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"To Speak and to Hold Silence"
Sermon preached at Dumbarton United Methodist Church
December 3 , 2017
Advent I
Sermon preached at Dumbarton United Methodist Church
December 3 , 2017
Advent I
So.
Here’s the set up. With the exception of the brief preface that the author of
Luke’s gospel uses to set the stage, Elizabeth and Zechariah are essentially
the first characters we meet in this gospel. And right away, Luke wants us to
know what kind of folks we are meeting. Zechariah is a member of a prominent
priestly class. Elizabeth is a descendent of Aaron – in other words, herself of
priestly origin. And this association with priestly piety isn’t just an act for
Elizabeth and Zechariah. Luke makes sure we know that they are righteous and
godly people, inside and out. No hint of hypocrisy here—they keep all the
commandments, all the observances, and they are “worthy in the sight of God.”
It’s important that we know all of
this because we are quickly introduced to another piece of background about the
couple – they don’t have children, and not because they’re young or haven’t
given it a shot yet. Apparently, the couple has been unable to have kids, and
they are too old now to have any human hope for a change in that reality.
In a religious and cultural milieu
in which children are seen as a particularly special kind of blessing from God,
and in which childbirth is seen as the primary duty and honor of women, a lack
of children can all too easily be interpreted as a sign of sin, shame, or moral
failing. If we are honest about our own religious and cultural milieu here in
the 21st century United States, we know that we are not so very far
from this sort of stigma around childless couples. We know, from the words
uttered quietly by Elizabeth later on in this same text, that this holy and
righteous woman has internalized this stigma as shame and disgrace. So this
sort of revelation about this “first family” in Luke’s gospel is meant to
disturb and disrupt the reader’s – if you’ll pardon the pun – pre-conceived
notions about childbirth and childlessness. They have no children, but not, the
narrator insists, for lack of godliness or worthiness.
In beginning the story here, the
narrator of Luke’s gospel calls to mind a foundational story in the Jewish
scriptures. The situation of Elizabeth and Zechariah resonates through the
centuries with the stories of Abram and Sarai, Hannah and Elkanah, and others –
righteous God-followers whose childless existence is miraculously reversed by
divine intervention. Biblical scholar Sharon Ringe points out that even the
language style of this section of Luke’s gospel seems designed to invoke the
reader’s connection to more ancient narratives of the faith. While the preface
to the gospel is scholarly in tone and the body of Luke’s narrative is
quotidian in usage, the section we heard from today seems designed to echo the
style of the Jewish scriptures.[1]
Writes Sharon Ringe:
The contrast is like what happens
in a worship service where all the prayers are in Elizabethan English and the
sermon in modern speech….[F]or many people who were brought up on earlier
English translations of the Bible such as the King James Version, the rhythms
of Elizabethan English connect them to the entire biblical story. The language
itself is strengthening and reassuring because of the memories and associations
it invokes, and in that way it makes real again the presence, power, and love
of God. It does not require a great deal of imagination to see the peculiarly
biblical-sounding Greek of the beginning of Luke’s narrative having a similar
effect on his hearers.[2]
So
if we as readers are tuned in to Luke’s stylistic choices, and if we are
familiar with the narratives of the Jewish scriptures, we can predict what will
happen next: God will act in a miraculous way; the surprised couple will
welcome a child into the world; and this child will have some sort of special
purpose or role to play in the great narrative of God’s people.
In a bit of dramatic irony,
Zechariah is not able to see what we, the readers, have already guessed. While
serving his shift in the temple, Zechariah is visited by a messenger of God,
who lets him in on the good news. Zechariah questions the angel, and is slapped
with a particular sort of fine: he will be unable to speak for the next, oh,
say, nine months or so.
Let me just say that I’m inclined to
be pretty sympathetic to Zechariah here. I like that he doesn’t mind asking
questions. I think it’s overall a pretty healthy thing to pose some questions to
heavenly messengers who show up unbidden to announce seemingly ridiculous
things. I am all in favor of a healthy amount of doubt, curiosity, and
skepticism. So at first read, I want to leap to Zechariah’s defense. What’s so
wrong with asking questions? Doesn’t this passage stigmatize doubt and promote
unquestioning faith? Isn’t this seeming punishment a bit unjust?
But these days, I’m not so sure that
a sentencing to silence is such a bad thing, at least not for folks, like
Zechariah, that are accustomed to having some say in matters. Sharon Ringe
notes that “Zechariah, who is used to speaking, is silenced, while Elizabeth,
whose body itself communicates what Zechariah cannot, articulates God’s favor.”[3]
A quick look around our nation at the folks who are “used to speaking” is, I
think, instructive here. I wouldn’t much mind a moratorium on speaking for the
folks who talk the most in our country. Imagine – nine months with nothing from
the president, nothing from Congress, nothing from the most powerful actors and
producers and network owners and news anchors, except for silence. Blessed,
peaceful, silence. Perhaps the angel’s message to Zechariah is as much an
invitation as it is a condemnation.
Unless you’ve been without internet
or radio access for the past month or so, you’ve probably heard about the
#metoo hashtag campaign. [[EDIT 12/8: The "Me Too" campaign actually began much earlier than this past month, led by a black woman named Tarana Burke. You can find out more on the Me Too website.]] As women across the country speak out on social media
about their experiences of sexual harassment and assault, courageously shattering
the culture of complicity, stigma, and silence that surrounds such attacks, the
inappropriate and even abusive behavior of one powerful man after another has
come to light. For some, at least, consequences have been swift. And not
surprisingly, American men have had a mixed record of reactions, from the bumbling to the hand-wringing to the
outright defensive. In a recent sermon at Foundry United Methodist Church, our
mutual friend T.C. Morrow had this to say:
I’ve
appreciated the 'we hear you. we believe you.' messages I’ve seen
on social media as people share their stories of surviving sexual harassment
and sexual assault. These are important first steps, but it will take
significant cultural change to fully shift away from the vestiges of the notion
that women are property….Gentlemen, a few social media posts, especially of the
'well, I respect women' type do not necessarily mean you are fully an ally to
women. I invite you to engage in some truth-listening, you may learn an
additional way or two that you can more authentically respect women.[4]
I’m
struck by T.C.’s phrase “truth-listening,” the other side of the
“truth-speaking” coin. T.C. invites men to engage in some “truth-listening.”
And I wonder if men, even men like Zechariah who genuinely seek to be good and
righteous and law-abiding and worthy, practiced silence a bit more, whether
“truth-listening” would come easier for us. I wonder whether the speech that
would arise out of the practice of silence might be wiser, less reactive, and
more empathetic.
In fact, I think the Elizabeth gives
us a hint of this very thing in our readings for today. At first,
oh-so-unsurprisingly given the patriarchal underpinnings of both Luke’s society
and our own, we hear little from Elizabeth. When she does speak, it is only
after she has “gone into seclusion” – we don’t know any details about this, but
she is certainly not shouting from the mountaintops. And yet, a somewhat
surprising thing happens when Elizabeth receives a visit from her cousin Mary. In
Sharon Ringe’s words, “Elizabeth’s body teachers her” – and thus teaches us –
“theological truths.”[5]
Elizabeth’s child, the one who will become John the Baptist, leaps in her womb
at the sight of Mary, pregnant with the one who will become Jesus. And it is
Elizabeth who is the first one in Luke’s gospel to proclaim the Messiahship of
Jesus, the first to make a Christological affirmation. She exclaims this in a
loud voice, and her blessings and exultations in turn invite Mary into singing her
earth-shaking, power-challenging “Magnificat.” Out of Elizabeth’s seclusion
arises wisdom and gospel truth; out of her silence she pours forth
proclamation, prophecy, and praise.
And what of Zechariah? His story, as
it turns out, is not over. When the time comes for Elizabeth to give birth,
their community assumes that the baby will be named after his father,
Zechariah. “No,” says Elizabeth, taking confident command of the situation,
“the baby’s name is John.” How did she know this, if Zechariah is unable to
speak? Did he write her a note? Or does Elizabeth have her own access to the divine
good news, and the wisdom to share it? The community doesn’t seem to want to
believe Elizabeth – “Big surprise,” says every woman ever, “they don’t want to
believe the woman.” But Zechariah, prompted to sign to them, does finally ask
for a writing tablet and lets them know that Elizabeth has it right. Then, and
only then – after writing, “You know, y’all, she’s right, you should listen to
her” – is Zechariah permitted to speak. And the speech that pours forth out of
his long silence? It’s an echo and a continuation of Mary’s earlier song, a Benedictus
to echo and amplify her Magnificat. We sang and recited pieces of Zechariah’s
prayer earlier in this service, praising God for liberation and for mercy, for
holiness and justice. “Such is the tender mercy of our God,” Zechariah cries,
“who from on high will bring the Rising Sun to visit us, to give light to those
who live in darkness and the shadow of death and to guide our feet into the way
of peace.” Out of Zechariah’s silence arises a call for our feet to be guided
in the way of peace.
And so as I read these texts, I
reflect on Elizabeth who, out of her silence and seclusion, speaks. I reflect
on Zechariah, whose hasty speech leads him to silence before he can be invited
into speech again. I think about all those #metoo posts on my Facebook wall,
which have now been joined by #churchtoo posts, breaking an oppressive form of
silence and naming the reality of sexual harassment and assault in our
supposedly sacred spaces. I think about silence and speech. I reflect on times
in my own life, too many times recently it seems to me, in which I leapt to
hasty speech instead of pausing, waiting, holding a wise silence. And times
when my speech has served to silence others. And I think too of times when I
could have, should have, spoken up and said something. And times when I’ve felt
shut down, or silenced, or shamed, or stigmatized. I’ve been reflecting on when
to speak. And when to keep silent.
I suppose I wish I had some sort of
easy, three-step guide for you this morning. Here’s when to speak up, and
here’s when to hold your tongue, I could say, and they would be pithy, and
alliterative, and they would rhyme. I don’t have that. But I do have three
themes, or maybe three spaces in our lives, which I think call us to
discernment and wisdom in deciding when to speak and when to hold silence.
First, for folks like me who like to
talk, who have a tendency to jump in and speak right away, I think we need a regular
practice of silence. I think we, like Zechariah, need to listen to the divine
messenger who invites us, rather than condemns us, into a space of silent
reflection. Perhaps we may discover that there are forms of silence that are
more powerful than our habitual speech. Perhaps if we begin from a space of
silence, our speech will be wiser, more empathetic, based more in believing and
amplifying the stories of those who have been marginalized and silenced, and
thus more evocative of justice, and of mercy, and of peace. Perhaps those of us
who are accustomed to speaking but suddenly seem to lose our voice when it
comes to naming and interrupting abuse and injustice might spend more usual
time in silence so that we can speak more rightly and more justly when the
extraordinary is called for. Perhaps we can learn to, as T.C. Morrow says,
“truth-listen.”
Second, for folks who, perhaps like
Elizabeth, instinctively move toward silence and seclusion, perhaps in that
silence and seclusion you might hear the voice of the Spirit calling you to
speak out, calling you to cry out. Perhaps, like the courageous women who have
broken oppressive silence with the #metoo campaign, your voice is needed.
Perhaps silence is the seedbed out of which good news and the proclamation of
truth can arise.
Third and finally, I want to just
say a few words about silence as it relates to stigma and shame. As I mentioned
earlier, this whole story of Elizabeth and Zechariah is based around this trope
of the barren woman who miraculously conceives a child. Of course, in its
original context, this trope was intended as a message of hope, a reversal
toward justice for those who have been unjustly associated with sin and shame.
And yet, the idea that somehow finally having that child fixes everything still
leaves some of that stigma in place, doesn’t? Still says that those who have
children are somehow blessed by God, while those who do not…..What of them?
There’s a danger in interpreting the text this way, reinforcing the very shame
the text is meant to undo.
But I don’t think that’s the core
message of this text. This text calls us to think critically about the stigma
and shame that surrounds those whose circumstances are popularly blamed on
their own moral failings, their own decisions or sins. In Luke’s time and perhaps
still in our time, barrenness or childlessness – always blamed on the woman,
never the man, by the way – was one of those circumstances. In our own time,
those who come forward with stories of sexual harassment and assault are often
blamed for the violence enacted against them, told that if only they had not
dressed like that or had that drink or associated with that man, they would
have been safe. We need to challenge that sort of stigma, and the silencing
that it seeks to enact.
And while I can’t speak with much
personal authority about the stigma surrounding childlessness – as the male
partner in my relationship, I’m largely spared such things – or about the
silencing of survivors of sexual assault, I do know a thing or two about the
silencing effect of shame and stigma. As someone who struggles with a mental
illness, I’ve grappled with the question of whether the suffering associated
with my illness is somehow caused by God or by my personal failings or my lack
of faith, which I am convinced it is not.
And so what I see as good news in
this text for anyone who has an experience that has been surrounded by stigma
and shame and enforced silence is not that there is some miraculous cure
waiting out there if we just have enough faith. That doesn’t really strike me
as good news. No. The good news is that it is
from those places of
silencing, from those places of
stigma and seeming shame, that the words of gospel truth, of liberation and
mercy, can pour forth. It’s not that Elizabeth’s barrenness is “healed” but
that her experience of shame, stigma, and silence becomes the source, the
seedbed, out of which the proclamation of good news can arise. Not because
suffering is good, but because in the midst of suffering we are able to stumble
across the goodness of a God who proclaims hope to the hopeless. In the
deafening silence, in the feeling of seclusion, in the seeming darkness, there,
perhaps, we can be quiet enough to hear the voices that need to be heard –
whispering now, perhaps, but soon to shout out for justice and truth.
And so I pray for us all. That we
may have the spiritual discernment to know when to speak out and when to hold
silence and when to break the silence. That we can practice the kind of silence
and the kind of speech in which we can hear the voice of the Spirit proclaiming
that the dawn from on high is breaking, shining on those who dwell in the
shadow of death, and guiding us along the way to a promised future of justice
and of peace.
[1] Sharon Ringe, Luke, part of the Westminster Bible Companion, series editors Patrick D. Miller &
David L. Bartlett (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1995), 25.
[2] Ringe, Luke, 25-26.
[3] Ringe, Luke, 30.
[4] T.C.’s 11/26/17
sermon, “Don’t Hold Back,” is available on Foundry UMC’s website: http://foundryumc.org/previous-sermons
[5]
Ringe, Luke, 34.
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