I am Zechariah . . . named after men great and small . . . men who were wise, believing they knew all and more than all, who knew nothing . . . nothing at all . . . and I am surely one with them . . .
Zechariah, I named you for so many who came before – priests and prophets, wise and foolish, godly all.
Your only job was to listen . . . and believe. It was too much, I suppose, to expect . . . that a namesake of the bringer of oracles of doom and redemption might remember the ancestral call . . . might heed an angel’s voice in the night . . . might recall the wisdom of listening . . .
For you, Zechariah, believe you were born to argue . . . debate . . . hone the finer points.
You thought it was all about you.
Oh, son, you matter, but yours is the place of setting the stage for those who come after. It is a fine job. Worthy of a Zechariah. But you would not listen, could not hear.
You have forgotten even as I have remembered. And even your own name could not call you back.
So how about this? How about you just be quiet. No talking. I, your God, am putting you in the corner for a time-out.
Feet-guiding Lord of All, in Your most tender of mercies does Your dawn break the hold of darkness upon us. . . thanks our only worthy reply . . . a son You have given me . . . thanks my only worthy reply . . . peace the destination You have shown us . . . thanks our only worthy reply.
Now, Zechariah, now thou dost see. Now thou dost hear. Now thou dost understand. Now at the last dost thou stand alongside me.
Thus it has been . . . thus it shall ever be.