Two Women, Two Prophecies
Preached at Blue Ocean Faith Columbus on Sunday, December 7, 2025
Reminder: I never stick completely to my written sermon. This isn’t a transcript, but the written sermon I was using when I preached.
Reflection
Sometimes you hear something which just catches your attention in a peculiar way. This morning, I was listening to the “Contemporary Christian Christmas” playlist on Spotify and a song came on told from the perspective of the Bethlehem innkeeper. If the refrain wasn’t bad enough: “Come see what’s happenin’ in the barn. I’ve seen nothin’ like this since I’ve been on this farm.” I’m not sure the singers and writers fully considered the implications of a song in which the narrator boasts about how he turned away a pregnant woman and made her “camp in the barn.”
Today, we’re going to peculiar and important messages. One to an older priest in the Temple and one two a young girl in a backwater community.
Now listen for a word from God.
Luke 1:5-38 NRSVUE
In the days of King Herod of Judea, there was a priest named Zechariah, who belonged to the priestly order of Abijah. His wife was descended from the daughters of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. 6 Both of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord. 7 But they had no children because Elizabeth was barren, and both were getting on in years.
8 Once when he was serving as priest before God during his section’s turn of duty, 9 he was chosen by lot, according to the custom of the priesthood, to enter the sanctuary of the Lord to offer incense. 10 Now at the time of the incense offering, the whole assembly of the people was praying outside. 11 Then there appeared to him an angel of the Lord, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. 12 When Zechariah saw him, he was terrified, and fear overwhelmed him. 13 But the angel said to him, “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John. 14 You will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, 15 for he will be great in the sight of the Lord. He must never drink wine or strong drink; even before his birth he will be filled with the Holy Spirit. 16 He will turn many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God. 17 With the spirit and power of Elijah he will go before him, to turn the hearts of parents to their children and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous, to make ready a people prepared for the Lord.” 18 Zechariah said to the angel, “How can I know that this will happen? For I am an old man, and my wife is getting on in years.” 19 The angel replied, “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to bring you this good news. 20 But now, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will become mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur.”
21 Meanwhile the people were waiting for Zechariah and wondering at his delay in the sanctuary. 22 When he did come out, he was unable to speak to them, and they realized that he had seen a vision in the sanctuary. He kept motioning to them and remained unable to speak. 23 When his time of service was ended, he returned to his home.
24 After those days his wife Elizabeth conceived, and for five months she remained in seclusion. She said, 25 “This is what the Lord has done for me in this time, when he looked favorably on me and took away the disgrace I have endured among my people.”
26 In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, 27 to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. 28 And he came to her and said, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” 29 But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. 30 The angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. 31 And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. 32 He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. 33 He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.” 34 Mary said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” 35 The angel said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God. 36 And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son, and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. 37 For nothing will be impossible with God.” 38 Then Mary said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” Then the angel departed from her.”
This is the word of God for the people of God.
Message
Friends, there are two women in our text this evening who, by all accounts, should have been footnotes in history. One was too old. The other was too young. One had spent decades carrying the shame of barrenness. The other was an unmarried virgin from a village so insignificant that people joked, “Can anything good come from Nazareth?” Yet here we are, two thousand years later, speaking their names: Elizabeth and Mary. Two normal women who were chosen and positioned to be remembered forever.
Luke, our careful historian and masterful storyteller, wants us to see something. He doesn’t simply tell us two separate stories that happen to involve angelic visits. No, he constructs these narratives as mirror images, as parallel prophecies that reflect and amplify one another. Notice the pattern: Gabriel appears. There’s fear. There’s an announcement of an impossible birth. There’s a question born of doubt or wonder. There’s a sign given. And there’s, ultimately, a response.
But let’s not rush past the setting, because Luke is deliberate about where these stories take place. The first scene unfolds in the most sacred space imaginable: the Holy of Holies, the center of the temple in Jerusalem, the very heart of the Hebrew’s worship. This space housed the Ark of the Covenant and was treated as the throne room of God on earth. So wonderful and so terrifying was this space that the priests who entered often had a rope tied around their waists so that they could be pulled out if needed. Here is Zechariah, a holy man, from a priestly lineage, performing what might have been a once-in-life-time duty, but was likely more of a once-every-few years responsibility. Everything about this scene screams significance, tradition, and centrality.
Then Gabriel travels to “a town in Galilee called Nazareth.” Not Jerusalem. Not even a town anyone had ever really heard of. A nothing place. And they appear not in a religious space, not during a sacred ceremony, but to a teenage girl in her home. The contrast couldn’t be starker. Luke is showing us something about how God works: the sacred and the ordinary, the center and the margins, the temple and the village. God speaks in all places.
Let’s look more closely at Elizabeth first. The text tells us that she and Zechariah “were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord.” Here were righteous people, faithful people, people who had done everything right. And yet “they had no children because Elizabeth was barren, and both were getting on in years.”
In that ancient world, barrenness—the inability to have a child—wasn’t seen as a medical condition. It was a social catastrophe, a mark of divine disfavor, a source of profound shame. It was grounds for a man to divorce his wife and take a new wife (our ancient ancestors didn’t understand that the man could be as much to blame as the woman). The text captures the shame Elizabeth felt when she says, “This is what the Lord has done for me when he looked favorably on me and took away the disgrace I have endured among my people.” For years, perhaps decades, Elizabeth had carried this burden. Every gathering of women, every celebration of another family’s child, every sidelong glance—they all reminded her of what she lacked, of what her culture said made her less than whole.
But notice what happens. Gabriel appears to Zechariah during that sacred moment and announces, “Your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John.” The prayers they had prayed for years, perhaps prayers they had even stopped praying because hope had worn thin. Those prayers. God had heard them all along.
And here we encounter the first great question of our text: “How will I know that this is so? For I am an old man, and my wife is getting on in years.” Zechariah, the priest, the man standing in the temple, asks for proof. And honestly, can we blame him? He’s looking at the facts: he’s old, Elizabeth is old, biology is biology. He wants to believe, but the impossibility is overwhelming.
Gabriel’s response is swift and, frankly, severe: “But now, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will become mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur.” Zechariah’s silence becomes a sign, not just to him, but to everyone who expects to hear him speak. Something has happened. Something beyond words has broken into the ordinary world.
Then the scene shifts. Six months pass. Elizabeth is hidden away, marveling at what God has done. And Gabriel makes another appearance, this time to Mary in Nazareth.
Look at how Gabriel greets her: “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” This young woman, probably around thirteen or fourteen years old, is addressed with the same kind of honor that might be given to a queen or a princess. The text captures the shock of this: “But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.”
Mary’s question mirrors Zechariah’s, but with a crucial difference. Zechariah asked, “How will I know that this is so?” Mary asks, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” One question doubts the message; the other accepts it but seeks to understand the means. Zechariah questions the possibility, Mary questions the method.
Theologians have spilled significant ink and wasted vast swathes of time on a particular question: do angels have free will? The consensus holds that, no, angels do not have free will. If that’s true, then Gabriel may have been in awe of Mary. When they spoke to Zechariah, they were speaking about Elizabeth. Prayers were being answered and something miraculous happened. But Mary was given a choice. Mary had the ability to say no. And for that reason, she must have evoked great awe in the eyes of this very powerful, but still limited, archangel.
Gabriel’s answer to Mary’s question is magnificent: “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God.” The image here is one of protective covering, of divine presence, of the same Spirit that hovered over the waters at creation now hovering over this young woman. What is about to happen in Mary’s womb is nothing less than a new creation.
And then Gabriel does something beautiful. He points Mary to Elizabeth: “And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son, and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. For nothing will be impossible with God.” The angel connects these two women, these two impossible pregnancies, these two normal people carrying extraordinary promises. Elizabeth becomes a sign to Mary. The old woman who was barren becomes proof to the young virgin that nothing is impossible with God.
This is where Luke’s parallel structure reaches its full power. These aren’t just two random miracle stories. God chooses the overlooked, the barren and the virgin, the old and the young, the shamed and the unknown. God chooses people from the margins and from small villages. God chooses normal people and positions them at the center of the greatest story ever told.
But Mary alone is faced with a choice. This young girl must respond not just to an archangel, but to God. She must have been so frightened. An unwed woman conceiving a child would certainly bring scandal on her and it very well might get her killed. Yet, Mary looks bravely into the face of the angel and says, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”
Let it be. Mary’s response becomes one of the most profound statements of faith in all of Scripture. She doesn’t fully understand. She knows the cost could be devastating. But she says yes. She consents to be used by God for purposes far beyond her comprehension.
These two women—one who had prayed for decades and one who had probably never imagined such a thing—both become bearers of impossible promises. Both become living testimonies that God doesn’t work according to our timelines, our expectations, or our cultural norms about who matters and who doesn’t. In fact, God rejects the notion that anyone might not matter.
The text tells us that when Gabriel spoke to Mary, there was a gravity to the moment, a weight to the announcement. This is the moment. This is when heaven and earth hold their breath. The entire cosmos waits for this young woman’s answer, because God has chosen to work through human consent, through human faith, through the “yes” of a normal woman from nowhere.
This story isn’t just ancient. It’s not just about two women over 2,000 years ago. God is still choosing normal people. God is still appearing in out-of-the-way places. God is still taking those whom the world overlooks—the too old, the too young, the too ordinary, the too broken, the too insignificant—and positioning them to carry out extraordinary purposes.
You may feel like Elizabeth. You’ve been faithful for years, but God seems silent about the deepest prayers of your heart. The promise hasn’t come. The waiting has gone on too long. You think you’re too old now for the dream to matter. But I tell you: your prayers have been heard. Every single one. God’s timing might not be our timing, but what seems impossible to you is the very kind of situation in which God loves to work.
Perhaps you feel like Mary, young, uncertain, overwhelmed by a call that seems too big for you. You’re from Nazareth, not Jerusalem. You’re ordinary, not special. You don’t have the training, the credentials, the background, the strength for what God seems to be asking. But God specializes in using the unqualified. The question is not whether you’re good enough. The question is, will you say yes?
Both of these women were normal. Both were overlooked by their culture for different reasons. Both faced impossible circumstances. And we’re still speaking their names two thousand years later. Not just because they were extraordinary in themselves, but because they allowed God to do extraordinary things through them.
The same God who overshadowed Mary, the same God who remembered Elizabeth, the same God who chooses the unlikely and the overlooked; that God is still at work. Still appearing in small villages and ordinary lives. Still announcing impossible promises. Still asking normal people to carry purposes that will echo through eternity.
The question is: when the messenger comes to you—and make no mistake, God is still sending messengers, still breaking into ordinary lives with extraordinary calls—how will you respond?
Will you ask like Zechariah, “How will I know that this is so?” Or will you ask like Mary, “How can this be?”
Will you have the courage to say with Mary, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”
Two prophecies. Two women. Two impossible promises. One pattern that continues to this day: God chooses the normal, the overlooked, the unlikely, and through their yes, through their willingness to be positioned by God, they change everything.
May we have eyes to see when God is choosing us. And may we have the faith to say yes.
Amen.