2 February 2013 / Candlemas
Luke 2: 22-40
To Be A Light
Today is Candlemas, or the Feast of the Purification of Mary
the Mother of God, or the Feast of the Presentation. Whatever we choose to call
it, it is a time to remember, to recollect. To recollect oneself means to
gather oneself up into meditation. We have here and now only a moment for this.
But that is enough.
So when does this story begin? Forty days ago when the baby
was born: the boy who was born to be a light: The Light, really – the Light of
the World. Or, maybe it began when the angel first told Mary of her special
calling. Or, during the reign of King David. Or, when our people were slaves in
Egypt. Or, when our ancestor Abraham set out from his home town of Ur on the
Chaldes to become the father of more than all the stars in the heavens and all
the grains of sand on the seashore - to be a blessing to all the peoples of the
Earth. Whenever we choose to begin the story, it is one fraught with
difficulties from the very beginning.
It was the custom to dedicate the first son to God forty
days after his birth - to offer a sacrifice at the Temple to redeem the child. This is done to
remind us that our children belong to God. It was a reminder that God has a
genuine claim on the very best we have to offer, our children.
The required sacrifice was a lamb, but those too poor to buy
a lamb could offer a lesser sacrifice of the birds. The crowds in the Temple precincts would
know who they were: bird people were poor people.
The consolation may have been that they were not alone. Many
people were out of work. The land was occupied by Rome. Taxes were high. The government was unstable.
The economy had tanked. There was resistance throughout the land. Common folk
had trouble making ends meet. The lines in front of the pigeon sellers can be
assumed to have been very long.
The offering of these birds would be a memorial to all the
first born males ordered killed by Pharaoh in that first Holocaust of which
only Moses survived. This custom binds us to our people and our past.
The couple had come to make a sacrifice and a commitment.
Every commitment comes with a cost. Little did they know the offering they were
making - not only to God, but for the whole world. Nor could they have been
prepared for the old man.
Simeon had been praying and waiting, hoping and studying,
waiting for God to reveal the light of the world. Simeon was an old man waiting
to be released - waiting for his people to be released. Waiting to see what we
all hope to see but are too busy to remember to look for: a glimpse of the
future - a glimpse of the truth - a glimpse of relief and release.
Simeon, we can imagine, like so many of us, had grown weary.
Weary of the occupation. Weary of failed policies and failed programs. Weary of
the failure of religious and political leaders. Weary of the violence. Weary of
being weary. Everything and everyone who had promised life only yielded
weariness and death. So he was waiting for death, and waiting to see if God
really keeps promises.
The old man takes the child out of Mary’s arms. Imagine
that! Who is he, she must wonder? What is he doing with my child, she thinks?
Suddenly, Simeon becomes a poet for the ages: announcing for
all who care to listen and hear that this is not her child, but God’s very own
- hat this child was born to be light: Light for all peoples, everywhere and
throughout all time. Simeon has seen the light.
Can you see it, he cries out? Here is the light which will
withstand all darkness, any darkness - even death upon a Roman cross!.
Then quietly he hands the child back to his mother, and he
is gone. Released. God’s promise fulfilled. Simeon returns to God as the mother
and father look on. Joseph with the birds in his hands. Mary with the child
born to be a light. All the other mothers and fathers looking on.
And if that is not enough, then there is the Old Woman –
Anna the prophet! She is in the temple day and night praying and fasting,
waiting for messiah to come. She has been doing this for a long, long time! She
and Israel had been waiting a long, long time to be released from bondage to
Persia, to Greece, to Rome, to sin. She is telling everyone within earshot
about the child – the child who is born to be light to the world. Perhaps this
should really be called The Feast of the Old People – Old People who see and
help us to see that God is in the midst of us, that God is here, now, right
where we are.
Here we are. The Hasidic Jewish understanding of scripture
is that it is true for all persons at all times in all places. That is, this
story is about us. We are a part of that same crowd, straining to catch a
glimpse of the light - holding the light in our own hands, if only for a
moment. As it was for Simeon, a moment will have to be long enough.
In Connecticut we lived next door to an old man - Emil
Tramposch. He had devoted his life to propagating life with his hands: he was a
nurseryman, a horticulturalist. From his fingers new life seemingly would
spring forth every day. He had a deep sense of where that life came from. You
could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice, but most of all you could
see it in his hands.
We would spend days and nights in his greenhouse, watching
his hands work: cutting, dipping and planting cuttings, listening to what he
had to say about the economy, politics and listening to the greatest hits of his
beloved Patsy Kline. For the last four years we were there Em had cancer. Some
days were better than others, some not so good at all, but nearly every day he
was in the greenhouse propagating life.
One summer he became bed-ridden. Jane, his wife, found ways
with her camcorder to let him see every day what was happening down in the
greenhouse as she continued the work he had done for so many years. Each day
like Simeon and Anna he waited and watched – watched and waited.
That August Cerny was born- Anna Cerny. We brought her home.
Her first day out of the house, we wheeled her in the pram right into the
living room, right up to the side of Em’s hospital bed.
At the sight of the newborn baby, without a word, Em pulled
together what little strength he had left, and held his arms up in the air. He
wanted to hold her. We put her in his arms, and he held her by his side. For
ten or fifteen minutes she slept cradled in his arms, Jane sitting beside him.
He silently looked at the baby. It gave him life and light to hold her in his
arms.
It was a picture of life coming in and life going out. But
mostly it was a vision of life and light. Em, like Simeon before him, was
released, and died only a few days later.
We recollect these stories as what can be called “a
gathering darkness” casts a shadow over the whole land. Almost daily we hear
stories of violence at home and abroad – in elementary schools and at
embassies; on the streets of our decaying cities, and in homes. Like Mary and
Joseph we interrupt our busy lives to stop and to remember our past and God’s
saving actions, to renew our commitment to our God, and like Simeon and Em, to
catch a glimpse of the light so we can tell others what we have seen. We pause to
remind ourselves that our God does indeed keep his promises! We pause so that
like the boy who was born to be a light, we too can become a light for others -
so that we can be propagators of light and life for the whole world – so that
like the baby Simeon took from Mary’s arms we might devote our lives to making
the world a safer place. We stop to catch a glimpse of a future of hope and
security for all people wherever they may be.
We have now only a moment to catch that glimpse and then
live accordingly. If only for a moment, it is more than enough. Far more than
enough to become the light that we see, the light from light, true God from
true God, begotten not made, the maker of Heaven and Earth, all that is, seen
and unseen. It is the light that holds us all in God’s hands – a light to
enlighten the nations.
Amen.
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