that would come with this infant son. So far, only he knew what this child was destined for. A couple of weeks ago, I attended a short overnight retreat in the mountains of the Adirondacks. It was the week that a Nor’easter hit the region. I left home early in the morning and drove west through pouring rain. Then I discovered snow, as I worked my way north of I-90. Fortunately the roads were clear until the last short stretch into the camp at Lake Pleasant. Other attendees had already arrived and were gathered around fire in the lodge. I crunched my way through the snow, carrying in my bag. I realized I had traveled from a noisy, hectic fall into a silent winter in those few hours. I got to know my companions during the scheduled program and over lunch and dinner. I was ready for rest, and also to distance myself from busy-ness at home. Our topic for discussion was ministry in “these times.” Following dinner and another short session, our retreat leader invited us into a time of silence. We would keep silence from about 7:30 that evening through until 9 the next morning. We’d move quietly about the lodge, giving one another the space we needed to be fully present to whatever God was saying to us. I’d practiced silence before for longer periods, and so I had no reservations about this experience. I was a little disappointed that I would sleep through most of it. Even so, the hour or two to settle before going to sleep was enough. I woke the next morning, with time to drink tea and eat breakfast, do my morning stretching routine, and meditate on my daily Bible passage all in silence. I had walked slowly, silently in solitude in the woods, listening to the wind in the trees and the snow crunch beneath my feet. We resumed our program that morning, in an atmosphere of settled quietness. We talked about the things of these times that were causing us to lament: struggling congregations; epidemics of addiction, depression and suicide in our communities; environmental disasters; the inability of people across the political spectrum to talk to one another peacefully. Then our leader invited us to take some time alone to write a psalm of lament. We were provided with the structure: address and opening cry; lament; confession of trust; petition and praise or vow to praise. I went to my room at sat at the little desk and began to write. The thoughts and themes of the two days came together and words poured out. In 45 minutes I was done. When the group re-gathered we shared our psalms in pairs. My partner seemed so moved by the psalm that I accepted the invitation to share it with the group. When I had finished, they sat in stunned silence, and I began to worry. Was the psalm over dramatic? Was I presumptuous, thinking I could compose a psalm in that short time? But no, the group members sighed, asked if they could have copies for themselves. Just last week I heard from a pastor who wanted to share the psalm in worship. I guess that the time of silence had incubated words in me, which spoke to each person on the retreat. My gift was a psalm of lament for these times. Although Zechariah’s song is not a typical psalm of lament, he might well have lamented in those times in which he and Elizabeth were living. Roman soldiers patrolled the streets. Religious rituals were permitted, but the imperial powers were always looking over their shoulders, for signs of rebellion. The Jews were charged crushing taxes by the Romans for the privilege of keeping their own religion. And yet there was a continual erosion of Jewish practices and values, as Roman emblems and idols crept into the temple. Meanwhile, zealots plotted acts of violence against the occupiers. Perhaps this was all too much for the elderly priest, who simply wanted to be left alone to perform his duties in peace. And, yet, now – in this strange exile of silence – as his baby son was growing, a song was incubating. It was a song of joy and praise, a recognition of what God was about to do among his people. And so, we might ponder, what God is doing among God’s people in “these times.” Our times are long after the time of John and Jesus. And yet we live in in-between times. We live between the coming of Jesus in the flesh and his return when all things will be made right. It is expected that we would lament. These are not yet the times of fulfillment, we are still in times of struggle. But, even in these times there are silences in which words of praise and hopes for peace are incubated. Last Thursday I arrived a little early for my session of “spirituality” at the acute treatment center, just down the street from here. Pr. Alissa and I do a twice monthly “spirituality group” at Gavin House, with the women and men who are in recovery from drug and alcohol addictions. While I was waiting for Alissa, I sat and talked with the security guard, Dave. He told me how glad he was to know that our church provides hospitality for the Alcoholics Anonymous groups that meet in this building. Then he reminded me of the good work that you and I are doing in the world. We need that encouragement, because sometimes the work is, well, discouraging. Sometimes all those things of “these times” that cause us to lament seem insurmountable. Dave reminded me how much everyone needs the pause of worship, prayer and meditation. I sighed. “It’s so true,” I said, “but sadly most people do not know their need.” We talked of the pace of the culture, about how everyone is too busy. Dave shared with me his practice of reading and meditation, morning and night. And then Alissa and I went, to create space, silence and meditation with those men and women. It was the space for tears to fall, and sobs of lament to rise up. And somewhere, deep in that collective spacious silence, something was incubating: words of lament, songs of praise, and tiny hopes for peace beginning to be birthed. May all God’s people say, Amen
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