Zechariah

February 2025

Luke 1:5-25

 

At their doorway, Zechariah and Elisheva stood side by side, her hand in his, taking in the view of the city. The words of the psalmist, almost by their own accord, fell from Zechariah’s lips. “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem … Ha’Shem’s faithfulness is your shield and rampart … He covers you with his feathers … under his wings you find refuge.”

Elisheva squeezed his hand.

Zechariah said, “My ahuva, my beloved one, with just a squint of our eyes, we can see it, how the walls of Jerusalem form the nest on which Ha’Shem has settled. How he protects his chosen ones.”

Elisheva thought to say, Then why is it Ha’Shem has allowed me to remain barren all these many years? but did not. A single tear traced its way past her sad smile. Instead, she said, “Husband of mine, I pray Ha’Shem will send the Messiah soon. I cannot comprehend how He allows the oppressors of Rome to foul our nest.”

Zechariah well knew the source of his wife’s tear. Their lament was not new. The sorrow of childlessness was bleak and bitter.

“The Messiah, indeed. If he is to come, may he come soon. Nonetheless, ahuva, I must not tarry. Tomorrow’s dawn signals Abijah’s week to serve at the Temple.”

“You will stay with Shobi this night?”

Zechariah thought fondly of his friend, how they had played and bickered and tussled as children. How they had stood together as Levite priests since being invested, what was it, nigh unto forty years? “Yes. I look forward to the visit. He is such a good friend, my cousin.”

There was a lovely tenderness to their embrace. Elisheva’s heart warmed as she said, “Go with my blessing, ahuva. Know that my love goes with you. Pray, give my greetings to Shobi and to Keziah. They, too, shall be in my prayers.”

“As you shall be in mine, ahuva. Be well in my absence. I shall return home before dusk at week’s end.”

Wending his way to the city, Zechariah let his thoughts drift to Ein Kerem, Spring of the Vineyard … our hilltop home is so peaceful … such fertile land … springs abound … our small crops of barley and oats, a bit of wheat help to sustain us … lentils and peas thrive here … tomatoes, too, if the weather is blessed … our grapevines … the olive trees and the fig tree, , we planted them on the day we took residence here … they still bear fruit, shade us on summer days … then there is my capricious bush that begrudges us a pomegranate or two every season … my favorite.

As the road turned toward the city, so did his thoughts turn to the years he had served as a priest. What was it now, thirty? Thirty-one? Blessed years, most of them … the priests of Abijah’s mishmarot have made service in the temple most congenial … Jehozadak, our rosh bet av, our leader … eldest, most erudite of us all … always ready to encourage us with words of wisdom … I do like these men so very much, I enjoy their company … for us, service is no mere duty but a gladness … ah, Shobi, dearest friend of all … Bakbuk and Jetur, born and bred in Jerusalem … Shuham, from Bezetha … the Phrygian, Tibni … Eliakim, from Edessa … good men, one and all … each descendants of Abijah … the Ketuvim, the sacred chronicles of Dawid, the King speak of him … how many generations of Levite priests now … ah, too many to count.

            His thoughts turned again, soured at how the Sanhedrin’s ministration granted the Levites such piddling shares of priestly blessings. The Sanhedrin’s renown stems not from its benevolence … our kohen gadol, High Priest Caiaphas and his truckling son-in-law Annas keep an eagle’s clutch on the purse strings of temple funds … small wonder they have prospered so well.

The wall of Jerusalem, pierced by the Essene Gate, now open before him, glistened in the late afternoon sun. Passing through, Zechariah greeted the guards with a nod and “T’zohorayim tovim,” received a half-smile from one, a glower from the other.

Strolling through the Acra bazaar, bumping shoulders with shoppers here and merchants there, enjoying the drift of fragrances – ah, fruit and fresh-baked bread and dried fish, leather, wood – a blind man could follow his nose and find his way.

Shouts of enticement, hollers about prices – “Come, see! No, this one! Too much! I will give you” – beat the air. Leather goods here, wooden utensils there, clothing here, adornments there … so many temptations … come, come, you have shekels? … spend them here …

The street narrowed. The walls of houses and shops loomed close by as if he was walking through a desert wadi. Alleyways, puzzlement to strangers yet comfort to those who dwelled there, made unexpected sharp turns now and again. A dozen more strides brought him to Shobi’s home. A knock on the door rewarded him with Shobi’s warm smile.

“Zechariah, cousin. Come, sit, let me wash your feet. Keziah, dear one, bring Zechariah a cup of sweet wine, if you please.”

Come morning, as the first rays of the sun broke the eastern horizon, a priest, standing watch at the highest pinnacle of the Temple, called out for all to hear, “Barkai! The morning light has appeared.” Three silver trumpets blared, calling Jerusalem awake. Their sound echoed across the Tyropoean Valley; some likened it to Ha’Shem’s own voice.

Throughout the city, early worshippers milled about, making ready for their walk to the Temple. For the faithful, morning sacrifice and prayers were not to be missed.

With a shake of Zechariah’s shoulder, Shobi said, “Come, my friend. We must be on our way. Keziah has warm bread for us.”

Morning mist spun over the street as they walked. It was not long before Shobi said, “You know how we have made this trek more times than we care to count, Zechariah, but on this day I am certain Ha’Shem has made the slope of the valley steeper.”

“And longer. Remember our early years, Shobi, how our feet were like a gazelle’s? Our walk to the Temple was but a skip and a hop. This morning, it is a trudge. My feet rebel. I strive for breath and lo, we are not yet halfway to the Temple.”

“Aye, and to think we shall soon pass our fiftieth years. Why did no one tell us that growing older was not a boon but a bane.”

“Ah, do not remind me of age, my friend. Or infirmities. I have struggle enough.”

The Huldah Gate gave mute welcome to the men as they entered and crossed the Court of the Gentiles. Rows of Corinthian columns adorned with carved vines and leaves commanded the central aisle of the Royal Portico. Here, on holy days, crowds of worshipers gathered to convert Roman coins to shekels and half-shekels from the money-changers, then purchase their sacrificial sheep or turtledoves.

Plaques inscribed in Hebrew, Greek and Latin, warned Gentiles of the penalty of death should they stray beyond the stone lattice fence and enter this consecrated ground.

Terraced courts were connected by stairs, outermost of which was the Women’s Court, beyond which women were forbidden to venture. Along the boundary of the Women’s Court began a series of chambers where the Levite priests performed their varied tasks in service to Ha’Shem. The Chamber of Wood and The Chamber of Nazarites bordered the wall separating the Women’s Court and the Court of the Priests. Beyond the Chamber of Oils and the onerous Chamber of Lepers stood the lovely, burnished copper Nicanor Gate, given by the rich Alexandrian Jew of the same name. Leading directly from the Nicanor Gate across the Court of the Priests rose the steps to the Temple itself .

Entering the Temple proper, they made their way to the Chamber of Polished Stones. There, the mishmarot of Abijah would gather.

Their rosh bet av, Jehozadak – always the first to arrive –  welcomed them with a joyful, “Boker tov, friends! Morning light! This is a signal week, a portentous one. It is our honor to tend the incense in the Holy Place. Sit, warm your hands, pour yourself a cup of posca.”

Boisterous Tibni was next to arrive, blessing them with good cheer. Eliakim and Shuham, both given to thoughtful piety, followed on Tibni’s heels, then came Bakbuk. Jetur, the youngest, was last to wander in, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

The mishmarot was complete. Abijah’s week of service had begun. All was well.

The week passed without trial. Attending to the wine of oblation, sweeping the courtyards, cleaning priestly garments, reciting morning and evening prayers all flowed freely, much as does water flow downhill. Each morning as Jehozadak made the daily assignments, the men responded with sighs or groans. Sweeping the courtyard came with a sigh, a good time to recite one’s prayers; tending to the sacrifice of animals received a groan, for it was messy and repellant; sounding the silver trumpets at first light, calling Jerusalem to worship was worthy of a sigh; sounding the magrephah, the organ, however, warranted a groan, for that muddle of pipes and bellows confounded most anyone who attempted to play it. It was Zechariah’s opinion that its moans were like those of a lovesick camel.

Much to do, much to do. Keep the gates. Tend the ephod and the breastplate. Cleanse the vessels. Recite prayers of blessing from the Temple steps. All in a day’s work.

Zechariah noted how, on the last day of the week, a curious joy blessed the mishmarot, for it was now Abijah’s duty to enter the Holy Place. Who would place fresh loaves of showbread, firstfruits and sacrificed meat upon the golden table of the Presence? Who would tend the flame of the golden menorah? Who would proffer incense upon the altar?

Such honor was great and coveted, made clear by the ordinances levied by Torah and Talmud: a Levite priest could perform the rite of incense in the Holy Place but once in his lifetime. Who will serve today?

History’s lore came to Zechariah’s mind for a moment, recalling how Shi’mon

Haṣṣaddeq, that most venerable of priests from before the reign of the Maccabees, had been visited by an angel in the Holy Place. Could this happen again? One could hope.

Which one among us would serve on this day? Ah, the casting of lots would tell.

Pressed shoulder to shoulder, the priests of Abijah’s watch sat and waited.

In one hand, Jehozadak held the goralim, small stones, each one etched with a name. In the other, he held a wooden cup, darkened and worn smooth from ages of use. He poured the stones into the cup. He gave it a shake, all the while murmuring Solomon’s chant, “The lot is cast into the lap, but every decision is from Ha’Shem.

Stones clattered against wood. Breath held. Muscles tensed. Could this be a day of visitation?

Jehozadak spilled the goralim onto his lap.

One stone stood out, away from the others.

On it, the name Zechariah glowed as if struck with fire; honor upon honor, it was his to tend the incense.

The men clapped. Shouts of “Gila! Gila!” echoed from the walls.

Zechariah’s heart soared and for the briefest of moments, he thought to stand, to flap his elbows and give forth a rooster’s crow. But no! Instead, he bowed his head. “All praise be to Ha’Shem!”

“Oh, how you are blessed,” said Shuham. “Ha‘Shem sends his grace upon you, Zechariah.”

Zechariah settled, his eyes brightly sharing his joy. “My friends, Banias and Shobi, would you do me the honor of assisting me on this morning?”

“It would be my honor,” answered Shobi.

“As it would be mine,” said Banias.

Gratitude, like warm broth, fanned their hearts. Together, the three men rose and left the Chamber of Polished Stones. As they walked, Zechariah sang praises. Ah, Ha’Shem, Ha’Shem … an honor to serve you … my heart flies to you, Ha’Shem, on wings of hope, of thanksgiving … here, in the holiest of Temples in all Jerusalem, the city of peace, the loveliest of all places, here, am I called to serve you … you have blessed me and I give you thanks … may I be worthy, Ha’Shem, to sing my praise unto you … with my thanks, I give you my hands, my heart, my life … O Ha’Shem, creator of all things … Ha’Shem of Israel … Jerusalem … Jerusalem …  

Exiting the chamber onto the northern portico, Zechariah, Shobi and Banias crossed to the far side of the Temple court where they would prepare fresh incense.

As had many times before, there came a rush of awe at the towering Temple walls, the white marble capped with carved golden gourds and flowers and palms, the cherubim.

            A tinge of fear colored Zechariah’s most private thoughts, intruding, unwanted … present nonetheless. The fruit of a bitterness came dangerously close to blasphemy. Indeed, if you are blessing me, O Lord, after these many years, why then does my Elisheva remain barren? And why is it, Lord, that you have called me to priesthood, blessed me with marriage to the daughter of a priest, to be honored in this way, a descendant of Aharon … yet despite our many prayers, you have denied us our greatest joy, the birth of a child?

Yes, Israel’s ancestors Aharon, Moshe. This ritual of incense harkened back through the ages to the very day Ha’Shem rendered the Torah unto Moshe, complete with strictures as to how the incense was to be made. Take spices and make a fragrant blend of incense … this is pure and sacred and holy to Ha’Shem … but beware, lest anyone make this incense to enjoy its fragrance without worshipping me, they shall be cut off from Israel …  

Zechariah’s gut quaked: in matters of holiness, Ha’Shem gave no quarter.

After collecting the bread, the sacrificial meat and fresh coals, the men entered the Chamber of Abtinas to measure the portion for the morning incense offering. For generations upon generations, the clan of Abtinas held the post of perfumers to the Temple, producing the annual consumption of thousands of shekels worth of incense. A great expense to the treasury, for certain. A provider great wealth for the Abtinas as well.

Each ingredient had a fragrance of its own, and there were many. Stacte, a gum resin, harvested from tragacanth that grew in Gilead across the Jordan, and smelled of vanilla. Frankincense, lavan, also a gum resin taken from the terebinth tree. From Persian caravans, the Abtinas’ purchased the fragrant yellow galbanum, yet a third gum resin yielded from Syrian fennel. Over the years, Abtinas added ingredients – myrrh from camphor bushes, oil of cassia, cinnamon bark, spikenard, saffron from the yellow crocus, Cyprian wine, and kipat ha-Yarden from cyclamen that grew along Jordan’s banks. One ingredient alone did not come from plants: onycha, refined from the snail collected at the shores of the Red Sea. And then there was the maaleh ashan, Abtinas’ secret that raised the smoke that carried Israel’s prayers to Ha’Shem.

Zechariah chuckled as the saying came to mind, how, on those days Abtinas compounded the incense, the fragrance was so pungent it caused the goats on Mount Machwar to sneeze.

The incense was ready. The three priests climbed the steps and as Zechariah entered the Temple, he felt the shame of his bitterness. Full with remorse, he whispered a prayer, “But you, O Ha’Shem, have provided us with all that we need. Let the light of your face shine upon us, O Ha’Shem. You have filled our hearts with greater joy than when the grain and new wine abound. Blessed are those you choose and bring near to live, to serve in your courts. You have filled us with the good things of your house. Forgive my complaints, for in your unfailing love, O Ha’Shem, do I place my trust. My heart rejoices in your salvation for Israel, that it would come out of Zion. May the Messiah, so long-awaited, come soon and deliver us from evil.

The air in the Holy Place was heavy and still, unsettling. The vast leather curtain separating the Holy Place from the Holy of Holies, loomed at the end of the chamber, safeguarding the sanctuary for Ha’Shem, should he deign to once again favor Israel with his presence.

Zechariah gave thought to how the High Priest visited the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur, the last Day of Atonement. What had Caiaphas seen, what had he felt? Did a vestige of the Ark of the Covenant linger? A glimmer of Ha’Shem’s presence?

The night’s candles guttered on the gold menorah. Shadows tripped and danced on the walls. Banias tended the candles, replacing them with fresh, then moved to clear the table of the bread and sacrificial meat of Presence. From a linen sack, he drew twelve new loaves; from another, he drew fresh meat, still glistening with blood.

At the altar of incense, Shobi carefully swept the remains of last evening’s coals, cleansed it, and laid fresh coals.

Their duties fulfilled, Banias and Shobi blessed Zechariah with nods and smiles. Facing the Holy of Holies, they backed out of the Holy Place with reverent bows, leaving Zechariah, the celebrant priest to his final duty.

Outside, the silver trumpets blared thrice. Silence blanketed the Temple. Zechariah pictured the priests of the mishmarot laying prostrate at the top of the Temple steps where they would remain so, waiting for Zechariah to conclude the offering. Then, when he emerged from the Temple, it would be his to lead Jerusalem in prayer.

As new wine fills a new wineskin, swells of joy filled Zechariah’s heart as he spread fresh incense over the coals. He stepped back to watch it kindle, savoring the fragrance as the cloud rose, rejoicing as it brought praise and prayers before Ha’Shem.

Adjusting his robe, lay before the altar to make his prayer. “Ha’Shem, I pray hear my voice, my call to you. May my prayer be set before you at this morning offering of incense. May the lifting of my hands be like the morning sacrifice. Set a guard over my mouth, O Ha’Shem, keep watch over the door of my lips. Let not my heart be drawn to what is evil, to eat of the bitter fruit of disappointment and sorrow. May a righteous man strike me, for this would be a kindness. Yes, let him rebuke me, for it will prove as oil upon my head. Let my prayers be ever against my own unrighteousness and that of others, for you have said how the wicked will be thrown down from the heights and they will learn that your words have been well spoken. Let me pass by the snares that have been laid for me in urighteousness, those traps of the wicked. Keep my eyes are fixed upon your holiness, O Ha’Shem, for in you alone will I take refuge. Ha’Shem, I pray that over Jerusalem, all Israel and all the Earth, your righteousness will reign. Preserve Elisheva and myself in steadfast faith. May we walk upright in your sight. Keep us ever mindful of your commands, that we may be blameless in our observances … may we be worthy of the Messiah, when he comes.”

In the dim light, Zechariah sensed … what? … movement?

Something changed.

Flames on the altar flickered. Did the air shimmer?

Zechariah closed his eyes. He gave his head a shake, looked again to see shadows dance across the walls. Ethereal light bloomed and blossomed throughout the room. wavering, dancing, dimming, brightening, rippling as if in a cloud.

He felt his innards seize. Has the fist of Goliath come upon me … am I to die here in the Temple? Has Ha’Shem come for me, even before I bid farewell to my ahuva, Elisheva?

In the changing light, a form emerged, then came with a new brightness that caused Zechariah to wonder if the sun itself had breached the Temple. Arms raised to guard his eyes, Zechariah thought, … so bright, so bright ay, how is it that I move with such effort… have I been turned to wood?

To the right of the altar of incense, the figure of a man appeared, half again Zechariah’s size. Garbed in white linen, white of hair, gold of eye, the man raised his arm and placed his hand upon Zechariah’s shoulder. How could this be, his hand rests with the lightness of a zephyr, the weight of a mountain? His voice comes to my ears with the rumble of thunder … majesty speaks to my heart in words I do not know.

“Be not afraid, Zechariah. I am Gabri’el. Know that I stand in the very presence of the Ha’Shem, who has sent me to speak to you. I come to give you good news.”

Zechariah’s heart slowed. His breath deepened, settled. Peace flowed in his arms, his legs, his body … his spirit.

“Zechariah, Ha’Shem has heard your prayers. Your wife Elisheva will bear you a son. You are to give him the name Yohanan. He will be a joy and a delight to you for he will be filled with the Holy Spirit from the very moment of his birth. Never shall he take wine or fermented drink. All Israel will rejoice because of his birth, for he will be great in the sight of Ha’Shem. In the spirit and power of the prophet Eliyahu, he will go before Ha’Shem to turn the hearts of the rebellious ones to the wisdom of the righteous. He will make ready his people of Israel. He will prepare them for the coming of the Messiah.”

Doubt caressed Zechariah’s thoughts. In haste, he blurted, “But how … how can I be sure of this? I … I will soon be an old man … my wife, Elisheva, she, too, is well along in years.”

Gabri’el’s eyes glittered, like ice. Scorn colored his voice. “Zechariah, my words will be fulfilled at their proper time. Because you have not believed, now you will be struck mute. You will be unable to speak until the day of Yohanan’s birth.”

Again, the air in the Holy Place shimmered. As quickly as he had come, the angel Gabri’el was gone.

Zechariah struggled to stand in the lambent air, and failed. His knees cracked on the marble floor.

The angel’s edict came as a blow of sadness and bewilderment. From his knees, his silent prayer was an entreaty. “O Ha’Shem, forgive my doubt, forgive my foolishness in the face of your blessing. Indeed, you have heard our prayers. Accept my humble thanks, Ha’Shem, for the blessing of this child whom we will call Yohanan. Together, Elisheva and I will rejoice in your grace, now and forevermore.”

Nothing changed. The angel was gone. Zechariah was mute.

Outside, the priests stirred, discomforted in their too-long prostration. “Zechariah? Why does he tarry? Why does he not come from the Holy Place that we might pray and worship?”

“Aye, we must get on with our worship, our prayers,” said Banias. “The people are assembled here, we have only to wait upon Zechariah to lead us.”

Shuham let his impatience be known, “What is keeping him? It is unlike Zechariah to be negligent in performing his duties.”

“Perhaps something has gone amiss,” said Jehozadak. “He could have fallen ill.”

“Or perhaps he has simply fallen,” added Babuk.

“A vision! There could have been a vision!” Banias’ voice was strident with hope.

Shobi looked toward the main portal. “Aha! Here, at last he comes! But look! Look! He staggers like a drunken man. What … ?”

Shobi and Banias rose to their knees. Jehozadak stood. His cry of alarm charged their blood. “Yirah! His face! Look upon his face!”

With small, careful steps, Zechariah came before his fellow priests. An aura of light lingered about his head and shoulders. His wry smile and the glimmer of joy from his eyes spoke with words he could not. Desperately, he gestured, wanting to tell them what had happened, all hope dashed by his silenced tongue. Frustration harbored in them all.

Shobi blurted, “An angel! He has seen an angel! Zechariah! Tell us! Have you seen an angel?”

Zechariah’s nod was an ardent, Yes!

Murmurs, gasps, whispers flew. The eyes of priests and worshipers alike grew wide in wonder, leapt from one to another. A divine revelation! Truly?

Here? Today? In Jerusalem’s Temple?

Could it be?

Jehozadak’s shout pierced the din. “Zechariah? A vision! Was it a vision? An angel?”

As if windborne, Zechariah’s hands flew upward. He pointed at Jehozadak, nodded again and again, yes, yes, an angel, yes!

“Can you not speak?”

A shake of the head gave the answer: No.

Jehozadak took the steps and with great care, placed his arm across Zechariah’s shoulder. With soft words, he said, “My friend, come, sit, take your rest. I shall lead the people in prayer and worship. Then we shall retire, you can tell us of your revelation. We will find a way.”

Gratitude was a welcome relief. Once again, Zechariah’s knees buckled. Quickly, Shobi and Shuham took his arms, helped him to sit while Jehozadak spoke the morning prayers.

Soon, prayers had been offered, worship made complete, people returned to their homes as Abijah’s priests returned to the Chamber of Polished Stones. Zechariah was given a stool, cushions for his feet, a cup of water. The priests gathered ‘round. Shobi found a stylus and a tablet, placed it in Zechariah’s hands. “Write, tell us of what you have witnessed! What has the angel said?”

With shaking hands, Zechariah inscribed the words Gabri’el had spoken. Shobi, peering over his shoulder, read aloud as he wrote.

The priests looked at one another, puzzled. A child? A son? How can this be? Zechariah and Elisheva … at their age?

Zechariah gestured, signaling his weariness. On the tablet, he noted his need to return to his home, to his wife. I must bring Elisheva the news.

“Come, Zechariah,” said Shobi, “I shall walk with you to the city gate.”

“I, too, shall come,” said Banias.

The Temple, now blessed in the golden light of the waning sun overshadowed them as they walked, heads bowed, across the empty courtyard. Soon, Jerusalem’s gates would close.

Evening’s gold faded to grey. The first evening star appeared in the sky. To the east, the shadow of Moriah’s steep slope deepened over the Kidron Valley. Jerusalem made ready for day’s end.

At the Essene Gate, the men stopped. Shobi said, “Be well, Zechariah. Hold the faith. We shall keep you and Elisheva in our prayers.”

Zechariah nodded his thanks, staving off a weariness that threatened to collapse him into a heap of skin and bones. With a halfhearted wave to his friends, he began his walk to Ein Kerem.

It was full dark when he neared their house. His emotions were a tempest of disarray. How am I to explain to Elisheva all that has happened? Will she believe how Ha’Shem has ordained that she shall at long last bear a child? And at her age? Gabri’el said we will have a son.

            God’s will be done.

Desperately, he wanted to run toward their home and shout, “Elisheva, my dearest one, an angel of Ha’Shem came to me in the Temple! A great honor has come to us! We are to know the blessing of a child! A son! He will be holy and righteous, great in the sight of Ha’Shem! He will go forth in the spirit and power of Eliyahu, he will turn the hearts of Israel to the Ha’Shem!

Zechariah pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. It felt as if it belonged to someone else. His throat felt stiff, like uncured leather. His lips were numb, as if he had eaten gall. Words he was desperate to say would not come; his only utterance was that of croaks and grunts. His spirit spun with stars of bewilderment.

At his doorstep, he covered his face with his hands, and wept.

Elisheva came to the door. “Ahuva, what it is? Why do you weep?”

Zechariah did not know if his tears were of joy or sorrow.

 

Zechariah © copyright 2022 Peter K. Schipper