The Sanctuary

The Sanctuary Sermon for 11/16/25

“Benedictus” Luke 1:68-70, 76-79

I want to share with you what that word, “Benedictus” means this morning. On a blogspot that I visit, the author wrote last week: “Today, I am getting out of my head and into my heart. Why? Because my heart feels full. I feel grateful. I feel hopeful. I feel blessed.”

She’s not the only one. When Carrie Underwood wanted to release the song “Jesus, Take the Wheel,” (here’s a picture of Jesus next to a few of the wheels he’s taken) her friends and colleagues cautioned her about the dangers of releasing a religious song. Her career could suffer, they hinted. Underwood was completely surprised. “I grew up in Oklahoma. I always had a close relationship with God. I never thought it was risky in the least. If anything, I thought it was the safest thing I could do. I’ve been blessed.” Of course, she’s right.

The late Whitney Houston was gifted with a voice that was rich, powerful and emotive. She was a singer with a wide range and incredible vocal control. She could belt out a tune and hold a high note forever. She said, “I feel so blessed to just have done what I had done. To be able to just use what God has given me is a blessing.”

It is a wonderful thing to feel blessed. Not just lucky or fortunate. Blessed. It is a deep sense that your life, with all of its imperfections, is somehow caught up in grace. That you’re not just existing — you’re living with purpose, held by something greater than yourself. Just to remind you, next Sunday, you’ll have the opportunity to share with us how you’ve been thankfully blessed this year.

The happiest people in the world aren’t necessarily the wealthiest or most powerful. Blessedness seems to track with other things — a sense of trust in others, purposeful work, strong community and a feeling of meaning in life.

Happiness is subjective. It’s possible to be “happy” without being joyful — and joyful without being particularly comfortable. But here’s the thing. All of us — rich or poor, healthy or struggling — want to know that our lives matter. We want to live in a way that we can say truthfully and meaningfully: “I am blessed.”

But what does it mean to be blessed? It is no news to any of us that we live in a divided and polarized society. Consensus is rare. Suspicion is high. Trust in leaders — political or otherwise — is a tossup. And unlike generations before us, we often seem less willing to rally around a shared cause, common hope or guiding vision.

If we think our age is uniquely uncertain, Scripture gently reminds us that we’ve been here before.

Our text from the NLT,

68 “Blessed be the Lord, God of Israel, because he has visited and redeemed his people.
He has sent us a mighty Savior from the royal line of his servant David, just as he promised through his holy prophets long ago.

76 “And you, my little son, will be called the prophet of the Most High, because you will prepare the way for the Lord. You will tell his people how to find salvation through forgiveness of their sins. Because of God’s tender mercy, the morning light from heaven is about to break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to guide us to the path of peace.”

Zechariah speaks into a world not so different from ours — nations against nations, religious disillusionment and generational fatigue. The Roman Empire loomed large, and the people of Israel longed for deliverance. Prophets had been silent for centuries. Hopes had dimmed. God, it seemed, had gone quiet.

And so had Zechariah.

Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, had been struck mute — silenced by unbelief and astonishment when he questioned the angel Gabriel’s promise of a son. For months, he lived in enforced quiet, watching from the margins as the miracle unfolded around him. The man was literally dumbfounded. He said nothing.

But when John is born and Zechariah confirms the child’s name — “His name is John” — the silence breaks. And what pours out is not bitterness or regret. He doesn’t say, “I’m glad that’s over,” or “Let me tell you what I’ve been through.” The first word from his mouth is a blessing: “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has visited and redeemed them.” This is not just the joy of a proud new father. This is a man singing in the morning after a long, dark night.

In the Latin tradition, this proclamation of John is called the “Benedictus,” meaning “blessed.” And it’s more than a lullaby. It is a prophetic hymn, rooted in God’s faithfulness straining toward a future not yet fully seen. “Because of God’s tender mercy, the morning light from heaven is about to break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death …”

Zechariah’s experience often mirrors our own. We have all faced adversity at some point and wondered how the mess we’re in is going to play out. Crises have a way of shutting us up. Of closing our mouths, and drawing us suddenly into an interior life. We may stop talking to our spouse, parents or loved ones. We’re thinking and wondering, afraid of the possible outcomes. And if we are people of faith, dare we say it? We wonder where the heck God is.

The truth is found in Zechariah’s song. It is the heartbeat of this passage, the truth that after silence comes a song; after darkness comes a light; and after waiting comes the dawn.

It’s doubtful that Zechariah thought he would speak again. For all he knew, he would be voiceless for the rest of his life. It’s the way we feel when we come down with the flu or some other affliction. Like me with my back. “Will this never end?” We pray, we cry, and we wring our hands.

It must have been quite a surprise when Zechariah first saw the glow of sunrise spilling across his personal horizon. He knows that God is doing what God always does — bringing light to those who sit in shadows. Perhaps, he recalled the words of the psalmist: “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”

And when it comes — as surely it will — it doesn’t just chase away the darkness. It gives direction, guiding our feet, one step at a time, into the way of peace.

The priest Zechariah turns prophet as if lighting a candle in the dark and prophesies how his son will change the political and spiritual landscape in a time of Roman oppression and spiritual darkness. He prophesies that his son John — calling him the “prophet of the Most High” — will go before the Lord to prepare the way. He foretells that he will “tell his people how to find salvation,” call people to repentance, and “give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide us to the path of peace.”

Zechariah foresaw many things. He knew that his son would not be a court prophet or flatter Caesar. He understood that his boy would prepare the way for another kind of king — one whose power flows from humility, and whose kingdom is not of this world. But he could not have foreseen that his son would become a wandering ascetic wearing animal skins who joins up with radical Essenes living in the wadis west of the Dead Sea. He couldn’t have predicted that John would come to regard the Jerusalem establishment as hopelessly corrupt and preach against it, which would ultimately cost him his head.

But here’s the key: Zechariah doesn’t just bless his son. He names the role we all share. In a time of fragmentation, we, too, are called to be forerunners of Christ — preparing the way, bearing the light and guiding others into the way of peace.

This doesn’t mean that we are all called to be prophets in the biblical or vocational sense. We’re certainly not about to start modeling “Camel Hair Chic” and exist on a Paleo diet of grasshoppers and wild honey as John the Baptist did.

You might say, “Well, I’m no John the Baptist. I don’t eat locusts. I don’t have a camel-hair robe hanging in my closet. I’m not a prophet.”

And you’d be right — well, mostly.

Not all of us are called to stand on the street corner shouting, “Prepare the way of the Lord.” But every one of us —every pew-sitter, every coffee-pourer, baked good bringer, every parent, grandparent and teenager — is called to live in a way that makes Jesus visible. That’s what it means to prepare the way. And here’s how we do it:

By practicing mercy. Zechariah says God is acting out of “the tender mercy of our God.” When we forgive, serve quietly and withhold harsh words, we are choosing mercy. N.T. Wright said that, “The art of being gentle — of kindness and forgiveness, sensitivity and thoughtfulness and generosity and humility have gone out of fashion.” These days, everyone is demanding their rights and protesting to the point of fatigue. Consider mercy to be a prophetic protest against rudeness and impatience. And speaking of feeling blessed, Jesus said, “Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.”

By speaking hope into despair. John came to speak of salvation and forgiveness. We don’t have to preach from pulpits to speak hope. We do it when we encourage someone who is discouraged, remind someone of God’s faithfulness, or simply stand beside someone in their grief and say, “God is with you.” Consider your words to be a prophetic protest against callousness and indifference.

By living peaceably with others. In his letter to the Christians in Rome, the apostle Paul wrote: “If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.” He’s writing to people living in the capital of a hostile empire. Don’t pick any fights. Mind your own business. Be a good neighbor. Zechariah concludes his prophecy by saying the light of God will “guide us into the way of peace.” Consider your peaceful demeanor to be a prophetic protest against those who attempt to keep the pot boiling. We prepare the way when we refuse to stoke division, when we live generously rather than greedily, and when we choose reconciliation over revenge. Peace is not passive. It’s just a way of walking.

Consider your honest faith a prophetic protest against the arrogance of those who know it all, need to be right and spread lies and misinformation to feed the frenzy. “I don’t have it all figured out … but I still believe.” This kind of faith opens doors for others.

You don’t have to be famous, loud or flawless. You just have to be faithful.

In a few weeks, we will observe Advent and prepare for the coming of Christ. It is a story that begins in a cradle in Bethlehem, continues to a cross at Golgotha, and culminates with a crown in heavenly glory. He is the Messiah, the Prince of Peace. The King of kings, and Lord of lords.

But remember what kind of king we follow.

Not one who takes power, but who lays it down.

Not one who demands loyalty, but who offers love.

Not one who punishes sinners, but who dies for and receives us all.

Our King’s crown is made of thorns. His throne is a cross. His reign is mercy. And his call — to Zechariah, to John and each of us — is this: Be forerunners. Give light. Guide others into the Way, that they would find peace. Zechariah saw that he, like his son John, was now qualified, as are we, “to shine upon those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide into the way of peace.”

This is our vocation. We might call it the “benedictine” way. This is the way of the blessed. In a fractured world, our calling is not to win arguments, but to speak blessings. Not to curse the darkness, but to kindle the dawn. Not to demand allegiance, but to prepare the way — with mercy, forgiveness and a fierce, gentle hope.

Zechariah’s first word was “Blessed.” Maybe ours should be, too.

This is the Word of the Lord for the day.

Amen.