I am suffering from list withdrawal. An amazing confession, I know. I have indicated in this space that while I am not a list-maker myself, I married one. And she is an expert to say the least. This time of year is usually list-a-palooza. Or list-orama. Or list-normous. Or ... well you get the idea. Her list-making traits kick into hyper-drive and we all have lists aplenty. And then there are usually lists of lists to keep track of the lists that were handed out, and often a master list on big pieces of paper or white boards in conspicuous places. You can’t brush your teeth or get a snack from the fridge without checking the list in front of your face.
But this time, nothing. OK, not nothing. As she prepares to leave on Tuesday morning to spend time with her dad, she tells me things I need to remember. Tells me. As if I were going to remember. And I do. Mostly. Well, at least I think I do. Can’t really tell, I guess. If I don’t remember them, then I can’t really remember to do them, can I? So, I do what I remember and when she comes home she asks about the ones I didn’t remember. Argghh. How she remembers, I don’t really know. But she does.
What is worse she remembers the things she didn’t tell me to do because she thought I would just know to do them. “Did you tell me to do that?” I’ll ask. “You should have known,” she’ll reply. “It happens every week.” Or “It needed to be done.” Or something like that. Which implies if I had been paying attention I would have known and done it. And she is right. But I have become dependant on her lists.
I’m suffering from list withdrawal. Knowing what to do is a tricky thing. Almost as tricky as knowing what to say. Just ask Zechariah. And he had nine months to think about it. Remember him? He was John the Baptist’s dad. Zechariah the Baptist. From the Jerusalem the Baptists. Good family. Long history. Usually involved in church work. In fact that is where he was when this part of his story really begins.
He was doing his duty, tucked out of sight in the Holy of Holies, supposedly in conversation with God on behalf of the people, when an angel shows up. Gabriel, he says his name is, at least he says that eventually, right after he gets honked off at Zechariah for not doing his job.
The encounter starts innocently enough. The angel appears scaring the wits out of Zechariah. And this messenger proceeds to give the message. “Your prayers are answered! You wife is going to have a son, and you are going to name him John (which means “God’s Gift” - so that you and everyone else will know how this whole thing happened) and then you will dedicate him to God’s service.” Pretty cool, really. Just the sort of thing you’d expect to happen in God’s sitting room, wouldn’t you?
Well, unfortunately, Zechariah didn’t expect it. Didn’t trust it. Tried to push it away, probably cleaned his glasses on his robe and stuck his finger in his ear and did the wiggle thing that everyone who isn’t sure about what they heard does. Then puts his foot in it. His mouth, that is, not his ear. He had managed to gather a part of what was scared out of him earlier, but only manages a half-witted response: “Prove it.”
The angel rears up to his full, divine warrior height and puts his hand on the hilt of his sword and leans in to Zechariah and snarls “You don’t know who you are messing with, bud. But because I’m one of the nice ones, instead of separating your head from your shoulders, I’m only going to stop up your tongue in your head. And you will be unable to utter a single word, a tiny sound, until you learn a little obedience, Priest-dude.”
This weekend’s reading is the first thing he says after all that. For nine months he has been gestating a response to the Lord’s angel, and now he is about to deliver. And this is what he says:
Luke 1:67-79 Then his father Zechariah was filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke this prophecy: 68"Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them. 69 He has raised up a mighty savior for us in the house of his servant David, 70 as he spoke through the mouth of his holy prophets from of old, 71 that we would be saved from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us. 72 Thus he has shown the mercy promised to our ancestors, and has remembered his holy covenant, 73 the oath that he swore to our ancestor Abraham, to grant us 74 that we, being rescued from the hands of our enemies, might serve him without fear, 75 in holiness and righteousness before him all our days. 76 And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, 77 to give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins. 78 By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, 79 to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace."
A different tone, to say the least. One of humility and praise. But most importantly for Zechariah, a note of hope. Confident hope. Like Mary’s song of a few verses earlier, Zechariah sings as though what he and we have longed for has already happened. “The Lord has looked favorably, the Lord has redeemed, the Lord has raised up a mighty savior for us.” Where, the onlookers might reasonably ask? And with a grin Zechariah would point to the swelling belly of Mary and say “Right there!”
The crowds would roll their eyes and cluck knowingly at one another. Nine months without a word, it would drive anyone a little batty. And Zechariah was a preacher, for heaven’s sake. Can’t think of a worse punishment for a preacher than telling them to shut up for nine months. Might as well have separated his head from his shoulders. Gabriel had a mean streak in him. So, Zechariah could be forgiven for spouting nonsense, his relatives and friends allowed.
But it wasn’t nonsense. He was doing his job. He was living in hope. A confident hope. A powerful hope. A transforming hope. A hope that gives direction.
It’s a list-making hope, it seems to me. He concludes his recitation, after the praise and the confident celebration of the completion of God’s promises, after the marching orders to his new born son who had a role to play in this salvation drama, whose name was going to be John by the way, despite the relatives complaint that no one in the family had been named John. Or, we’ve never done it that way before! But Zechariah concludes his delivery on the most auspicious of birth days, with God’s promise of light. And this light is a comfort, a guard against despair and hopelessness. This light is a comfort against the inevitability of death. This light is a comfort because it will show us how to walk.
Guide my feet is a list receiver’s plea. Help know where to go and what to do. Guide my feet in the ways of peace. Give me a list so I know how to please you. Give me a list so I know how to keep my life right. Give me a list. I’m suffering from list withdrawal.
Maybe Zechariah’s proclamation is asking God for the grace to make his own list. Guide my feet so that knowing where to walk is bred into me. So I don’t have to wonder. So I don’t have to wait. All I have to do is walk where the light is. Serve without fear, serve where the hope is.
I’m making a list.
Shalom,
Derek
But this time, nothing. OK, not nothing. As she prepares to leave on Tuesday morning to spend time with her dad, she tells me things I need to remember. Tells me. As if I were going to remember. And I do. Mostly. Well, at least I think I do. Can’t really tell, I guess. If I don’t remember them, then I can’t really remember to do them, can I? So, I do what I remember and when she comes home she asks about the ones I didn’t remember. Argghh. How she remembers, I don’t really know. But she does.
What is worse she remembers the things she didn’t tell me to do because she thought I would just know to do them. “Did you tell me to do that?” I’ll ask. “You should have known,” she’ll reply. “It happens every week.” Or “It needed to be done.” Or something like that. Which implies if I had been paying attention I would have known and done it. And she is right. But I have become dependant on her lists.
I’m suffering from list withdrawal. Knowing what to do is a tricky thing. Almost as tricky as knowing what to say. Just ask Zechariah. And he had nine months to think about it. Remember him? He was John the Baptist’s dad. Zechariah the Baptist. From the Jerusalem the Baptists. Good family. Long history. Usually involved in church work. In fact that is where he was when this part of his story really begins.
He was doing his duty, tucked out of sight in the Holy of Holies, supposedly in conversation with God on behalf of the people, when an angel shows up. Gabriel, he says his name is, at least he says that eventually, right after he gets honked off at Zechariah for not doing his job.
The encounter starts innocently enough. The angel appears scaring the wits out of Zechariah. And this messenger proceeds to give the message. “Your prayers are answered! You wife is going to have a son, and you are going to name him John (which means “God’s Gift” - so that you and everyone else will know how this whole thing happened) and then you will dedicate him to God’s service.” Pretty cool, really. Just the sort of thing you’d expect to happen in God’s sitting room, wouldn’t you?
Well, unfortunately, Zechariah didn’t expect it. Didn’t trust it. Tried to push it away, probably cleaned his glasses on his robe and stuck his finger in his ear and did the wiggle thing that everyone who isn’t sure about what they heard does. Then puts his foot in it. His mouth, that is, not his ear. He had managed to gather a part of what was scared out of him earlier, but only manages a half-witted response: “Prove it.”
The angel rears up to his full, divine warrior height and puts his hand on the hilt of his sword and leans in to Zechariah and snarls “You don’t know who you are messing with, bud. But because I’m one of the nice ones, instead of separating your head from your shoulders, I’m only going to stop up your tongue in your head. And you will be unable to utter a single word, a tiny sound, until you learn a little obedience, Priest-dude.”
This weekend’s reading is the first thing he says after all that. For nine months he has been gestating a response to the Lord’s angel, and now he is about to deliver. And this is what he says:
Luke 1:67-79 Then his father Zechariah was filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke this prophecy: 68"Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them. 69 He has raised up a mighty savior for us in the house of his servant David, 70 as he spoke through the mouth of his holy prophets from of old, 71 that we would be saved from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us. 72 Thus he has shown the mercy promised to our ancestors, and has remembered his holy covenant, 73 the oath that he swore to our ancestor Abraham, to grant us 74 that we, being rescued from the hands of our enemies, might serve him without fear, 75 in holiness and righteousness before him all our days. 76 And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, 77 to give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins. 78 By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, 79 to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace."
A different tone, to say the least. One of humility and praise. But most importantly for Zechariah, a note of hope. Confident hope. Like Mary’s song of a few verses earlier, Zechariah sings as though what he and we have longed for has already happened. “The Lord has looked favorably, the Lord has redeemed, the Lord has raised up a mighty savior for us.” Where, the onlookers might reasonably ask? And with a grin Zechariah would point to the swelling belly of Mary and say “Right there!”
The crowds would roll their eyes and cluck knowingly at one another. Nine months without a word, it would drive anyone a little batty. And Zechariah was a preacher, for heaven’s sake. Can’t think of a worse punishment for a preacher than telling them to shut up for nine months. Might as well have separated his head from his shoulders. Gabriel had a mean streak in him. So, Zechariah could be forgiven for spouting nonsense, his relatives and friends allowed.
But it wasn’t nonsense. He was doing his job. He was living in hope. A confident hope. A powerful hope. A transforming hope. A hope that gives direction.
It’s a list-making hope, it seems to me. He concludes his recitation, after the praise and the confident celebration of the completion of God’s promises, after the marching orders to his new born son who had a role to play in this salvation drama, whose name was going to be John by the way, despite the relatives complaint that no one in the family had been named John. Or, we’ve never done it that way before! But Zechariah concludes his delivery on the most auspicious of birth days, with God’s promise of light. And this light is a comfort, a guard against despair and hopelessness. This light is a comfort against the inevitability of death. This light is a comfort because it will show us how to walk.
Guide my feet is a list receiver’s plea. Help know where to go and what to do. Guide my feet in the ways of peace. Give me a list so I know how to please you. Give me a list so I know how to keep my life right. Give me a list. I’m suffering from list withdrawal.
Maybe Zechariah’s proclamation is asking God for the grace to make his own list. Guide my feet so that knowing where to walk is bred into me. So I don’t have to wonder. So I don’t have to wait. All I have to do is walk where the light is. Serve without fear, serve where the hope is.
I’m making a list.
Shalom,
Derek
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