The season of Advent brings with it a standard cast of characters: John the Baptist, Elizabeth, Zechariah, Mary, Gabriel.
Some years, our hearts cling to Gabriel and his words of assurance: "Fear not," he says to a trembling Mary. "Fear not," he says to a trembling world. "For God is with you."
Some years, we look to Mary as a sign that God chooses the small, young, forgotten, or unlikely people and places in our world to bring his grace and salvation to birth.
Other years, we are energized by John's words in the wilderness: "Prepare the way of the Lord; repent; the Messiah is on his way!"
While we were struggling with infertility and the desire to have children, I gravitated toward the story of Elizabeth, which was not so much for me a story of miraculous pregnancy (even though it is certainly that!), but instead a story of imagination and hope. Elizabeth was a sign for me that God can always bring unlikely and impossible things to life, despite the despair of barrenness.
This year, however, is the year of Zechariah. Zechariah the childless high priest, the one who meets the angel while performing a serious and intimate religious duty, the one who receives news of Elizabeth's impossible pregnancy and the upcoming birth of a child, who would not be named Zechariah after his father, as would have been the custom, but John. A child who would be called away from his priestly origins to instead be the voice crying in the wilderness. And faced with this shocking, unlikely news, Zechariah questions the mystery, finds himself voiceless, and has to wait in silence for the next nine months before receiving back his voice.
My first instinct when faced with the unsearchable nature of God is to keep talking as a way to fill in the gaps. When I don't understand things, I talk them through. When I feel hopeless, I try to talk myself out of despair. When I experience the transcendent, I try to capture it in words. When I don't know myself, I talk to myself. When I question God, I pray rambling prayers. Mystery and wonder? I respond in run-on sentences. Gaps in knowledge or faith? I reply in epic poetry.
But what might Zechariah have learned from his nine months of silence? What new wonders did he see and beautiful sounds did he hear when he finally just shut the heck up? What had God been waiting so long to teach him that he finally had time and space to accomplish in his heart? What anxieties had space to unwind? What new and more profound concerns had space to flourish?
In the midst of deep longing, deep disbelief, and deep wonder, Zechariah still went to the temple and still remained faithful to the tasks God had set before him. In the face of deep longing, deep disbelief, and deep wonder, Zechariah is given the gift of silence. The hard, troubling, frustrating, liberating gift of waiting and listening.
In this season of Advent, how can we see silence as both a gift and a necessity? How can we carve out spaces of quiet? How can we force ourselves to listen? Might we find the courage to shut off the Christmas music and holiday commercials for a span? Could we take an intentional break from all of our other preparations? Can we trust God to fill in the gaps, and let ourselves rest quietly in God's presence instead of chattering away in our prayers?
For silence, I believe, is an invitation to re-imagine ourselves and our world. It is an offering of release from feeling that we have to control everything. It is a sign of grace and generosity to hush our own voices, that the world might hear the song of those whose voices so often go unheard.
In the midst of all the chaos, anxiety, and pain of our current day, Zechariah encourages us to "hush the noise and cease [our] strife, and hear the angels sing," trusting that God will, at the right time, give us new voices to sing our songs of peace and wonder:
For lo! The days are hast'ning on, by prophets seen of old,
When with the ever-circling years shall come the time foretold,
when peace shall over all the earth its ancient splendors ring,
and all the world give back the song that now the angels sing.
("It Came Upon a Midnight Clear")
Some years, our hearts cling to Gabriel and his words of assurance: "Fear not," he says to a trembling Mary. "Fear not," he says to a trembling world. "For God is with you."
Some years, we look to Mary as a sign that God chooses the small, young, forgotten, or unlikely people and places in our world to bring his grace and salvation to birth.
Other years, we are energized by John's words in the wilderness: "Prepare the way of the Lord; repent; the Messiah is on his way!"
While we were struggling with infertility and the desire to have children, I gravitated toward the story of Elizabeth, which was not so much for me a story of miraculous pregnancy (even though it is certainly that!), but instead a story of imagination and hope. Elizabeth was a sign for me that God can always bring unlikely and impossible things to life, despite the despair of barrenness.
This year, however, is the year of Zechariah. Zechariah the childless high priest, the one who meets the angel while performing a serious and intimate religious duty, the one who receives news of Elizabeth's impossible pregnancy and the upcoming birth of a child, who would not be named Zechariah after his father, as would have been the custom, but John. A child who would be called away from his priestly origins to instead be the voice crying in the wilderness. And faced with this shocking, unlikely news, Zechariah questions the mystery, finds himself voiceless, and has to wait in silence for the next nine months before receiving back his voice.
My first instinct when faced with the unsearchable nature of God is to keep talking as a way to fill in the gaps. When I don't understand things, I talk them through. When I feel hopeless, I try to talk myself out of despair. When I experience the transcendent, I try to capture it in words. When I don't know myself, I talk to myself. When I question God, I pray rambling prayers. Mystery and wonder? I respond in run-on sentences. Gaps in knowledge or faith? I reply in epic poetry.
But what might Zechariah have learned from his nine months of silence? What new wonders did he see and beautiful sounds did he hear when he finally just shut the heck up? What had God been waiting so long to teach him that he finally had time and space to accomplish in his heart? What anxieties had space to unwind? What new and more profound concerns had space to flourish?
In the midst of deep longing, deep disbelief, and deep wonder, Zechariah still went to the temple and still remained faithful to the tasks God had set before him. In the face of deep longing, deep disbelief, and deep wonder, Zechariah is given the gift of silence. The hard, troubling, frustrating, liberating gift of waiting and listening.
In this season of Advent, how can we see silence as both a gift and a necessity? How can we carve out spaces of quiet? How can we force ourselves to listen? Might we find the courage to shut off the Christmas music and holiday commercials for a span? Could we take an intentional break from all of our other preparations? Can we trust God to fill in the gaps, and let ourselves rest quietly in God's presence instead of chattering away in our prayers?
For silence, I believe, is an invitation to re-imagine ourselves and our world. It is an offering of release from feeling that we have to control everything. It is a sign of grace and generosity to hush our own voices, that the world might hear the song of those whose voices so often go unheard.
In the midst of all the chaos, anxiety, and pain of our current day, Zechariah encourages us to "hush the noise and cease [our] strife, and hear the angels sing," trusting that God will, at the right time, give us new voices to sing our songs of peace and wonder:
For lo! The days are hast'ning on, by prophets seen of old,
When with the ever-circling years shall come the time foretold,
when peace shall over all the earth its ancient splendors ring,
and all the world give back the song that now the angels sing.
("It Came Upon a Midnight Clear")