Advent Reflection: the strange case of Zechariah

If there is humour to be found in religion, I find it in the matter of fact way biblical authors speak of extraordinary, supernatural and miraculous events without any hint of needing to clarify how strange the whole situation is. It leaves one most sympathetic to the characters of the drama, however much they appear to be rebuked by the text.

 

The New Testament figure of Zechariah gets a particularly sympathetic response from me. He appears in the opening chapter of Luke’s gospel as the man chosen to be the father of John the Baptist, God’s messenger sent to proclaim the coming of Jesus.

At what seems to have been a particularly busy time for the big boss angel, Gabriel, Zechariah receives a visit from him whilst performing priestly duties in the inner sanctuary of the temple. Echoing a motif found regularly in the Bible, we’re told that Zechariah and his wife Elizabeth are childless and, now very old, have resigned themselves to the stigma and shame this entails in their culture.

Without any fuss or introductions, Gabriel gets straight to the point, informing the priest that he’ll have a son that will be God’s messenger, with some bonus parental advice about how he is to avoid strong drink.

 

I can but imagine how most of us would react to something like this. I suspect that, sceptics as we are, we’d try and explain the vision away in the first place. IF we couldn’t do that, we would very likely run it past our own life plans first before deciding how to respond.

A few years back, when I held to a pathetically infantile certainty that having kids wouldn’t be for me, I’d almost certainly have argued vigorously with God that he should find someone else for the job, rather like the shy, stammering Moses who, despite having witnessed a burning bush and several miracles by God in an attempt to prove his total power, continues to insist that he find another man to confront Pharaoh. It is very easy to turn aside from anything that demands more of us than we believe ourselves capable of giving. Unable to face up to our own weakness, we can easily extend this to fooling ourselves that we’re not turning aside at all, but refusing something we don’t want anyway. God could surely find us something easier to do, couldn’t he?

Bottom line: we end up saying “no.”

These days, I’d probably have a bunch of quibbles about why now might not be the right time, and a ton of practical questions about what happens next. Even when the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak. Doubts about our suitability for our highest calling can strip us of the courage to say yes.

Bottom line: we end up saying “yes, in theory,” always holding onto a powerful but.

 

Back to our man Zechariah, who does none of these things. He asks one simple question: “How can I know that this will happen? For I am an old man, and my wife is getting on in years” (Luke 1:18, NRSVUE).

In a harsh retort, Gabriel chastises him for not believing him, and renders him speechless until the child is born. I’ll certainly never complain about any trifling penance I receive in the confessional again!

What seems particularly mean is that when Mary similarly asks the same boss angel how her own divine miracle will play out on account of her being a virgin, she actually gets an answer. Now it might be that God was short of willing virgins he could count on to cooperate with his divine plans, so Mary’s rather mild questioning was a small matter to tolerate. As much as that view amuses me, however, I suspect that’s not the solution to the mystery. I think it comes down to the fact that there are two spirits with which we can ask for contradictory evidence to be accounted for. One is done with trust and confidence that there is an answer to be found, whilst the other expresses hopeless doubt. I think Mary sought to understand, but a heartbroken Zechariah doubted, not daring to dream beyond a painful reality he had come to accept.

Bottom line: we end up saying “yes, once I can be a bit more sure.”

 

Absolute trust in God is, as this story makes clear, a very tall order indeed. Most of us don’t get members of the heavenly throng telling us what we are called to do if we turn over our wills to something other than our own desires. Scripture, the church, supportive people and prayer can all help us form a Christian conscience and give us greater confidence in its promptings. We have to be highly discerning and honest with ourselves if we’re not to fall victim to the many excuses we can make to ignore its demands.

That is why Christianity is hard, and demands a level of personal self-surrender that I don’t think we ever master. Perhaps only Mary did master it, becoming a perfect partner to the workings of divine grace. That would make some sense of the theologically problematic Catholic view that Mary, in addition to Jesus, was uniquely without sin her whole life. We need to show the humility of regularly praying that our saviour’s words bear out in our own lives: “thy will be done.”