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CHAPTER I 6 B.C. Censer Priest
Being a priest is not all it is said to be.
This thought amongst others of less magnitude addled the old man's brain as he shuffled toward the Temple. He resented the designation, "idiot-priest," accorded to him and others like him by rabbis, scribes and interpreters of the Law. Benign contempt? Hah! Consummate fools! Condescending . . . He thought for a moment, searching for the appropriate word, then smiled with satisfaction . . . Pig droppings! Then laughing cynically to himself added, diarrheic pig droppings! He had been a priest of the Division of Abijah for his entire life and now wondered if he had wasted his time here on earth. For years, decades, had he stood quietly by and seen other men chosen. Older men when he was young. Younger men now that he was advanced in years. Never him. Random chance made choosing a Censer-priest fall to God himself. Didn't it? Randomness as the very purpose, the absurd protocol for giving God his way! Isn't that how we settle how God thinks? The whole fashion nauseated him.
To be chosen as Censer-priest only occurred once in one's lifetime. The natural inference that to be chosen at all is tacitly equivalent to God's setting his seal of approval on you, that God thought you of importance, that God recognized you as a man of character and worth. It lessened the taunt of the rabbis. To be chosen while you are young implies that you are anointed, destined for greatness. Many priests live their entire lives never to be chosen.
There is no record that this particular priest had ever violated his trust in office. Those who cared enough to observe him thought him "righteous." He, of course, knew differently. So did God. That is why, he concluded, he had never been chosen. Not to be chosen logically provoked the ominous question, "What is wrong with you that God has not chosen you?" Cruel question; richly undeserved. It wasn't difficult for him to imagine why God had not chosen him. He, himself, knew well of his sins.
Elizabeth understood. How grateful I am for her. His wife believed in him, loved him, encouraged him when all others failed him. Like all priests he had married, seemingly, he thought for his entire life. How long have we been together? God help me! I think I have forgotten. He did not regret one moment of it. Elizabeth! The only person in the world who he knew loved him, despite the shame that they had no children. Almost everyone blamed her. Elizabeth is barren! Supposed friends said this in sometimes not so hushed tones. Again, he knew better. It was not she. It was he. God had rejected him. That is why his prayers for a child, a son, had gone unanswered, unheard. Idiot-priest, indeed! Perhaps the rabbinic fools were right.
The time had come once again for his division, the Division of Abijah, to care for the priestly services of the Temple. The lot is taken to select the Censer-priest whose duty is to burn incense on the altar in the Temple of God. Once, the altar stood before the Veil in the Temple of God. No more, not in these days in Herod's Temple. The altar did not stand even in the Holy Place. Different times; nothing stayed the same. Incense, supposedly, symbolized the prayers of the nation to God. Indeed, the Censer-priest came to offer such prayers. Two relatives assisted him, one to remove what remained of the previous day's sacrifice, the other to rearrange the live coals on the altar of incense. Zechariah had long since laid aside any expectations. Too often he had wondered why God had granted him life. Why live, especially as a priest, when one is not allowed to serve? Why live when your life would end, leaving no son, and having no purpose? Why live at all? Once, he looked forward to the lot, hoping to be chosen, wishing to be chosen, living for the day when he would be chosen. Not anymore. Today, as in recent years, he thought it all tedious, a wearisome, vexing bother. He was too old to bother, too decrepit to care. His knees ached. There were shooting pains in his hip. He wearied with life. There was no thought, no expectation at all that he would be chosen. Hence, on this day he was.
At first, the realization that it had happened amused him. Well, he thought, the old man finally gets his day. He thought it not unlike eulogies at funerals. Since you are dead, how can you enjoy them? He was less than impressed. When the reality of his doing the services of Censer-priest began to seep into the cisterns of his self-esteem, tired cynicism yielded to childlike joy opening the dawn of a percipient day. Like the taste of exquisite wine, he rolled it around in his brain, letting it bring to life the calloused taste buds of jaded emotions. He allowed himself to enjoy the inebriation--at least, partially. The other pain, that at his age he would never see a son, he did not think about, at least not today. It was pleasant and perhaps more significant, after a manner of speaking, to be chosen when you are old. Could it be an endorsement of his years? The rationalization amused him; perhaps all had not been a waste. For now, he would humbly serve. This provided him a semblance of peace. The first week of October, Zechariah stood facing the altar. At his left, stood the table of showbread. To his right, the seven-branched candlestick. Before him stood the golden altar of incense on which red coals glowed. Deep notes of the Magrephah filled distant corners of the Temple summoning priests and people to whatever holy service awaited them. Still the old priest waited as were his instructions, until the signal came to spread incense on the coals. The signal came; the incense spread and rich aromas filled the candlelit room. Is it not odd, thought Zechariah, that sensate faculties in one's nostrils titillate one's sense of worship? The whole scene struck him as sublime and absurd at the same time. The warm musical notes, the smells, the stunning visionary beauty of the altar, the candlesticks; the hidden mystery of the Veil. Since God lives in the heart, thought he, of what worth are these trifles? Does the Creator have the slightest interest in the smell of pleasant odors? Despite his doubts, he loved everything about this service.
It became for Zechariah, a wondrous ceremony; an old man who had long since lost his capacity for awe. His head bowed, his eyes closed, his hands postured in prayer, when involuntarily--he blinked. A soft glow, brighter than that warranted by the candlestick, illumined the marble floor where his gaze fell. His pupils focused for the slightest of instants as if examining the masonry patterns in the floor. Whence comes this light? Anxiety elevated as slowly, he lifted his head.
A man stood between the golden altar of incense and the candlestick. Clearly, he appeared no ordinary man, his clothing iridescent as a prism dancing rainbows on the walls, his expression serene and in command, his bearing unnatural. He felt his knees begin to weakly tremble. "Do not be afraid, Zechariah." Instantly, his spirit was comforted. At these simple words, the old priest felt his heart enlarge, his blood pound, his lungs fill. Every nerve in his body resonated. His posture strengthened. Their eyes engaged! Suddenly, and for the first time in decades, his arms felt as if he could bend steel. In tones soft and holy, the man continued, "I am sent to tell you that God has heard your prayers." The priest tried to digest this. "Your wife, Elizabeth, will bear you a son." Despite his empowerment, the old man's heart staggered. Merciful God! The man continued. "You will call his name John." Merciful God! "He will give you gladness and many will celebrate his birth. He will be great in the eyes of the Lord. As Samuel and Sampson, he will be a Nazirite and will never drink wine or strong spirits. While he is yet in his mother's womb, the Holy Spirit will fill him. He will turn the hearts of many in Israel to the Lord their God. He will act with the spirit and power of Elijah and he will prepare the people for the Lord." Zechariah listened but absorbed none of this. He was much too stunned to absorb anything beyond the simple--preposterous!--announcement that he may have a son. "How can this be?" The priest had found his tongue. "Don't you see? I - I am an old man. My wife has long since passed the age of bearing a child." Conflicting thoughts invaded his brain. Could the miracle done for Abrahams's Sarah happen again? Those were holy times, with holy men of old. Such miracles no longer happen! He shook his head. He is hallucinating. His mind is finally going. This cannot be happening. He needed something to drink; a strong spirit would do nicely. He wanted to believe but he was too old. He had been kicked in the groin by unrequited prayer too many times. Again and again he had prayed. A thousand times again. "Perhaps a sign? Perhaps something miraculous that I can see? Some credentials? Please?" He was whining he knew. I need something to hold on to . . .
"I am Gabriel!" The sentence seemed laughable to the old priest, yet it compelled him to take note of the obvious and, at the same time, announced a hidden reality. "I stand in the presence of El Shaddai! I am sent to speak to you!" The daring pronouncement provoked him but he remained unconvinced. Why would God wish to speak to him? He was not illiterate. He knew the scriptures. Is this man, for all of his distinction, claiming to be that Gabriel? "I am sent to tell you wonderful news," he continued, "but since you cannot accept it, your sign will be this: you will be unable to speak until the day your son is born." "Poor Zechariah," his friends gossiped, "he was so overcome at being Censer-priest that he can no longer speak." Elizabeth, however, became pregnant. |