The Sunrise That Dawned

“Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has visited and redeemed his people and has raised up a horn of salvation for us in the house of his servant David, as he spoke by the mouth of his holy prophets from of old, that we should be saved from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us; to show the mercy promised to our fathers and to remember his holy covenant, the oath that he swore to our father Abraham, to grant us that we, being delivered from the hand of our enemies, might serve him without fear, in holiness and righteousness before him all our days. And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, to give knowledge of salvation to his people in the forgiveness of their sins, because of the tender mercy of our God, whereby the sunrise shall visit us from on high to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace” (Luke 1:68–79).

There's a particular silence that comes from doubt, and Zechariah knew it well. He was a priest who had spent his whole life inside the rhythms of worship. When an angel stood beside him and promised him a son, he hesitated and asked for proof. How can I be sure? For that hesitation he was made mute, and he carried the quiet for nine long months, a whole pregnancy that passed without a word from him. There is a mercy hidden in that silence, though it took me years to hear it.

When his voice finally returned, he opened his mouth and sang. He reached for the tenderest image he could find, and said that it was "because of the tender mercy of our God, [that] the dawn from on high will visit us" (Luke 1:78). The sunrise is something that dawns on its own. It doesn't need our permission, and it doesn't require our help. But if you've ever sat on the beach in the dark hourse of the ear

What moves me about that line is its direction. Zechariah says the light visits us. It comes down towards people who are sitting in the dark valleys of the shadow of death, and it does the thing the dark could never manage for itself. It brings the and end to the night. We often imagine that closeness to God is a long climb we strive towards, and treat our relationship with Him like a crucible that deems us worthy when we reach the top. But the Gospel tells us how Jesus actually came, and it says that God came down in the flesh, was born to the virgin Mary in a guest room in an ordinary town during a mandated tax registration, and He settled in among people who had grown used to the dark, close enough to sit beside us and stay. Picture that! We serve a God who came into the valley of the shadow of death to lead you into green pastures.

If you've been sitting in your own long silence, in a grief that won't lift or a prayer that seems to be left unanswered, then this is for you. You don't have to manufacture the dawn. No one has ever argued the sun into rising. You just wait for it, and you keep your eyes toward the horizon because you know it's going to rise. That sun rise is our hope, and it is sure to come and cast away the darkness.

Zechariah's story tells us that even our doubt can be folded into a larger mercy, and that the God who quieted him for a season was already arranging a sunrise behind the hills. The night is long, and morning is coming behind it. Our Savior is on His way. He is coming down like the dawn to meet everyone still waiting for the light. Solus Christus, Pastor Michael