On Monday of this week, I sat down to write a blog post, and I came to God's word with the sole purpose of writing my own words. The only purpose of scripture for me in that moment was to aid me in my own writing. And let me tell you, I ran up against a wall. I spent hours struggling. I read and reread and nothing came to me. And I was frustrated with my own inadequacies. Why couldn’t I find anything? Why were there no truths and beautiful connections being illuminated? The words seemed stale and tasteless. I’m learning that you can’t box scripture in. You have to let it run wild and free on your tongue. Like a song when it first catches hold of its own melody, or a story when it settles down deep into its own words. We are children listening, wide-eyed and quiet, just now beginning to realize and believe the songs and stories holding us.
So I tried again. I reread the same story I had read on Monday, now trying to listen more than I spoke, and this time around I saw myself in Zechariah.
I realized after going back to Hebrews 9, that when Zechariah enters the Most Holy Place, the curtained room in the temple, holy and set apart, he sees in this place not only the incense which he is lighting, but also the ark of the covenant, holding mysterious and old things like a jar of manna, and Aaron’s staff which had budded. (I wonder, what sort of flowers had the staff budded? Was there a holy dust covering everything or was it perfectly clean?) Zechariah, entering this place for the first time in his life, actually seeing all of these wonderful things he had only ever heard of in stories, must have been in complete awe. It was a discovery of visible proof for him. All his life he had heard stories about the Exodus of his people and he had grown up believing them. Just as I grew up hearing stories from my grandma and grandad, enchanting me with those long, far-off, misty looks in their eyes as they told me all about those times they had seen the hand of God in their stories-- I take their stories on faith, just like Zechariah did with all those miraculous stories handed down from generations to him. I think there’s an unsaid, unexplainable, hidden magic in stories that requires belief. And there’s a responsibility on those receiving the stories to believe, or else the spell will break and that is one of the greatest tragedies of this life -- when we fall short of believing.
But now Zechariah finds himself with the ark of the covenant -- visible proof of these stories -- right in front of him! And not only that but visible proof of God’s faithfulness to his people and the fulfillment of His promises to them. And it’s in this very moment when an angel appears to Zechariah telling him that his own hopes and prayers have been seen and heard by God, and that indeed God is not only faithful to his people, but he is also faithful to him. Zechariah and his long-barren wife Elizabeth would be with child even in their old age. The angel is telling Zechariah a story that is coming, one that will happen soon, and one that requires Zechariah's belief. Indeed, even the angel’s miraculous presence requires belief. We wait with bated breath. Will he believe?
But Zechariah asks “how can I be sure of this?” And as my Greek teacher would tell me if we were translating this, bam! The music immediately changes. Maybe it even stops. The story and even the proof is not being believed and something is very wrong.
The angel has just told him that his son, John, will prepare room in people’s hearts for the Lord and his unbelievable miracles. But Zechariah’s immediate response leaves no room for the unbelievable. He is asserting his own unbelief with his words and he loses his words as a result. There’s this inextricable intertwining of words and belief here.
It’s interesting to me how words are used differently in statements of unbelief and belief. Statements of unbelief often have a sense of finality to them -- as if the speaker’s mind is already made up. They are often from a place of pride, however slight it may be, a pride which measures truth solely by its own knowledge. And even if these unbelieving words take the form of questions, they are most likely questions asked from a place of “I already know the answer” in unbelief statements -- “How can I be sure of this? I am an old man and my wife is well on in years.” Zechariah throws out this piece of cold evidence which he implies ought to prevent him from being able to be sure of the angel’s news. However, statements of belief leave room for the unbelievable; they are more open. They often have a sense of “I don’t fully understand this, but I know it to be true and I will trust.” As the poet Lanier writes, “And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know.” Belief statements are humble -- acknowledging that there are truths beyond our understanding, which require our surrender and trust, much like Mary’s response: “I am the Lord’s servant; as you have spoken, so be it.”
And this is what really intrigues me-- because of Zechariah’s unbelief, God takes his words away. I think God is showing us here that truth and words are inextricably intertwined-- that words were always meant to communicate truth like His does. And if we refuse to believe the truth of His Word, then our own ability to use words will be rendered obsolete, because in our unbelief we won’t be communicating truth but falsehood. And in a way, I was silenced on Monday. I was trying to form words without truth and because of this, there were no words to find. (Now I certainly don’t think God silences all people who, in their willful unbelief, aren’t speaking truth, but I know that one day he promises that he will.)
All these conclusions culminate in something I really love: This story told by the angel in words to Zechariah -- this story which requires his belief -- is actually setting in motion the ultimate story told by God in Words to his people (a story which stretches out on the pages of the world in the life of Jesus, God’s Word made flesh) which also requires our belief.
The miracles of this Christmas story-- and there are so very many -- the silencing of Zechariah, Elizabeth giving birth to John, the overshadowing of Mary by the Holy Spirit and her giving birth to Jesus, the star of Bethlehem, all of the many angel appearances, the incarnation itself -- all of these require our belief. And belief requires a humbleness from us, a humbleness where we acknowledge that we do not and cannot fully comprehend God’s ways. And then merely the thought of His own thought, and how vast and grand it is, lets loose gratitude, in all its beautiful simplicity, upon our souls. All statements of belief are naturally rooted in humbleness and naturally spill over into praise and gratitude. We can feel the rootedness and the overflow of these things in Mary and Zechariah’s songs.
Oh, what will our songs be? Such songs are audible embodiments of the rooms prepared in our hearts. In a beautiful way, the heard and unheard songs of Zechariah and Elizabeth’s hearts already show us how John, even before he has come out of the womb, is being used by God to prepare people for Jesus -- Zechariah’s mountains of pride are being levelled and Elizabeth’s valleys of shame are being raised.
How has the preparation of a room in our hearts for Him changed our own inner landscapes? Let's let that inner landscape shape and form our own gratitude-songs. The mountains and valleys, once scattered melodies, are levelling out into perfect and pure chords. What will the words of our own stories be? The ups and downs of our lives, and even the words we use to describe them, are stretching out into one straight and clear line, pointing to him. When we keep listening, when we more fully realize and believe the wondrous Story of all stories and Song of all songs, the One that's held us all this time, I don't think we'll be able to contain our words and our songs from running wild and free. And that's what is so beautiful to me about this kingdom we get to live in -- that the pure chord and the straight line are as wild and free as anything.
So let's keep listening and let's never stop believing.