When Silence Speak

“And it came to pass, that while he executed the priest's office before God in the order of his course, according to the custom of the priest's office, his lot was to burn incense..." Luke 1:8

For almost 1,500 years, the incense of the altar had curled to the ceiling of the House of God. By His decree, it ascended as the prayers of a nation before the Throne of God's Grace. Zacharias, advanced in years, still faithfully performed his priestly duties. He stood in the Holy Place, a man chosen by lot to minister before the Lord. How many times had he performed these rituals in silence? How many times had his lips uttered the words of intercession for Israel while his own prayers for a child seemed unheard?

The lot (v. 9), decreed by God, was a random thing to human wisdom. But that lot fell from the Spirit with purpose. Why Zacharias, and why now? It was the fullness of time (Galatians 4:4).

The priestly courses established by David had long divided the duties among the descendants of Aaron (1 Chronicles 24). But on this day, the Lord orchestrated a holy moment, breaking centuries of prophetic silence with an archangel from heaven (v. 11).

Zacharias was likely beyond the age of active duty. Numbers 8 tells us that priests were ordained by God at twenty-five and retired at fifty (v. 24). So, why was he still ministering? Was it his zeal? Or had the diminishing priesthood stretched the limits of tradition? Whatever the case, his presence there was purposeful. God’s timing is never arbitrary, and neither is His choice of servants.

When Gabriel appeared, Zacharias’ reaction quickly cycled through trouble and fear and landed decidedly on unbelief. His question in verse 18—"Whereby shall I know this?"—betrayed a heart encumbered by years of one unanswered prayer. "How shall I know this?" Really? Was an angel’s visit not enough? All Gabriel’s prophetic words from the Throne of God on high were unconvincing? Was there no faith in the prayer of God’s priest?

Gabriel’s rebuke was harsh—perhaps. But it was necessary. The silence of God’s voice had mirrored the silence in Zacharias’ aging heart—a silence now foisted in burden upon him. For nine months, he would be unable to speak (vv. 19-20). He was a living parable before a people who had forgotten how to trust the God who speaks.

Gabriel’s rebuke was not only for Zacharias. Do we not often pray with doubting hearts? More convinced of the impossibility than of God’s promise? Zacharias’ silence cautions us to think about the words we speak before the Lord. How often do our prayers ascend as form, lacking faith that their fulfillment rests in the hands of the Almighty?

And why was silence the rebuke? The Scriptures often pair silence with reverence, awe, and judgment. When the seventh seal is opened in Revelation, there is silence in heaven for half an hour (Revelation 8:1). Silence magnifies the weight of glory. It arrests the soul, setting the stage for God to act. Zacharias’ silence did the same. Stripped of his voice, he could now only meditate on the Word sent from the Lord, on the miracle that would be. It was the silence of preparation, not punishment—a silence that allowed him to hear more deeply.

At the heart of this moment is the interplay between human frailty and divine purpose. Why did God ordain priests to serve from twenty five to fifty? These years symbolize the strength of man, but also his limits. Even in his prime, man cannot carry the burden of intercession forever. Yet Zacharias, past his prime, is still chosen—a reminder that God’s strength is made perfect in weakness.

The lesson is clear. Zacharias ministered before the Lord, but so do we. Every believer, by the blood of Christ, is made a priest (1 Peter 2:9). We, too, are called to carry prayers to the throne of grace, to stand in the holy places of life, to let the incense of our worship rise. But do we truly believe the words, the promises we bring before Him? Or are we like Zacharias, dutiful yet disillusioned, faithful yet faltering?

The deeper message is this: God meets us in our doubt and replaces it with His gift of discipline. His silence was hardly the end of the story. After those long months, his first words were a song of praise—a Benedictus that glorified the God of covenant faithfulness. The child in his wife’s womb, John, would prepare the way for the Lord Himself, the One who would bear our doubts, our silence, our sin.

And so, we are left to ask ourselves: What does our silence say—even as we gather to worship? Is our preparation in the silence of disbelief or of awe? Do we stand like Zacharias, ministering before the Lord yet harboring doubts in our hearts? Remember, Zacharias’ prayer was answered (v. 13). We may forget, but our Lord never does. He answers in mercy, even when we are not ready or have forgotten.

Praise the Lord.

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