I preached this sermon at St. Lydia's on Sunday, December 16. The text is Luke 1:57-80, in which we hear the story of the birth of John the Baptist, and Zechariah's propehsy about him. You can read the text here.
I’m not sure that I would trust a new father
to deliver a prophesy about his son.
When it comes to the subject of their recently born children,
new parents, especially first-time parents,
are perhaps not the people from which to seek an objective opinion.
When questioned, I think most of them
would agree that their infants could certainly be described as
“the prophet of the Most High.”
If I were to say to a new parent,
“Do you believe that your child will give knowledge of salvation
to all the people?”
the majority of them would most certainly answer, “yes.”
But Zechariah, it turns out,
it a little bit different from most parents.
Everything about John’s birth has been unusual,
from Zechariah’s vision in the temple,
to the loss of his voice and his hearing soon after.
Everyone thought that Elizabeth would never have children,
but it turned out they were wrong.
And then this strange sign, this strange name
that both parents had inexplicably chosen for him:
John.
By the time this week-old baby arrives in the temple to be circumcised,
the whole countryside is talking about it.
The whole countryside is anxious and worried,
and yes, the text tells us, fearful.
“What will this child become?”
they wonder.
And it is Zechariah who gives them their answer.
A prophesy.
That this child will prepare the way
for the one who is coming
who will bring a light to all those who sit in darkness,
to all those who sit in the shadow of death.
*
A few weeks ago,
I had the occasion to hear Gene Robinson,
the first out, gay bishop to be consecrated in the Episcopal Church,
speak.
And Gene Robinson spoke about prophets.
He said that we often think of a prophet as being someone who tells the future.
But that’s not what a prophet is.
A prophet is someone who tells the truth about the present:
a truth that we can’t see.
When the whole countryside is anxious.
When the whole countryside is worried.
When the whole countryside is fearful,
In times such as these...
It is the prophets among us who find the words with which to speak.
It is the prophets among us who find the words with which to tell the truth.
*
I, for one, am hungry for truth,
and tired of noise.
I resist the insistent, un-nuanced babble
of so much of our news coverage,
which seems intent on piquing only the same kind of furtive curiosity
we experience when passing a car accident.
I am tired of being shouted at by urgent headlines,
printed in all caps and screaming for my attention
from the newsprint on which they’re printed.
I am wearied by the endless parade of tweets and status updates which,
though often kind and empathetic, or even thoughtful or intelligent,
seem cheapened by their context and format.
This weekend we were forced to tell a terrible story
about 26 people who died.
Everyone seems to have something to say.
But so much of it seems like noise to me.
I am tired of noise,
and hungry for truth.
I am tired of the din,
and hungry for the words of the prophet.
*
I have a strange relationship with words.
I’ve told you all that,
for many years,
one of the many things that kept me from being a pastor
was the idea that,
at some point,
I would be called upon to “Say The Right Thing.”
This terrified me.
An imaginary situation in which someone,
experiencing some kind of terrible grief,
would look to me for comfort,
and I would be expected to say something.
I’ve heard horror stories of pastors saying exactly the wrong things --
a well intentioned “I understand,”
to someone who knows that, in fact, no one does --
no one can understand.
Or more egregious phrases
uttered thoughtlessly
that do a great deal of harm.
For a while I wondered, hopefully,
if perhaps it’s just better to stay silent.
To take refuge in the notion that sometimes there are no words
to express our grief or our fear or our pain.
I could be the silent pastor
who was just really good at sitting with you and patting your hand.
When it was time to pray, I’d just say,
“Let’s be in silence.”
But I know too well what it feels like
when a truth is spoken.
The sharp liberation of hearing what so badly needs to be said.
It can take your breath away.
Sometimes, we have to say things out loud.
Not to add to the din,
but because each of us, and the whole world,
is hungry for truth.
I experienced this with all of you,
this past week,
as we celebrated my ordination and installation as pastor,
and blessed and commissioned this ministry of St. Lydia’s.
Between those two services, we all used a lot of words.
Words like “commission,” and “call,” and “endeavor,” and “ordain,” and
“desire.”
And in using those words, in saying everything we said out loud,
I think that we created a reality.
I think we made something that wasn’t really here
before we said those words.
I was your pastor before my official installation,
but I feel it differently now,
because so many of you,
and the people who care about St. Lydia’s,
stood up and said it.
I used a lot of words last week.
Words like,
“It meant so much to me,”
and
“Thank you.”
I used a lot of words,
and I hoped, in all of it,
that the people I spoke them to
understood that they were truth,
and not just part of the din.
Sometimes it’s difficult to capture
what feels ineffable.
Sometimes,
try as we might,
our words don’t seem like enough.
*
Lately I’ve been trying to find words to describe
to the kids I teach just what it is that Zechariah is talking about
in his prophesy.
Just what it is he’s finding words to express.
What it means that we are waiting for something
that is hard to see or imagine.
That’s coming, but at the same time, already here.
And as so many writers have done before me,
I’ve looked to metaphor for assistance.
“Think of a place that’s really dark,”
I told them this morning.
“What sort of light shines in the darkness?”
One little girl gave me a very New York kind of answer.
“It’s like when you’re standing on the platform waiting for the subway,
and it’s dark in the tunnel,
and you see the light of the train in the darkness.”
“So Christ is the headlights of a train,
in the darkness of the tunnel,” I said.
This morning, it seemed like a far too colloquial an image
for Christ’s light in a world of darkness,
but the more I think about it,
the more it seems just right,
especially in the midst of a week like this one.
There are times when the image of Christ as a star
in a smooth, dark sky
is a bit to genteel for our experience,
because the world has revealed its underbelly,
seething with a dangerous, searing pain.
When we are reminded of our own collective capacity
to harm others,
through neglect or malice,
or to leave them adrift in a sea of isolation
through the simple desire to look away.
Standing on the edge of that tunnel,
it is easy to imagine that the darkness is absolute.
And then the platform begins to rumble
and way down the track, the rails begin to shine.
And you child,
will be called the prophet of the most high.
You will go before the Lord to prepare his ways.
“Listen,”
Zechariah is saying,
“The train is coming.”
He’s saying it out loud
so everyone can hear it.
He’s saying something true
in the midst of all the noise and the din.
It won’t be dark forever.
The train is on the way.
*
We share the sermon at St. Lydia's, and so I invite you to reflect on the text we've read and the words I've shared, and if a story or experience is sparked, to share it.
*With thanks and appreciation for Jeremy Sierra's recent piece, "Speaking the Call Out Loud," which contributed to my thinking on this sermon.
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