When all the miracles begin.
He will prepare the people for the coming of the Lord.
It’s the time when all the miracles begin.
God has been silent for four hundred years.
After He spoke to the prophet Malachi, the Old Testament falls mute. It’s been four long, neck- straining centuries where you could look up to heaven . . . and hear a pin drop.
No one has glimpsed an angel for at least half a millennium. It has been six hundred years since Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego cut through the flames of the furnace with a fourth blinding torch from heaven. Eight hundred years have slow-dripped by since Elijah and Elisha and that bygone era of miracles. When we’re blind to grace, is the miracle we get that we get homesick for Him?
Then, in a prayer and a blink, four hundred years shatter. The volume of God reverberates in hearts, and the strobes of heaven dance.
Angel glory appears in front of one old man. A certain wrinkled and graying priest. Not a particularly notable one – just one of a sea of eighteen thousand. One priest who’s awestruck that his name has been drawn to offer the incense in the Holy of Holies on the once-a-year Day of Atonement. Throughout the whole of a priest’s life, his name might never be drawn. And once it was, it could never be drawn again.
Zechariah breathes through the miracle of his priesthood – one man named “God Remembers,” an undistinguished old man without a son to pass down the priesthood, married to one time-engraved woman named “My God Is an Oath.” A woman ashamed and disgraced at the barrenness of oaths. God bends His heart to hear the prayer of the breaking – the remembering God of the small and the forgotten – and miracles begin again here.
This is the season of the Advent of God. The barren will birth. Dreams will wake into reality.
Nothing is impossible with God.
Never give up on your miracle. Never stop looking for your promise.