Broken Dreams

Luke 1:5-20

November 30, 2025 • Mount Pleasant UMC

Stories shape us and every family has its own story, a narrative that defines who they are and who they are not (cf. McKnight, Luke, pg. 9). When we come to the season of Advent, we are entering in one of the most famous stories of all, a story that has shaped believers for centuries. It’s the story of a man and a woman and a baby boy born in a little town that they weren’t supposed to be in. It’s the story of government interference that forced them from their home—not once, but twice. The second time they even had to leave the country! It’s the story of a night that wouldn’t have been all that holy or silent to those who were there. And while the baby rightly takes center stage, there are a lot of other people who come in and out of the story to make what happens in the little town of Bethlehem possible. This Advent, for the next few weeks, we’re going to look at some of those characters who are sometimes in the shadows, on the edges—the “Unlikely” heroes and villains of the Christmas story. Who are they, and what does their part in the story teach us about this baby who came to save us? So this morning, we’re going to start several months before the actual story, in a town only about an hour’s walk from Jerusalem, a village called Ein Karem (cf. Hamilton, The Journey, pg. 62). We begin with an elderly couple named Elizabeth and Zechariah.

Both Elizabeth and Zechariah were from a priestly family, though of course only the men were actually allowed to serve as priests, but the point is they married within their clan. And we don’t know how long they had lived in Ein Karem; maybe this was where they grew up. It was close enough that when it was time for Zechariah to go serve his two weeks each year in the Temple, he could get there easily and quickly (cf. McKnight 10). We also don’t know how long they had been married, but we do know that their life had not turned out the way they had hoped. Luke describes their disappointment and sadness this way: “They were childless because Elizabeth was not able to conceive, and they were both very old” (1:7). Now, there’s a couple of things about Luke’s statement we should notice now two thousand years later. Luke, we believe, was a doctor, but he wouldn’t have understood all the things we now know that is involved in having children. In their day, the woman is considered “barren” if children don’t come along, while we know that problems might very well exist in either husband or wife. Also, we don’t know exactly what Luke means by “very old.” But we do know this: they are both well past normal childbearing years. A baby was not in their future.

And that’s a problem for them. Whereas in our culture, people make a choice to have children or not to have children, in their culture it wasn’t really a choice. Having children was expected. Having children was just what you did, partly because they were the ones who would take care of you when you were old. And having children was seen as a blessing from God. Not having children meant you were cursed or judged by God or that you had sinned (Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pg. 37). It was a shameful thing, especially for this couple whom everyone knew as righteous and devout (1:6). The followed the Jewish Law, they worshipped the one God, and so they would have gone into this marriage expecting that children would follow. And when they didn’t, Zechariah and Elizabeth had to live with a broken dream.

Some of you know what that feels like—maybe not in the realm of having kids, but in other areas. When the cancer returns with a vengeance. When the foreclosure papers arrive. When the daughter has a mental illness that is consuming her life and everyone’s life around her. When the divorce becomes final. When the son is addicted to drugs and won’t stop lying about it. When the mild memory loss begins to turn into full-blown dementia. When the most recent date turns out to be so much not the person you had hoped they would be. When your best friend dies suddenly. When you lost everything in the fire and the insurance company isn’t paying (cf. Walt, “When Our Hopes Blind Us To Our Hope,” Wake-Up Call, November 7, 2025). All of these situations and more break dreams and steal hope. Dr. J. D. Walt sums it up well: “The death of hope is the hardest thing. The turning away from a desperately anticipated outcome is horrific. The letting go of a deeply desired future is devastating.” What is the dream you have held onto that you don’t think will ever come true? Or what is the dream, the hope you once had that you have had to let go? Our broken dreams, even after we think we have let them go, continue to haunt us and hound us and in our moments of darkness taunt us. They remind us, “This isn’t how life was supposed to be. God has let you down.” Our broken dreams can lead us away from God or back toward God. It all depends on how we respond.

Luke doesn’t give us any indication that Elizabeth and Zechariah had done anything but continue to be faithful to God. And yet, because they had so obviously not been blessed by God in the way everyone expected, they are unlikely candidates to be people through whom God would work. At least that’s what most people around them would think. They would likely live their lives and when their time was done, die quietly in obscurity. Now, Zechariah, as I mentioned, was a priest, and when it came his turn to serve in the Temple, he would faithfully go, every year. He did his duty, every year. Only this year, a once-in-a-lifetime event took place. There were somewhere around 18,000 priests in Israel at the time, so the chances of actually serving inside the Temple itself were pretty slim. You had to be chosen by lot. So when the lots were drawn the year, Zechariah was probably not expecting to be the one whose name came up. But it did. I imagine that he asked them to read it again, just to make sure. And it was his name. He was chosen. This is the greatest day of his life! He would be the one to go to the Holy of Holies, the most central part of the Temple, and burn the incense that represented the prayers of the people going up to God. The task was this: Zechariah would throw the incense on the heated altar while the people would pray outside (1:8-10). As the smoke went up, he would bow low and then withdraw, walking backwards out of the area (because you didn’t turn your back on God). It would take very little time—or should have (cf. Card 37-38; Keener, IVP Bible Background Commentary: New Testament, pg. 188).

So we can picture Zechariah entering a seldom-seen area of the Temple. Me? I would be looking around and maybe whipping out my cell phone to take a few snapshots. At the very least I’d be pinching myself because of where I was. Once-in-a-lifetime, for sure! But Zechariah, it appears, enters, does his duty, and as he stands there in the smoke and smells of the incense, as the bells are tinkling on the hem of his garment, he suddenly realizes he is not alone. Now, I don’t know what an angel looks like. I’m fairly certain they look nothing like the pictures we give kids to color or the little statues we put in our homes or on the top of our Christmas trees. Most of the time when an angel shows up in the Bible, the first thing they say is, “Do not be afraid.” So I’m guessing that there’s something about an angel that is terrifying. In Isaiah 6, when that Old Testament prophet gets a glimpse of the throne room of God, he describes one kind of angels as having six wings and when he sees them he says, “Woe to me! I am ruined!” (Isaiah 6:1-5). When they speak, the whole Temple shakes and is filled with smoke. Now, when Zechariah is at the altar, the whole area is already filled with the smoke of the incense, but still he knows there is someone else nearby. An angel, a messenger from God. And Zechariah responds just like people always do. Luke says he was “gripped with fear” (1:12). Literally, the text says “terror fell upon him.”

So the angel, as usual, begins with comforting words: “Do not be afraid.” And then he proceeds to tell this elderly priest that his prayers—the ones he has prayed for a long, long time, certainly as long as he has been married—his prayers have been heard. Really? I’d want to ask why has it taken so long for anyone to respond. But remember, our time is not God’s time. God shows up at the right time, regardless of what we think the right time ought to be. “Your prayers have been heard, Zechariah,” the angel says, “and I am here to tell you that God is now going to answer them.” This elderly couple is going to give birth to a baby. A baby! After all these years! And Medicare will be picking up the tab! Now, I don’t know about you, but being a grandpa over the last year has reminded me just how much energy it takes to have a baby around. When Easton comes over, we have a great time together, but I’m telling you, when he goes home I pretty much collapse on the couch! So I’m trying to imagine Elizabeth and Zechariah, older than me most likely, welcoming a baby. Zechariah must be having some of the same concerns.

But more than that, he’s lived with this broken dream for so long, he is afraid to believe in it again. “How can I be sure of this?” he asks. That’s a normal question, considering their age. Don’t you love the diplomatic way he phrases it? Just in case this conversation gets back to Elizabeth, he says, “I am an old man and my wife…is well along in years” (1:18). She’s not old; she’s “well along in years.” Good call, Zechariah! But he questions. He knows that older people are not usually the ones you find the maternity wards. Before he dares to allow the dream to be rekindled in his heart, much less Elizabeth’s, he wants to know: “How can I be sure of this?”

Would we react any differently? It’s an impossible thing now, this dream of theirs. There’s no humanly way that it could happen. The impossible simply doesn’t become possible. The cancer will progress. The divorce is inevitable. The bills will just keep piling up. I’ll never meet anyone who will love me. Even though I know it’s ruining my life, I will never be able to get over the addiction. Life was not supposed to be like this. And then someone promises that with God’s help, the impossible can become possible. Who among us wouldn’t say, “How can I be sure of this?” I knew a person who had spent every dime he had. There was nothing left in the bank, checking account was empty and so was the savings, and yet there was a tax bill to be paid and medical bills waiting on resolution. Payday was two weeks away and even that wasn’t going to be enough. He told me he was sitting in a meeting for work when he got this calm assurance he could only understand to be God’s presence. There was this sense that everything would be okay. But it’s impossible, he knew. And yet the feeling persisted: everything will be okay. “How can I be sure of this?” It’s almost automatic; we want assurance, we want guarantees that God will, in fact, come through. We sing and say on Sunday morning that we trust this God we worship but our broken dreams whisper to us that he’s not really involved in our lives and doesn’t care all that much. “How can I be sure of this?”

Zechariah, priest, leader of Israel, chosen to perform one of the holiest offerings in their faith—Zechariah, husband of Elizabeth, a faithful and good man who is having a conversation with an angel, for heaven’s sake! That Zechariah asks, “How can I be sure of this?” He asks that question because, like a lot of us, Zechariah is stuck. He is stuck in the past, in what has always been, in what he has already decided is possible. He is stuck in a present where he believes in God but doesn’t really trust him (cf. Billups, An Unlikely Advent, pg. 11). And so he asks the question, and the angel decides Zechariah needs some time to reflect, to think, a time in which he doesn’t do so much talking. So, because of his unbelief, the angel tells him, “You will be silent and not able to speak until the day this happens, because you did not believe my words, which will come true at their appointed time” (1:20). Now, I know priests in ancient Israel weren’t like pastors in modern-day America, but I can’t imagine a worse punishment for someone who seeks to lead the people of God. Silence? You can’t speak? Words are my stock in trade. With no words to share, what do I have? What does Zechariah have?

He has time. He has space. He can pray and think and reflect. And undoubtedly, he does just that as he leaves the Temple, as he goes back home, as he tries to explain to Elizabeth (without talking and with no white board) what he has been told and what’s going to happen to her, all through the nine months of her pregnancy, and even through the birth of their bouncing baby boy. Zechariah is a different person when John is born than he was that day in the Temple because he had those months of silence when he could listen to God. Sometimes God has to do radical things to get our attention. Sometimes he has to break a dream or two.

Honestly, this story is one of several that speak to me of the authenticity of the Gospels accounts. If you were making up a story and you wanted people to believe in this God of yours, you wouldn’t include a story in which God had denied and seemingly ignored someone’s wishes for decades. You wouldn’t include a story where a priest of that God openly questions that God’s plan and is punished for it. We tend to smooth over rough edges and tell stories like we think they should have happened. We ignore the cracks and paint over the brokenness. But, as someone once said, everything is broken, but the cracks are where the light gets in (cf. Billups 15-17). And, really, it’s easier for us to identify with imperfect heroes, with saints who aren’t made of stained glass. We understand Zechariah because we’ve had broken dreams too.

And while it’s easy for us to focus on all that we have lost when our dreams were broken, the story of Zechariah and Elizabeth forces us to see things a little differently. Maybe, just maybe, a broken dream might be the launching point for something new, a new direction that could only have happened because God showed up. I’ve heard it said that any dream we have that we can accomplish on our own is not a big enough dream. A God-sized dream is something that will fail unless God shows up. A God-sized dream is where the impossible becomes possible. For these two elderly Jews from a priestly family, their broken dream and their openness to something new meant that played a part in the arrival of the savior of the world. Their son, John, becomes the forerunner to Jesus, the one who prepares the way. His fiery preaching and unusual lifestyle will put him in conflict with kings and governors, but he will help the people focus their attention on this new thing God was going to do. And all because of a priest and his wife from the little town of Ein Karem were willing to hope that their broken dreams just might live again.

Today we begin the season of Advent, which, for those who are new to it, is a time of preparation, a time to get ready to celebrate the birth of Jesus. It is an ancient custom for Christians to spend four weeks praying and reading Scripture and giving of ourselves so that we might be ready for the real reason for this season. Every week of Advent has a word associated with it, which you can hear in the candle lighting each week, and the first Sunday of Advent is always associated with hope. Now, we’re not talking about hope as a nebulous thing like, “I hope the Colts win today” or “I hope Mom makes apple dumplings for family dinner.” No, hope in the Biblical sense is based on a certainty. We hope, yes, for things we don’t yet see (cf. Romans 8:25), but we know they are coming because the one who made the promise is absolutely trustworthy. In many ways, Luke’s Gospel is all about hope, about people finding that what they were hoping for can be found in Jesus. At the very end of his story, after the resurrection, Luke tells us about two followers of Jesus who are walking home after Easter Sunday. They have not seen Jesus, and all they know is that he had been crucified. As they walk, someone else joins them and they begin telling him about all the things that had taken place, how the religious leaders had gotten Jesus arrested and put on trial and nailed to a cross. And then there are these words: “But we had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel” (Luke 24:21). Do you hear the broken dreams in that statement? We had hoped, but now our hope is gone. If you know the rest of the story, you know that the stranger walking with them really is Jesus, and they realize it a bit later. Their hope was not in vain; it—he—was right there with them. Every hope placed in God is rooted on a firm foundation because he always keeps his promises. Elizabeth and Zechariah learned that and their son helped the whole rest of the world learn that. God always keeps his promises, even if it’s not in a way we expect.

Hope is a powerful, life-transforming thing. So what are you hoping for this Advent season? What looks impossible for you right now? Have you taken it to Jesus? I am not here to guarantee that just because you do he will send an angel and give you what you’re hoping for in the exactly the way you want. But I can guarantee this: the best gift this season or any season is Jesus himself. God did not come in human flesh to give us material things, lots of money or tons of so-called blessing. What he came to give us is himself. Zechariah and Elizabeth’s promise was a part of that. God was coming to earth to give us himself, and as the apostle Paul once wrote, “If God is for us, who can be against us?…For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:31, 38-39). When we get our heart aligned with God’s heart—which might take some time to do, as it did for Zechariah—the impossible becomes possible and God restores our hope. He might just have a new direction for us if we’re brave enough to follow it. Let’s pray.