Zechariah sings a song for us today. A great song of hope. Before that, however, there was silence.

You see, Zechariah didn’t respond quite as well as Joseph did when his plans went sideways. An angel of the Lord appeared to him and, judging by the outcome, maybe the angel had a bad day. Or maybe he had a tone. I wish tone were written into the Bible more. Perhaps Zechariah was a little snotty. Maybe there was some backtalk.

Long story short, Zechariah is struck mute. When his child is born and the neighbors ask Elizabeth what the baby’s name will be, she says, “John.”

And the crowd says, “John?! No one in your family is named John. That’s not even a proper name. That sounds… Gentile. How do you even spell that? Now Methuselah. That’s a name!”

The crowd turns to mute Zechariah. He asks for a writing tablet and scratches out, “His name is John.” And immediately, he can speak. He is filled with the Holy Spirit and bursts into song: “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them…” and all that we heard in today’s scripture.

Wouldn’t it be nice if, just before we were about to be snotty or use that tone, we were struck mute for a little while? It would have saved me a lot of trouble.

It was the Christmas of my sixth-grade year. Advent of 1993. Instead of the usual manger pageant, the teachers decided to shake things up. They chose a musical called Arch the Angel. It had a very catchy refrain: “Arch the Angel! What a guy!”

I don’t remember much about the plot. But I remember two things.

First, I was standing between two eighth graders. Jason was furious that I, a sixth grader, was taller than him and, worse, that I was standing between him and Bea, who he desperately wanted to flirt with.

I share this because today we lit the candle of love. I wouldn’t wish middle school on anyone, but many of us can still remember our first crush. That first awkward, electric, confusing brush with love. I have no idea what became of Jason and Bea. I hope they found love deeper than what I stood between. Maybe a partner. Maybe children, and the indescribable love that comes with them. Or maybe a dog. Or a calling that became more than a job. A vocation.

A vocation is something that rises from the core of who you are. You would do it for free, and often do.

Love takes many forms. And the cosmic love that surrounds us and calls us toward kindness, toward depth, toward loving even our enemies, is no small thing. I hope they found it.

Which brings me to the second thing I remember.

My bully, Chris, got the lead role. He was Arch. I did not love that.I did not love Chris.

He was the smallest kid in the class. I was the biggest. He had the cool clothes, knew the shows I wasn’t allowed to watch. His parents let him watch MTV. I wasn’t allowed until at least eighth grade. He was nimble and athletic. I was big and lumbering, and my knees hurt all the time. His wit was razor sharp. Every time we lined up alphabetically, he’d say something funny and I’d walk away realizing I’d been cut.

You ever have someone like that? Their words draw blood. That was Chris.

Day after day we rehearsed Arch the Angel. We sang “What a guy!” and it was about him. He strutted across the stage in a bomber jacket and sunglasses. I wore a hand-me-down angel robe with mystery stains and silver tinsel that scratched my wrists and neck.

Standing between Jason and Bea, unwanted on one side, watching my rival take center stage on the other, I was feeling the opposite of love. And yet…

Chris was good. More than good. He was great.

Over time, something shifted. We performed the show for parents who were thrilled to see something new. Word spread. We played to a packed house. After the last performance, I went up and congratulated him.

A few years ago, around this time of year, a friend request popped up on Facebook.

It was Chris.

We exchanged messages. His life hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped. There had been a lot of struggles. We talked about Arch the Angel. We wondered together what might have been different if the school and the community had valued the arts more. What doors might have opened. What kind of future might have unfolded. And he agreed.

We are waiting for the birth of the sole person in scripture who says, “Love your enemies. Do good to those who harm you.”

It is a tall order.

It is hard enough to love people who don’t affect us at all. We grumble about school levies. We complain about taxes supporting seniors through Social Security and Medicaid. We tolerate the world’s first trillionaire and a K-shaped economy, but we scrutinize the grocery carts of those on SNAP like we’re on Sportscenter dissecting every down of football on Monday.

Sometimes I wish an angel of the Lord would strike us mute until we found compassion. Maybe we wouldn’t be able to speak again until we remembered the tender mercy of our God. Until we remembered salvation that comes through forgiveness.

Then we would grow strong in spirit. Then we would shine light on those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death. Then we would guide one another’s feet into the way of peace. Then we would truly know Christmas. And Christ would be born into the world again, through our words and through our deeds.

Until then, may we remember the salvation of our God.
A God who is with us.
A God who will not leave us.
A God who loves us, even when our words cut.

At our 10:30 service, we will hold our annual Christmas pageant. I love that we allow our children to take center stage. To try on the story. To inhabit the roles. To discover something new within themselves.

Maybe something stirs.
Maybe a gift is named.
Maybe the Holy Spirit whispers, Bring more of Christ into the world.
Because in truth, we are all trying out for that role. Thanks be to God. Amen.