December 7, 2025 Reflection

There’s a reason I love the story of Zechariah. It’s wonderfully human. It’s holy, yes, but it’s also just… us. Ordinary people living ordinary days, doing our work, tending our families, shuffling through our routines, hoping God might show up – and half-convinced we won’t recognize God even if God did.

And then suddenly God does show up, and we respond exactly like Zechariah: “Wait… what? Are you sure? Have you checked the file twice? I think you might be looking for someone else.” It’s comforting, really.

But to understand why Zechariah’s story matters, we have to remember the moment he was born into – the spiritual dryness of an entire people. The last prophetic voice they had heard was Malachi, promising a messenger who would go before the Messiah. Malachi spoke of a day when evil would be burned away like stubble, and when those who walked in God’s ways would see “the sun of righteousness” rise with healing in its wings and would go out “leaping like calves from the stall.”

And then… silence. Four hundred years of silence. The kind of silence that settles into bones. The kind that stretches across generations. The kind that tempts people to think: maybe God has forgotten us.

When we sing “What Child Is This?” this is the world into which Jesus was born – a world full of longing and silence, where people wondered if God had lost their address.

And into that emptiness rises a new king – Herod. Herod the Great: brilliant, ruthless, paranoid, dangerous. The kind of leader whose personal motto could have been, “If you think someone might be plotting against you, eliminate them before breakfast.” He rebuilt the Temple. He built palaces and cities and even experimented with new and innovative forms of concrete for construction. But he also murdered his wife and two sons, sent spies into the streets, and – when he heard rumours about a new king – ordered the slaughter of infants.

Into this volatile, fearful world, God began – quietly – to move again. And the first ripple was not in Jerusalem’s palace, not among the powerful, not in the halls of scholars. It began with a small-town priest from a small-town synagogue named Zechariah.

Zechariah, whose name means God remembers.
Zechariah, one among eighteen thousand priests – ordinary, unnoticed, faithful.
Zechariah, who had lived his entire life doing what is right, doing what is expected, doing what is his calling… and who had no child, no one to carry his name, no one to care for him and Elizabeth in their old age.

No miracles. No big moments. No breakthroughs.
Just faithfulness. Just steady devotion. Just showing up in his little synagogue week after week after week.

This already puts Zechariah in the same space many of us inhabit. Some of us know what it is to serve quietly, love faithfully, work diligently, and have no dramatic story to post on social media about it. Some of us know what it is to hope for something – healing, reconciliation, clarity, purpose – and wait so long that hope itself begins to feel like an antique.

And into that ordinariness, God chooses to speak.

Each priestly clan served in the Temple for two weeks a year, and during those weeks one priest – chosen by casting lots – would enter the Holy of Holies to offer incense. This was the moment of a lifetime. Once chosen, you never got another chance.

Year after year Zechariah travelled to Jerusalem. Year after year he served faithfully. Year after year he was passed over.

Some of you know something about that kind of waiting – the kind where you show up, do what is yours to do, pray the prayers, care for others, and wonder if God remembers you at all.

And then, when Zechariah perhaps least expects it, his name is called.

Inside the Holy of Holies he gently places incense on the coals. Maybe he whispers a personal prayer. Maybe he prays for the child he and Elizabeth never had. Maybe he prays for his people. Whatever he says – or doesn’t say – is between him and God.

And then suddenly an angel is standing beside him. Every angel in Scripture starts with the same line: “Do not be afraid.” Which tells you something about angels – they clearly do not resemble the gentle Precious Moments figurines on Christmas mantles. Zechariah is overwhelmed with fear.

The angel says, “Your prayer has been heard. You and Elizabeth will have a child. Name him John – God is gracious.”
God remembers. God is gracious. Even after four hundred years of silence.

And Zechariah says what any rational human being in his situation would say: “Um… how can this be? Because… well… we’re old.”

There is a tenderness in God’s response, even if it’s wrapped in some irony. Gabriel tells him he will be unable to speak until the child is born – not necessarily as punishment but as consequence. As if to say, “You asked for certainty. Well, now you’ll wait in silence – a silence that will teach you who I am.”

Sometimes the presence of God is too much for words. Sometimes wonder renders us speechless. Sometimes disbelief closes the mouth before the heart catches up.

So Zechariah emerges from the most important moment of his life unable to say a single word. His biggest moment – and he’s mute. I imagine him trying to mime an angel encounter to the gathered crowd. Some stories are simply not meant for charades.

But maybe the silence is exactly what he needed. Maybe it’s what we need too.

Silence makes room for wonder. Silence heightens our awareness. Silence lets truth ripen within us. Sometimes God’s whispers are too soft to hear above our own talking.

And we know something about noise, don’t we?
We live in a world where silence is almost extinct. Our phones buzz with alerts. Our calendars buzz with commitments. Even our worries buzz – and sometimes louder than everything else. In a world of constant noise, a moment of silence can feel like either a gift… or a threat.

Yet Advent asks us to practice listening – to the quiet, to one another, to God, and to the deep places within ourselves where longing lives.

During Zechariah’s silence, Elizabeth becomes pregnant. The stigma she carried for decades lifts. Her neighbours – who likely avoided eye contact with her for years – suddenly become very friendly. Everyone wants to be close to a miracle.

When Mary arrives, young and unsure and carrying a message from God that feels too big to hold, Elizabeth is the one who gives her courage. The prophet-child within her leaps and nudges her to speak, but it is the Spirit who guides her words. Zechariah is silent. Elizabeth is filled with holy speech. Sometimes that is how God works in families – one speaks when another cannot.

When the baby is born, there is chatter among neighbours: “Call him Zechariah!” But Elizabeth says, “His name is John.” The whole village gasps – women did not name children. They turn to Zechariah, who still cannot speak. He writes, “His name is John.” Immediately his voice returns.

What follows is a flood – words pent up for nine months, shaped by silence, polished by prayer. He sings the Benedictus, praising God for faithfulness and declaring that his newborn son will prepare the way.

Advent is a season of holy waiting, but it is also a season of holy disruption.
God interrupts Zechariah’s long silence with a promise.
And God interrupts it again with fulfilment.

So what do we do with this story – humorous, holy, human as it is?

What rises first is how deeply God delights in ordinary people. The world looks toward Herod – toward influence, spectacle and fancy palaces. But God keeps showing up in quiet corners, in steady lives, in “nothing special happening here” places. God comes to Zechariah and Elizabeth – people the world barely notices.

The good news is that God does not need us to be remarkable before God begins to work. God starts in regular kitchens and dusty prayer corners and ordinary hearts.

And woven through all of this is the reminder that God remembers – always.

God remembers the promises whispered generations ago.
God remembers the prayers Elizabeth cried into her pillow.
God remembers the ache of a people who felt abandoned.
God remembers us – even when we are convinced God has lost our forwarding address.

Silence does not mean forgetfulness; sometimes it is simply the long inhale before God begins to move.

That silence – the nine months of it – teaches us something too. It is not empty. It is not wasted. It is not divine punishment. It is formation – the deep, slow work that happens when God finally gets a word in edgewise.

Some of us know that kind of silence: the pause before clarity arrives, the waiting before the next step becomes visible, the stretch of time in which we are being shaped even if we do not feel productive. Silence can be holy compost: quiet, hidden, and absolutely transformative.

And then there is trust – the part of faith most of us would prefer to skip. Zechariah wanted certainty. Mary wanted understanding. Most of us want a detailed PDF from God with timelines and bullet points and maybe a flow chart. But faith rarely comes with guarantees. God gives enough light for the next tiny step – a gift that feels frustrating until you realize that anything more might overwhelm us.

Finally, there comes a moment when the silence breaks and we choose how to use our restored voice. Zechariah could have launched into complaints – “Do you know how difficult it has been to communicate in gestures for nine months?” But he doesn’t. He blesses. He names grace. He speaks hope over his child and the world.

And we, like Zechariah, live in a world aching for hope – where truth is often whispered, where justice sometimes feels delayed, where compassion gets drowned out by noise and urgency. And we, like Elizabeth, are called to speak encouragement into the lives of those who carry fragile hope into the world.

When we finally speak – after waiting, listening, being shaped – our words can become instruments of healing rather than harm.

So maybe the question for us is this: when is our silence wise, and when does it cost too much? There are moments when quiet is reverent, reflective, needed. And there are moments when quiet becomes a way of avoiding truth, avoiding justice, avoiding courage. There are times in our families, our church, our country when the Spirit nudges us, much like Elizabeth was nudged, to say: this must be spoken. And there are other times when the Spirit nudges us to hush, to listen, to let another voice rise.

Zechariah’s story calls us to both kinds of faithfulness – the holiness of silence and the holiness of speech.

In the end, Zechariah’s voice returns at the exact moment God wants it to – when the promise is in his arms, when grace has a name, when God’s faithfulness is undeniable. And when he speaks, he does not whisper. He proclaims. He testifies. He blesses.

Because God remembers.
God remembers the promises made to our ancestors.
God remembers the longing of our hearts today.
God remembers the places where we feel barren or forgotten or too old for hope.
God remembers the prayers we stopped praying.
God remembers the world’s deep need for healing.

And God invites us – like Zechariah – to step into the story with trust, humility, attentiveness, and a readiness to speak words that bring life.

May it be so.
Amen.

Jesus describes this kind of peace in the Beatitudes.
He gathers the crowd on a hillside, no microphones, no PowerPoint slides… and begins to teach:

Blessed are the poor in spirit…
Blessed are those who mourn…
Blessed are the meek…
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness…
Blessed are the peacemakers…

To the crowd, this must have sounded upside down from what they were used to. You can imagine people whispering, “Meek? Blessed? Has he MET the Romans?”
Yet Jesus turns things around: blessedness belongs not to the powerful, but to those who live toward God’s vision of justice, mercy, compassion, and peace. And Jesus calls us not to the easy path, but to the transformative path, the path of peace.

Peace is not simply a value we admire, not just a dream we keep in our hearts, but a practice we embody as followers of Christ, a calling we live.

Remembrance Sunday has become much more meaningful to me in these last few years since becoming a chaplain in the Canadian Armed Forces.  And through my short time serving in this way, I have experienced firsthand how acts of peace ripple across generations, sometimes in surprising and deeply humbling ways.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”

We could spend weeks just on this one line. Jesus doesn’t say “blessed are the peaceful” – those who keep quiet and don’t make any waves.
Jesus doesn’t say, “Blessed are the peace-lovers” or “Blessed are the conflict-averse.” (If he did, a lot more of us would qualify immediately.)

No… peacemakers. Peacemaking requires movement, courage, and compassion. It calls us into the struggle, not away from it.

Some of the most striking images of peacemaking I have ever seen are not just written in history books. They are inscribed into the landscape of Italy and the Netherlands, where children who never knew the soldiers who died liberating their villages still tend Canadian graves. Where Dutch families bring flowers to gravestones bearing Canadian names. Where cities raise memorials to young Canadians who never came home but offered everything so that others might live. They remember. And because they remember, they honour.

This is peace. Not just the end of war, but a love that crosses oceans, cultures, and generations.
A peace that remembers. A peace that honours. A peace that teaches.

When I visited Italy a few years ago with my unit, the Seaforth Highlanders for a battlefield tour, I led ceremonies in the cemeteries and we took time to walk among the graves where Canadian soldiers are buried: young men who left their homes and families, crossed the ocean, into landscapes they had only ever imagined and fought to liberate a country they had never seen before.

What struck me most wasn’t only the cemeteries themselves, long rows of identical stone markers, each with a maple leaf…but the people who care for them. Many of them were only children during the war, or their parents were. Their reverence is astonishing.

And the children – Italian schoolchildren – who tend the graves.
They know the names of Canadians who died decades before their parents were born.
They clean the markers, bring flowers, leave hand-written notes and paper hearts, they leave laminated biographies of these soldiers on their graves so others can know them too.

One little girl I met told me, proudly, about “her” soldier.  She adopted his grave.
She said, “He came here to help us, and he did not go home, so we take care of him here.”
It was so heartwarming.  These Italian children knew more about Canadian soldiers than I did. They could tell stories of battles, of liberation, of the joy of seeing Canadians arrive. They spoke of the soldiers as though they were still neighbours, still family. And in a way, they are.

The children’s devotion is a beautiful expression of peace, of love, memory, and gratitude carried across generations. This is peacemaking: Not just ending war, but tending the wounds left behind.

And, very important, it’s done without being asked. No one forced them. It is gratitude lived out.

As I stood among those graves, I thought of Jesus’ words: “Blessed are the peacemakers.” These soldiers did not go to sow destruction. They went to set people free. The peace they fought for gave children, children who were strangers to them, the gift of life. And those children – now grown, with children and grandchildren of their own – continue to honour that gift.

Peacemaking leaves a legacy. A legacy of relationship. A legacy of love.

In Belgium, I visited the Menin Gate in Ypres, another place where memory becomes peacemaking.
The Menin Gate is a massive memorial archway, inscribed with more than 54,000 names of soldiers from the First World War who have no known grave. It is staggering to stand before it, name after name, row after row – and to think, “These were sons and brothers; they had dreams and loves and families.”

The memorial isn’t just a stone structure. Every night at 8:00 p.m. since 1928, aside from a pause during WWII, people gather for the Last Post Ceremony, honouring those who never came home.
Think about that: every night. Rain or shine. No elaborate stage, just people, sometimes hundreds at a time, remembering.

While we were there, I searched for the name of the uncle of Jan and Bonnie from our congregation. Over 50,000 names, but I found him!  I had the clue of the name of the unit he belonged to, and I knew which section of the structure the Canadians’ names were in.  So there was his name, carved in stone, preserved for generations.
Standing there, running my fingers over his name, it felt as though time collapsed. He was not forgotten. He was remembered, in a place far from home, where people still honour strangers as family.

That’s when you realize: Peacemaking’s legacy continues long after the wars end.

The Netherlands carries this same reverence. When I travelled there with the Seaforth Highlanders this spring for the 80th anniversary of liberation, I’ve never seen anything like the welcome we received.  We were not just visitors, we were embraced as friends, as family.

People lined the streets waving Canadian flags. They wore red and white. They applauded and cheered. Families brought their children up to shake our hands. Some of them said “Thank you” with tears streaming down their faces.

I wasn’t even alive in 1945, my parents barely were! And yet they thanked me like I had personally liberated their grandmother’s village. One elderly man took my hand and said, “Canada saved us. We will never forget.” Then his great grandson, no more than six years old, said, “Yes! Never forget!”

And if a six-year-old has that level of commitment, there is hope for the future.

Their gratitude is active. Children learn the stories. Schools teach the history. Communities tell the tales of liberation.

They also do something powerful: They hold Remembrance Day, on May 4, a day of mourning and remembering.  Then the very next day on May 5 is Liberation Day, a day of joy, parades, celebration.

Joy and mourning. Celebration and reverence. Held side by side. Like the Beatitudes themselves.

In a Dutch town called Achtveld, three Seaforth soldiers died defending families from Nazi forces. Their actions saved countless civilians, but they did not all make it home.

The people of Achtveld have never forgotten. In the town square stands a memorial statue honouring the Seaforth soldiers. Every year, the townspeople gather to remember. Children grow up knowing their names, just as Italian children do.

It is more than history; it is relationship. This remembrance is a form of peacemaking, a recognition that sacrifice must lead to lives lived with gratitude and compassion.

And even in war, these soldiers were peacemakers. Hearing stories of Canadian troops handing out their own rations to starving Dutch families, risking punishment just to feed children – reminds us: love does not worry about punishment. Love gives.

Sometimes peacemaking is as simple as sharing bread.

Peacemaking is not passive. There is a great cost to this kind of peace.  Sometimes it involves great sacrifice. Sometimes it involves righteous disobedience. Sometimes it results in lasting effects, like PTSD and moral injury.  Sometimes it simply means sharing bread with someone who is hungry, and in so doing, honouring their dignity.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,” Jesus says. Blessed are those who hunger for justice, even in wartime.

Every year, when we remember those who died in service, we mourn. The Beatitudes remind us that mourning is not a sign of weakness. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

But the comfort promised is not simply an emotional soothing. It is the comfort that comes from community, from lives lived in solidarity, from knowing that love endures – from the assurance that the sacrifice was not in vain.

We honour sacrifice by choosing to remember, and by shaping our world in response to what we remember. By living our lives in such a way to ensure that these wars don’t happen again, that we will never have another generation of soldiers to mourn.

When I serve as chaplain, I carry this awareness deeply. I am often entrusted with the stories of those who have served, and those who have lost – those who have returned forever changed.

I have stood in silence, offered prayer, heard laughter, felt grief. I have sat with soldiers who came back changed after serving in Afghanistan and still struggle daily with the lasting effects.
I have seen young recruits shaped by the discipline, resilience, and community of their training. I’ve seen them discover strengths they did not know they had. I’ve gathered with them in circle, around the drum, in prayer and reflection.

Some people imagine the military as being about force. But I have found that, at its best, it is about service. It is about protecting the vulnerable. It is about standing between danger and those you love. It is about peacemaking.

There are moments, as chaplain, when I feel the weight of both mourning and blessing.
When we remember those who did not return, or returned so changed that we don’t recognize them, and they don’t recognize themselves. We mourn these losses, and we also witness the blessing their lives continue to be. Their memory plants seeds of compassion, gratitude, and humility.

Mourning and joy, together. Just like remembrance and liberation. Just like the Beatitudes. Their peace endures.

To be poor in spirit is to know our need of God. When I serve in uniform, whether standing on parade or in the quiet of the chaplain’s office, I am constantly reminded of my dependence on God. I have prayed with people whose fear was palpable. I have listened to youth whose longing for belonging, identity, and purpose echoed Jesus’ call to those on the mountainside.

These are the ones Jesus calls blessed. Not because life is easy for them, but because God meets us most fully where our need is greatest.

The Beatitudes are not a checklist. You don’t get to say, “Well, I’m humble today, check.
Peacemaker, check. Meek, hmm… maybe tomorrow.”

They describe a way of life. They describe a community in which compassion, justice, and peace are not theoretical, they are embodied.

Peace is not neutrality. Peace is not silence. Peace is choosing love when fear would be easier. Peace is the active, daily commitment to stand with the oppressed, to seek justice, to extend mercy, to practice compassion. Peace is showing up. Peace is remembering.

When I think of the Beatitudes, I think of the Dutch children tending graves, the Italians who adopt fallen soldiers, the towns who build statues, the nightly Last Post at the Menin Gate. I think of Bold Eagle youth learning to walk with integrity, courage, and humility. I think of the soldiers who shared their food, and those who come back forever changed. I think of the communities who remember. I think of us, gathered here, longing for peace in our time.

Jesus says, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.” Not because peacemaking is simple. But because it reflects the heart of God.

Every time we speak truth with love, every time we honour the humanity of another, every time we choose compassion over judgement, every time we forgive, every time we welcome the stranger, every time we remember we reflect the heart of God. And every time we teach the next generation to do the same, we honour those who came before.

This is what I saw in Europe. It reminds us that the work of peace is not finished. It is carried on in memory, in relationship, in gratitude, in how we teach our children, in how we live our lives.

The Beatitudes are lived, not just studied. Peacemaking is not the work of soldiers alone, it is the work of all of us.

Peace is not a dream. It is a calling. A discipline. A way of life grounded in the example of Jesus.

It is a way of living entrusted to ordinary people, like us. It is work we continue every day: The world still hungers for this kind of peace, not the peace that comes from power, but the peace that comes from love.

We are invited to be changemakers. To embody the Beatitudes. To honour the legacy of those who gave their lives for the freedom of others by seeking peace where we are planted.

May we learn from those who tend the graves of strangers. May we learn from those who remember. May we learn from young people who seek purpose and belonging. May we learn from Jesus himself, who shows us that true peace is made not by the sword, but by the cross. Not by domination, but by love.

Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are we, when we choose peace.

Amen.