Steve Lindsley
Luke 1: 68-79
Have you ever had a song get stuck in your head? The melody so catchy and a hook so irresistible that it will not let you go. The lyrics, clear as day, looping endlessly in your brain, long after the music itself has faded into the background – whether you first heard it on a TV commercial, or over the speakers in a bustling grocery store, or booming from the car next to you at the stoplight. You find yourself replaying the song in your mind. The tune refuses to leave you, even when you wish it would.
This used to happen to me all the time as a kid. I’ve always loved music – still do – but back in the day, I’d think about a tune, and it was like I’d given it the key to live rent-free inside my head. In fact, sometimes it felt so real that I swear I was actually hearing it. Especially this one song. It always seemed to happen in the stillness of night, long after mom, dad, and brother were fast asleep, when the house was perfectly still and silent. I’d wake up for no clear reason, lying there in the dark, and before I could drift off again, this song would emerge in my mind.
Rise up this mornin’,
Smile with the risin’ sun,
Three little birds pitch by my doorstep
Singin’ sweet songs of melodies pure and true,
Sayin’, This is my message to you-ou-ou
I had this song in my mind – but the weird thing was, it felt very much like I was actually hearing it – like it was playing somewhere in that quiet, still house, and I was hearing it with my ears. That’s how powerful its grip was on me. After a while it would become so prevalent that I’d turn over to look at the clock radio on the nightstand beside my bed to see if I had left it on by accident. It was off. But still, I was hearing it:
So don’t worry about a thing,
‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right.
And so, I’d get out of bed and go downstairs to check and see if someone had left the TV on or if Dad had forgotten to turn the stereo off or if that song might be coming from somewhere, anywhere. Nothing was on, of course. So eventually I’d go back to bed and surrender myself to the tune, eventually falling asleep to it.
So don’t worry about a thing,
‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right.
Which, come to think about it, is not a bad song to fall asleep to.
Our scripture today that I read earlier is about a song – a song that was given voice by a man rejoicing, but in truth was formed long before it made its appearance into the world, as all songs are; a song formed over time in the heart of a priest named Zehcariah. We’ll get to that song in a minute, but there’s a back story to this song that’s worth exploring. Zechariah had faithfully served God’s people for years as a priest in the temple. He was married to Elizabeth and together they were faithful people doing their best to live faithful lives, just like the rest of us. But like the rest of us, they were not immune to life’s struggles. For them, their struggle had long been their inability to have a much-wanted child, and the loss of hope that had accompanied that long, agonizing wait.
Everything changed one incredible day when Zechariah was at the temple, going about his priestly duties. Out of nowhere, the angel Gabriel appeared with some unbelievable news: that Elizabeth, despite being well past childbearing years, was going to have a baby. And not just any baby, but a son named John, whose purpose in life would be to prepare God’s people for the coming of the Messiah. Zechariah, understandably, struggled to wrap his head around this news and had a hard time believing what he was hearing. And because of this, we’re told, Zechariah was struck mute, unable to say a word until the promise came to pass.
What must it be like, do you think, to suddenly lose the ability to speak? Or, more to the point, to lose the ability to share something significant, something life-changing, even if you’re not sure you believe it yourself? Or maybe it’s something harder and heavier you’re holding onto – a struggle, angst, fear, foreboding – and you’re not quite sure you have the words yet to express it.
All of this, of course, is leading up to the song Zechariah sings. But we’re not there yet – and that’s actually the whole point. Because more often than not, the most meaningful songs don’t appear out of thin air; they come out of something before them, even from hardship and struggle. For Zechariah, it had been the hardship and struggle of not having a voice to speak when he emerged from the temple to a waiting crowd, expecting to hear a word from the Lord that day. A sermon, if you will. Imagine Rebecca or me stepping into this pulpit on Sunday morning and not being able to say a word; only twenty minutes of silence to offer – how awkward would that be?
Sometimes silence is the way we process what we’ve heard – news unexpected, something we have to sit with for a spell. I am well aware of the fact that, a week ago today, I shared some news with you that many of you were not expecting; the news of my new call and impending departure in the middle of next month. This news has elicited a number of emotions – grace and gratitude, sadness and even some anger. All of which are perfectly understandable – because you and I, we are more than just pastor and parishioner. We are, as I told you from this pulpit eleven years and one week ago, partners in ministry; and letting go of something like that is no small thing.
And so, I wonder if we both find ourselves identifying with Zechariah in a way – taking pause, whether intentional or not, and feeling what we feel and finding our words. Finding our song. It can be an awkward pause for sure. But there is very much a holiness to it. And perhaps holy moments are always a little awkward in their own right, if for no other reason than the God we worship, the God we entrust our lives to, the God who guides our every step, is a God who is very much at the center of all things.
And what we find at that center, friends, is the same thing that Zechariah eventually found there himself – that even in that silence, even in that awkward, voiceless season, something profound was taking shape. Hidden deep in Zechariah’s soul, so buried that he likely didn’t even realize it was there. But little by little, it began to form, quietly waiting for the moment when it would rise and burst forth into the world.
For months and months Zechariah had not been able to say a single word. All those months as Elizabeth did, in fact, become pregnant and carry that child and eventually give birth to their son. Eight days later, still silent, Zechariah and Elizabeth take their child to the temple to be circumcised. The priestly types ask the baby’s name. Elizabeth says, His name is John. The priestly types look at her strangely – this is not a family name. They cast their gaze to Zechariah, who echoes his wife’s words by scribbling on a writing tablet: It’s John.
And at that very moment, we are told, Zechariah’s voice returns – and with that voice a song that had been building in his heart for nearly a year:
Blessed be the Lord God of Israel,
for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them.
He has raised up a mighty savior for us
in the house of his child David,
And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High,
for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,
to give his people knowledge of salvation
Because of the tender mercy of our God,
the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to shine upon those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the way of peace.
Don’t you love the fact that Zechariah doesn’t just speak these words after enduring almost a whole year of silence? He sings them. Sings them! Sings them at the top of his lungs. Melody merging with text, taking the message to another dimension, the impact of this good and wonderful news carried in the form of a song. A song that had been there all along, just waiting to come out. A song that most assuredly would forever be stuck not just in his head, but in his heart.
“He has raised up a mighty savior for us.” This kind of feels like the song’s chorus, don’t you think? Raised up – not brought down from on high, but coming up from where we already are. Taking one of us and raising him up to become the source of all our hopes and dreams. Not to shield us from the struggles that will undoubtedly come our way, but to walk with us in them, through them.
There is good news in this, friends. Good news as we begin our Advent journey to the manger, even as we walk through a world filled with uncertainty. Good news as you and I navigate this liminal season we find ourselves in as pastor and congregation. Good news that is best expressed in the form of a song – because songs stick with us, as good news does.
God is raising us up, Trinity – we know that, right? We feel that don’t we? God is raising us up to be the church of Jesus Christ on Providence Road and beyond. God is raising us up to love and care for each other, just as God loves and cares for us. God is raising us up when the burdens we find ourselves carrying are too much to bear on our own, telling us, as Jesus did, that he is more than happy to trade our heavy burden for his lighter one. God is raising us up – and truly, that all the good news we need.
Beloved, I hope that song of good news resonates deep in your soul and stays with you for the long haul. I hope it becomes a song that you cannot get out of your head, to the point where you swear you are actually hearing it in those times of deep silence. I hope that you carry this song with you throughout this Advent season of waiting and hoping, and carry it with you well beyond. Raising you up, lifting you on high, holding you close.
In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, thanks be to God – and may all of God’s people say, AMEN!
* Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation, the written accounts occasionally stray from proper grammar and punctuation