Eyes of Faith, Words of Power

Scripture Reading: Luke 2:22–40
Presbyterian Church of Okemos 

When the angel Gabriel visited Mary and announced that she would bear a son that would be called the Son of God, and of his kingdom there would be no end; Mary wondered, “How is this possible?” Gabriel replied, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you and the power of God will fill you. For nothing will be impossible with God.”

Then Gabriel left, and Mary was pregnant. I imagine Mary repeated those words of Gabriel like a mantra, “For nothing will be impossible with God.” I also imagine that, she sometimes wondered. Would anyone believe this baby was special? Would she be stoned before she could even carry him to term? Would Joseph leave her? He thought he could leave quietly, and then he had that dream. The time of birth neared, and then the demand for a census and a tax and such a long walk to Bethlehem. Could she do it? They arrived, and the time came for her to deliver. There was no upper room available. So there, where the people and the animals dwelt, she labored, and finally, Jesus was born. Mary swaddled him with strips of cloth, rags, and laid him in the manger, the animals’ watering hole. She could do today, barely, but what about tomorrow? The holy family teetered between the impossible and the possible.

The story we read today is one that only Luke tells, and he tells it here at the end of his birth chapter. Like every good Jewish mother, Mary counted the days after her baby was born. When 40 days had passed, Mary and Joseph bundled up their baby boy and made the days’ journey to Jerusalem. They went to Jerusalem, according to the law of Leviticus, so that Mary could pray and follow the ritual for new mothers to re-enter the Temple. They also went following the law of Moses, that the firstborn should be presented to God. And so they took Jesus to give him back to God from whom he came.

In the temple they were greeted by a man named Simeon. According to Luke, going to the temple had not been on Simeon’s list of things to do that day, the way it had been on Mary and Joseph’s. Simeon had been somewhere else when the Spirit nudged him. Maybe it was something that happened to him all the time, or maybe it was rare, but in either case Simeon could not afford to ignore it, because that same Spirit had promised him he would not see death before he got a good look at God’s chosen one.

Simeon saw Mary and Joseph and Jesus, and he smiled. Simeon reached out and drew the baby Jesus close, “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your work; for my eyes have seen your salvation.” (Luke 2:29–30). Simeon, spoke part of what they had heard from the angels and the shepherds, but he also expanded the circle—light for the Jews and the Gentiles. Mary and Joseph were amazed, “Really? The Gentiles too? Possible? Impossible?”

After Simeon blessed them, he told them the rest of the truth, about how hard it would be. How Jesus would expose those who wanted to get close to God, and those who didn’t, and those who didn’t would want to get rid of him. He warned Mary of the pain to come and that a sword would pierce her soul too. I wonder if his honesty came as a relief, for it had been hard, very much so, already. They had teetered, and Mary had wondered. And yet, Simeon saw God and light all over this baby.

While Mary and Joseph absorbed Simeon’s words and touch, they heard a woman named Anna talking out loud about their child—praising God for this precious baby and speaking about him to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem. It was Anna the prophet, Luke said, who lived in the temple, praying and fasting around the clock. She held them in her presence, and she named what God had done and would do.

Now Mary and Joseph had heard such things foretold in scripture, by angels, and in dreams—but here were two people—one felt called, another who was already there, one man, one woman—who held, empathized, and celebrated with them—in the flesh. This young family teetered on the edge of possible and impossible. In Anna and Simeon’s embrace, deep called to deep. In the words of Isaiah, “God gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless. Even youths will faint and be weary, and the young will fall exhausted; but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” (Isaiah 40: 29–31)

In such holy embrace Anna, Simeon, Mary, Joseph, and Jesus renewed their strength. And I imagine, from that day on, Simeon and Anna, prayed for, wondered about, and asked the latest news. I imagine from that day forward, Mary and Joseph felt Simeon and Anna holding them in their hearts, cheering them on, believing in them, even in, especially in, the tears. They were connected beyond words and space.

I love this story, of Anna and Simeon, in their age and wisdom, reaching out to Joseph, Mary and Jesus with love and encouragement. In reading this story, I am reminded of the countless Simeons and Annas in my life, and the power they have given me which continues.

I am reminded of a great cloud of witnesses, many in this church, but today let me tell you about Cora Diamond. Cora ran the school lunchroom at the Corunna High School for many decades, and her husband, Art, painted houses. After Art died, she wanted to make a memorial gift to the church. She saw a newspaper ad in the Michigan Christian Advocate newspaper that caught her attention. The Conference was looking for churches to take college summer interns who were considering professional ministry. The Conference would pay half of the stipend, and the church would pay the other half, and room and board. She thought this could be the gift she made in memory of Art. Meanwhile, I was a freshman at Michigan State, feeling called to professional ministry and looking for a summer job. I read the same newspaper, and saw the accompanying ad looking for interns.

I remember Cora’s snow white hair, and her slow walk, aided by her cane. I remember her radiant smile and her big heart. I remember her wrinkled hand that reached out to squeeze mine. And in that holy space that she and the Corunna United Methodist Church created for me, I got to play preacher and pastor. Each night, I came home after working at the church and eating with a different family to Cora’s living room, where we would rock and talk for hours in her living room. We reflected on the church work, and people, and programs of the day. We rocked. She told me the stories of her life and opened her black and white albums. She told me about their one son, David, and his family. We rocked. I heard her joys and her hardships. We rocked. I heard of how much her church community and God had met to her. We rocked. And the spark within me kindled to a flame as she and the church affirmed me, and named God’s redeeming activity.

I returned for a second summer, and then over the years for occasional visits. She came to my wedding, and we exchanged holiday cards. More years went by, I was busy, and we lost touch, or so I thought. Then one day, I got a call from her. She had noticed my name was missing in the annual list of clergy serving churches in the Advocate, and she wondered why. “O, I have taken time off to be with my new baby.” I had no idea she still watched me and held me in her heart.

And when Cora died, I drove across the state to her funeral, and I shared with her family how on those summer nights Cora would rock and proclaim her love and pride for them in story after story. And for whatever reason, they were amazed she did this, and deeply touched. In telling them, I used the gifts she saw and nurtured in me. And in doing so, her heart and God’s heart touched ours. And our weary hearts gained strength.

Often in life we are too busy to sit and listen, to hold and rock, and to discern and proclaim God’s work among us. But can you imagine the power? What it did for Anna and Simeon, who were watching and hoping? What it did for Mary and Joseph, teetering between the possible and impossible. What it did for Cora, reflecting on so much, and wondering what she could yet do? Or what it did for a college freshmen, who was searching?

Luke wrote his gospel after Jesus had died and this Temple had been destroyed. Imagine what this did to the early readers who also teetered between what was possible and what was not. What did reading it now say to them about the power of their words and presence? Or about the potential they had to see God’s presence in each other? And about how God would continue to work in them even after death and destruction?

And really, today, we all come to this temple, either because we’ve been counting the days and this is the right one, or because the spirit moves us so to do, or because we’re always hanging out here, praying or cleaning or organizing something. Each and every time we come, we have this opportunity to see each other, to listen, to hold, and to bless. We draw each other close and say things like, “Hang in there. I am praying for you. I see God’s desire for good in your deeds. I can only imagine your tears.” We see and name God and light all over the place. We take turns being Annas, Simeons, Josephs, Marys, and Jesus’—as God takes flesh among us. Somewhere between the Word proclaimed, the coffee and cookies shared, and the stories told, God renews our strength. We go out into another week, another year, thinking that what God is nudging us about just might be possible after all.