“Too Good to be True”

First Sunday in Advent

November 26, 2023

Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19

Luke 1:1-23

Children’s Message:

Have you ever read or seen Alice in Wonderland? There’s a point where Alice says she can’t believe something because it’s impossible. And the queen says that it’s her practice to believe up to six impossible things before breakfast. What are some impossible things?

It is impossible for there to be more than 24 hours in a day. It is impossible to lick your own elbow. It is impossible to fit an elephant in a car. It is impossible to travel though time.

But do you know what? Sometimes impossible things… are possible. Sometimes impossible things happen. Take the bumblebee. A bumblebee is big and heavy compared to most flying insects. Yet a bumblebee has very small wings. In fact, scientists say that it should be impossible for a bumblebee to fly -- its wings are too small to carry that much weight. But every day, bumblebees buzz through gardens and forests, drinking from flowers and enjoying the sunshine. Bumblebees don't know that they are impossible!

God does impossible things every day. We do some pretty impossible things, ourselves—like forgiveness, like love, like trust. Those things don’t really make any sense to reasonable people—they seem impossible. But God shows us how. One of God’s impossible things was Jesus’ birth. Another was Jesus’ resurrection. God makes the impossible possible.

Dear God, thank you for making my life possible. Help me show your impossible love to everyone I meet. Amen.

Message:

It’s too good to be true. Turn in this postcard with your contact information on it, and you could win a million dollars! Invest in this high-return, low-risk company, and you’ll be rich for life. Your prayers from decades ago have been answered, and you’re elderly wife is going to give birth to a son.

Yeah, right. Zechariah’s response is completely normal. “Tell me why I should believe you.” He’s skeptical—and rightfully so. It’s impossible. It’s unreasonable. It’s ridiculous. And yet…he’s a priest in service to the Most High God. The God who brought upon Egypt plagues and rescued the Hebrews from slavery to Pharaoh. The God who redeemed the people of Israel and gave them the Land of Milk and Honey—the Promised Land. Zechariah is in the Holy of Holies, offering sacrifices and prayers on behalf of his people. To God.

Maybe he should know better. Especially when confronted by an angel—a messenger sent by God. Isn’t this what his business is about? Finally, God has answered. God has answered two prayers—Zechariah’s prayer for a son, a prayer long abandoned; and Israel’s prayer for a savior, the Messiah, a prayer still fresh on their lips.

And Zechariah’s response? “How can I know you’re telling me the truth? This sounds too good to be true.” I appreciate this response. It sounds much more realistic than Mary’s response to Gabriel when he tells her she’s going to have a baby—as a virgin. And her response? “How’d you do that?” Maybe she just hasn’t lived long enough to be disappointed the way Zechariah has.

He’s grown old hoping for a Messiah—and hoping for his own child. Not having the ability to bear children was seen as a punishment from God. That had to grate on this man whose very job was to serve God. What did he do wrong? How can people still trust him to lift up their prayers and sacrifices on their behalf if God refused to listen to his own personal prayers? I wouldn’t blame him for becoming hard and cynical; weary and wary. “How do I know what you say is true?” He’s been around the block a few times, and he knows a scheme when he hears it.

In her book, The Atlas of the Heart, Brene Brown defines disappointment as “unmet expectations. The more significant the expectations, the more significant the disappointment.” Zechariah has lived with disappointment all his life—at least in the areas addressed in these verses. His cynicism is legitimate. It’s one of the coping mechanisms we use to temper our disappointment. We lower our expectations, get critical, and become wary of good news.

Good news, such as joy, can be a two-edged sword—especially for those who have experienced one disappointment after another. Brown calls it ‘foreboding joy’—the kind of joy that hides behind the fear that the other shoe will drop soon. Joy, she suggests, is the most vulnerable human emotion. It requires a wild abandoning of our skepticism and criticism. It seems to exist only beyond reason. Joy brings us face to face with the divine. But it’s also fleeting. It’s a temporary experience that sneaks up on us when we aren’t prepared. It’s beyond expectation. It’s beyond our control or our ability to make it happen. It’s beyond our ability to keep or maintain.

It’s not the same as happiness—which seems to be connected to our current situation. Joy can happen anywhere, to anyone, at any time. And Zechariah is too experienced to let joy in—yet. And so, rather than allowing him to spread his discontent and disbelief, Gabriel silences him for the duration of the pregnancy. He wants proof? He’ll have to wait for proof.

It isn’t difficult to identify our elements of weariness—and wariness—in the world. Wars in Palestine and Ukraine. Violence in Sudan. Immigrants and refugees seeking a safe place to land, waiting at borders across the world, dying in sealed trucks, drowning in choppy waters. Political unrest throughout the country—promises and lies growing larger by the day, distribution of misinformation, spun stories, and words shot like arrows into the hearts of the vulnerable. Chronic illness, homelessness, violence on the rise. Help wanted ads without response. Overworked, underpaid, undervalued employees.

I’m not surprised that being open to joy feels like being sucked into some scheme that makes promises that are too good to be true. We’ve learned the hard way to ask questions. Scammers are finding new and imaginative ways to get into our lives and our bank accounts. Beware.

What would happen, though, if God did to us what God did to Zechariah? Social media down for 9 months. All of humanity struck mute. The only form of communication through eyes, touch, a meal shared quietly—no talk of politics or religion. No vitriolic rhetoric, no spin, no backhanded compliments meant to wound. If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all—taken to a whole new level.

Would the world find enough silence to get out of our heads for once and look around? To let our eyes and hands and mouths experience a new sense of joy—of hope—of peace? If attack orders could not be made, would we be forced to care for the wounded instead?

We have, as a people, stopped believing in the God who has something to say. We have stopped believing in good news—the Word that God speaks to us. We have become so loud with our complaints and curses, our arguments and discourses, that we no longer hear the Word of hope. And if we do hear it, we can’t believe it. It sounds too good to be true. We’ve trained ourselves to plan for the worst, to expect the worst, to get ahead of the worst with our own worse response.

It’s time, now, to find our silence. To listen. This is the beginning of rejoicing—to stop giving power to the ugliness and disbelief inside and simply let the possibility of joy wash over us. God does promise unbelievable things—unimaginable things—things that invite us into deep vulnerability and trust. God promises that all is not lost. God promises that there is still time for new life. God promises that hope is being born—every second, right into our wounded and weary hearts. Can you hear it? Shhh…listen.

Pastor Tobi White

Our Saviour’s Lutheran

Lincoln, NE