Luke begins his gospel by telling the story of an old married couple . . .

Luke begins his gospel by telling the story of an old married couple, Zechariah and Elizabeth.  Zechariah is a clergyman, and Elizabeth is a descendent of Israel’s first high priest, Aaron.  In other words, they both have plenty of religious connections.  But what really sets them apart is their moral character.  They are living, breathing examples of what it means to be righteous and blameless in the eyes of God.  Oh, and one more thing, like many other couples in the Bible, these two good, righteous people have no children, despite the fact that they have been praying for the pitter-patter of little feet for years.

Then comes an event that changes everything.  Zechariah, the aged priest, happens to draw the specially marked stone from the jar, allowing him the privilege of entering the inner sanctuary of the Temple and lighting the sacred incense.  It is a great honor.  It’s also a bit frightening.  From time to time, stories would circulate of incense offerings that had gone terribly wrong—one story in particular involved Aaron’s own sons who were consumed by fire while performing the duty.  The lesson behind such stories was clear.  If you waltz into the inner sanctuary with an unclean heart, an impure mind, or a cavalier attitude, the divine holiness might take offense and fry you to a crisp!

So one can easily imagine Zechariah rehearsing every move of this ancient ritual, over and over again, just so he will be properly prepared.  As it turns out, of course, there’s no way he could have been—at least not for what he encounters—because while he is in there, the angel Gabriel appears.  “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard.  Your wife Elizabeth will bear a son, and you will name him John.”

Trying to get a handle on this extraordinary moment, Zechariah points out the obvious—namely, that both he and his wife are getting up there in years and Medicare doesn’t carry maternity benefits.  “Would it be possible to have some sort of sign,” he asks, “so I can know all of this is true?”  Gabriel’s response to the skeptical priest is a classic.  “You want a sign?  You, a priest who should know the stories, who should remember Sarah and Hannah, who should recall the times that God assisted couples who were beyond the hope of conceiving.  You want a sign?  You, who are standing in the inner sanctuary of the Temple, in the very presence of the Holy One, speaking to a messenger from heaven itself.  You want a sign?  Well, how about this?  Here’s a sign: You will be mute, completely at a loss of words, until the day this comes to pass.”

Interestingly enough, in the very next passage, Mary, who is also told that she will bear a son, asks a similar question, “How can this be?”—only this time we get a kinder, gentler Gabriel!  And maybe the difference is that Zechariah was a priest and should have known better, or at least trusted.  But I think it actually goes deeper than that.  I hear Zechariah asking for confirmation—“How will I know that this is so?”—whereas Mary is basically asking for reassurance.

Put another way, Zechariah wants proof; and as a result, he is silenced until he learns the lesson that, when confronted by the mystery of God, it is best not to overanalyze or try to explain.  Mary desires presence, not proof.  Thus, instead of losing her voice, she finds it.  “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”