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CHAPTER IV Forerunner
Elizabeth. Barren Elizabeth! Elderly Elizabeth gave birth to a son. Over the past several months she and Mary shared their feelings, their experiences with God, and held long conversations about their soon to be born babies.
Early before the sun had begun to awaken the skies, Elizabeth awakened Mary. "It is time," she whispered. "Go, find Alathia." Mary, her blood pounding, driving sleep from her eyes, dressed quickly and ran to wake the midwife.
She observed, carefully, every detail as she busied herself being useful. Hours drained the color from Elizabeth's face as Mary watched her stomach rise and then relax, her body pushing the babe into place. She watched as Elizabeth rested between pains. She watched as the baby's head began to show and then suddenly made his entry into the sunlit room of mid-morning. She watched the cutting of the cord and heard the first cries as his little pink body was washed and wrapped tightly in soft blankets.
The infant was handed to exhausted Elizabeth. Tears of joy filled her wrinkled cheeks, falling into the baby's tiny hand. As he wriggled inside his blanket, she felt the same movements that she'd felt for months inside her body. "I know you," she smiled as his' tiny eyes gazed, unfocused, into hers in seeming wonder.
Zechariah had been watching patiently, but could wait no longer. He went to Elizabeth, kissed her on the forehead and put out his arms to hold his son. Elizabeth laid the baby in his awkward old arms. He thought his breath was being drawn from him. He held the baby high over his head. Sensing the private intimacy between the new father and mother, Mary made motion to leave the room. "Wait," spoke Elizabeth softly. And then to her husband, "Give the child to Mary for a moment, my husband, and come, sit here next to me. It's been a trying day for both of us."
Mary held the child tightly. How small and perfect he is, she thought, wondering what her own baby would look like. As he stretched his little body against the tight blankets, Mary felt a flutter in her stomach for the first time. Not wanting to take anything from this special day for Elizabeth and Zechariah, she said nothing. "Cousins," she thought and smiled knowingly.
Elizabeth's friends, confidants and relatives came to be happy with her. The secret of this astounding event was out. The word had spread. Ancient Elizabeth, thought well past the time of childbearing, has given birth to a son. They brought food and wine. They danced and played. Women clucked and cooed over the infant. Those first days took the shape of a week. The child would be circumcised tomorrow.
In the Temple, the babe shrieked as the priests performed the service of Abraham. "My," quoth one of the women in great humor, "young Zechariah has the voice of an ass."
Everyone at the Temple service laughed. Elizabeth, her voice as clear and uncompromising as steel, said simply, "His name is John! His voice will proclaim the coming of the Lord!" Her tone arrested attention.
Laughter ceased. In the embarrassed silence that followed, a close relative said quietly and with respect, "Elizabeth . . . come now; there is no one in the family by that name."
Zechariah sat mute as all had come to expect of him. Still, he was this child's father. They gestured to him. Ignorance is monstrously embarrassing. Zechariah could hear every word everyone had said. Though he could not speak, he could hear as well as any of them. It is remarkable, he thought, how people think that because one cannot speak, one also cannot hear. Stupidly, they made signs at him. They mouthed the question, "What will you name the child?" hoping he might understand their question. Zechariah dropped his head in exasperated resignation. He rubbed his eyes. He had not spoken a syllable in nine long months. He gestured with his hands to make way. The people parted to allow him room to maneuver. On the wooden table lay a tablet. Taking a writing instrument the doddering old man wrote, "His name is John!" He held it high over his head passing through each point of the compass. More embarrassed silence followed until he completed the circle, all eyes on the arc of the tablet.
Then came a shout, "His name is John! Praise to God Almighty!" an exclamation of commanding power.
To say that all were surprised is to uderstate the case. They were dumfounded and frightened. Zechariah's shout had forced the issue of the tangible, miraculous Presence! And to Jews who were not permitted so much as to speak or write his name, this was a fearsome thing.
How does one speak or write of such things? Not even the Scriptures can adequately explain the awful fear that came upon the prophets of Baal when, alas, the fire fell. Who can describe the terrible angst of the Egyptians as they furiously drove through towering walls of water in futile pursuit of the Hebrews? Or the thoughts of King Saul when a solitary stone from a boy's sling struck down the giant? When the miraculous unfolds, when the unfamiliar and unexpected comes before one's very eyes, fear is rational.
Yet, an elderly woman giving birth to an infant, or an old man's speech after more than nine months of silent muteness; these things are hardly on the magnitude of parting the Red Sea. Is it because these friends, these well wishers, these celebrants had never in their lifetimes seen such things? Here we chronicle angelic visitations and the impregnation of old women and virgins, and speech withheld and speech released in paeans of praise. Are these things mere tremors of the earthshaking to come? Perhaps rather, it is the question that provokes fear, "What do these things mean?"
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