Zechariah and Elizabeth's Boy

Zechariah and Elizabeth’s Boy

(Matthew 3:1-12)

I.

Just like Sarah, Elizabeth had to laugh

when Zechariah came home with the news.

He had gone to the holy place, incense in hand, to perform his priestly duty.

For generations the sanctuary disciplines of offering and incense,

mingled with elements of fire and air, wind and breath.  They were tended

by men like Zechariah who made sure everything was done properly and in good order.

Alone with the potent aroma in the inner sanctum, Zechariah could hear the

murmuring outside, the persistent prayers of the faithful. 

Sometimes he wondered if it was all a charade, each performing their assigned roles,

they outside on the street, he inside where no one could see,

but everyone privately wondering if the clasped hands, the eyes raised heavenward,

the routine, ritualistic words meant anything at all, or could they really move mountains?

All these questions evaporated in a flash when the angel appeared.

The vividness of the revelation now intersected with the uncomfortable truth of his and 

Elizabeth’s marriage. 

If the angel’s prediction was true there would still be murmuring.

II.

Years later people were still talking as they trekked outside of town to witness

the latest hot prophet.

Those with long memories still chortled remembering Elizabeth’s growing girth

and Zechariah’s wry smile.

Old family friends, the lower classes, the simply curious, and the overtly religious

all found their way to the water’s edge to see Zechariah and Elizabeth’s son.

Maybe it was his shrill tone, or his vegan habits, or perhaps the burning conviction behind his 

colorful choice of words that made him a popular destination point, at least for that short season.

Snakes and the ax, tree fruit and threshing floors, water and fire all found their way

into his shtick.

After the final punch line, and once the invitation was given, quite a few,

more than you might think, felt compelled to jump into the water with him.

He seemed to baptize with a vengeance, tugging on the hair gripped in his wiry hands, making sure each one got good and wet.

With this baptism you’ve got to change your ways!

He spat out the words allowing no room for compromise, no space for “ifs” or “buts” or “in case 

of circumstances” beyond anyone’s control. 

This is the way it’s got to be, he insisted, and for the most part, people listened.

Near the edge of the crowd the Pharisees and the Sadducees stood, arms folded.

They had their differences on matters of resurrection but they stood united by the water’s edge 

listening to the tart words and the splashing water.

A scorpion’s sting could hardly have injured the faithfully religious more.

You are nothing but a bunch of fools!

Those finely crafted prayers, honed over time, nothing!

Those days of fasting, not worth a thing!

He dared to laugh when he mocked pedigree.

The scorn was visceral when he called relying on tried and true practices pure folly.

Water is one thing but fire and Spirit are another.

Once the ax hits the base of the tree a dozen times, it’s all over.

There’s nothing to do but make a bonfire.

Yet, even old stones can be useful.

Like Ezekiel’s old bones, knit together, dancing for the first time.

Like ordinary wheat flour, separated from the chaff,

mixed with yeast, butter, milk, and salt, and baked at 425.

In the end a warm loaf of bread, something to share with a neighbor.

In the end a warm loaf of bread, and when paired with a cup of wine,

a suitable reminder of all that was to come.

III.

A flower, pink and radiant, sprouts and blooms midst the scattered stones.

For no particularly obvious reason Miss Mdingane, on the first day of school,

looked at the young boy and said, I’ll call you Nelson.

It’s a fine name, the seven year old thought, but what does it mean?

Rolihlahla, meaning “troublemaker,” that works, but Nelson?

During the long twenty-seven years he pounded rocks for someone else’s benefit.

Limestone and granite, sandstone and schist, pounded into submission,

one hammer blow at a time.

Having deliberately challenged the unfair rules

the small advantages of upbringing were gone.

Winnie had to stand outside the walls.

The prison cell was small.

The rocks at his feet, each subtly different from the next,

the slow work of wind and fire producing shades of brown and grey,

the colors of the world lay still and lifeless on the prison yard.

The old patterns give way with an ache, awaiting the holy breath of Spirit and fire

to merge black and white

to unite wolf and lamb

to nurture wisdom and peace.

A flower, pink and radiant, sprouts and blooms midst the scattered stones.

IV.

The transcendent word finds voice in sundry odd places. 

Out in the desert the ancient cries still echo.

A solitary life is silenced but still lingers.

A prophet dressed in rags points to truth beyond what he can see.

A man dressed in prison garb dares to dream of what can become beyond his walls.

There, beyond, in the shadows, near, but not within, the fine print, in the soft glow of

Advent candle, rests the whisper, the wind, the fire, and O, the mystery of God’s dwelling.

--This was for the second Sunday in Advent, December 8, 2013