Thomas Kleinert
The days are getting longer now, they say. Just before Christmas Eve was the longest night, but now the days are getting longer, they say. I haven’t noticed it yet. Friday night, Nancy and I had a dinner reservation at Café Nonna, but we could only get a table at 5:30 pm, which is kinda early. Walking from the car to the restaurant, though, it was dark enough to be at least 7 pm, so it felt like just the right time for dinner.
The days are getting longer now, they say; in incremental shifts, turn after turn, the earth is tilting and circling toward spring, they say. When there aren’t at least a couple of hills nearby with snow on them, I’m ready for spring as soon as the Christmas tree is gone, and in our house that’s before the magi from the east had a chance to make it to Bethlehem for a visit. For the next few weeks, I’ll be reminding myself, “The days are getting longer; hang in there!”
I don’t know how they celebrate Christmas in places like New Zealand or Zimbabwe where it’s the beginning of summer now – to me, it seems so appropriate to celebrate the birth of Jesus when the nights are long and cold. The season gives us such great images to speak of our deepest longing… for the sun of righteousness to rise, for God’s mercy to melt our frozen hearts, for the Spirit of life to light up our hope and joy.
Tomorrow is New Years Day, and astronomically speaking, it’s a completely random day, without any connection to an equinox or solstice; it’s just another day, whether you live on the northern or the southern hemisphere. Historically, though, it has come to mark a great moment in this country. When President Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation, freeing all the slaves in the Confederate States, it was to become law on January 1, 1863. And on December 31, 1862, African Americans, enslaved and free, all over the United States, gathered together in churches and homes, watching and waiting for freedom to come at midnight. It was Watch Night. They and their ancestors had been kidnapped, bound, chained, sold, whipped, raped, beaten and locked into a lifetime of forced labor. But this was Watch Night. Many must have spoken of tomorrow only with hushed voices, whispering their prayers, holding their breath while their entire bodies yearned to burst into dancing and singing. Oh, yes, President Lincoln’s had finally declared their freedom and affirmed their dignity as human beings, but that didn’t make it so in the eyes of their masters. And the Civil War would drag on for another three years. But this was Watch Night; this was Freedom’s Eve, the darkness before dawn. This was the night of Passover, the night when the house of slavery would collapse, and tomorrow the new day would dawn on the journey to the promised land. December 31, 1862: the prayers of generations finally answered, the long darkness finally illumined by first light. Freedom’s Eve, a week after Christmas Eve.
Last Sunday, the children told the story of Jesus’ birth with the joyful testimony of angels, shepherds, and magi bearing gifts. It was glorious! Today, Luke takes us to Jerusalem, to the temple, where Mary and Joseph have brought their child to present him to the Lord. And here we meet Simeon and Anna whose entire life has been Watch Night. Simeon has lived his years looking forward to the consolation of Israel, the redemption of God’s people from oppression, exile, and occupation. And Anna, also of great age, has devoted most of her life to fasting and prayer—fasting in mourning over the city, the people, and the land, and praying to center herself in the presence and promise of God.
They are old people—I know we’re not supposed to say that, but they are, which is why they didn’t make it to Bethlehem and why they’re never included in our Christmas pageants. They are bent by the years, I imagine. Their swollen joints hurt. Climbing stairs demands all their focus and strength. On their way across the temple courtyard they stop several times to catch their breath. Their backs hurt. Yes, they are bent by the years, but that doesn’t mean they can’t live on tiptoe. They do. They are Advent people, open to God’s promise, open with anticipation, open to the guidance of God’s Spirit. Their eyes may be dimmed by cataracts, but their vision is keen, and their hearts are tuned to detect even the faintest whisper of hope. Their whole being is open to the movements of God, and when Mary and Joseph bring their infant son, old Simeon and Anna are there, and they carry with them the history and the longing of their people.
I’ve been wondering these past few days what would be on Mary’s Instagram, and this picture was easy to imagine: the old man, his hand, gnarled with arthritis, cradling the infant’s head, and no, he’s not looking at Mary’s phone: all his attention belongs to this little one, and across his wrinkly face a smile beams with gentle, quiet delight, hovering between laughter and tears.
Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.
And Anna, also approaching the end of her days, adds her own praise and joy to the moment—she’ll be telling all who are watching and waiting for the redemption of life about this child.
But what have they seen, really? He’s just a baby. Whatever salvation he might bring is still only a promise and a hope. Nothing has happened yet. The world looks no different than yesterday. The poor still go hungry. The poor still get bombed. The poor still have their dignity and freedom denied. And it’s business as usual in the houses of the mighty. What is it Simeon and Anna have seen?
They have seen the dark night illumined by dawn’s first light. By the time the grown-up Jesus begins his ministry, Simeon and Anna will be long dead. So will most of those shepherds who went with haste to see the child in the manger. Some thirty years will pass before the story resumes with the baptism of Jesus. In the meantime, the ones who saw or held the baby, who knelt at his bed of hay, and who made known what had been told them about this child, did not know what became of him. They only knew the beginnings that tasted of fulfillment.
We too are people who have heard what has been told us about this child, we too have seen something but not yet its full unfolding. We have the scriptures that school us in hope and attentiveness. We have the stories and testimonies of our elders and ancestors. We have the memory of moments, when the tender compassion of our God has come close enough for us to see and feel. We have something like the shepherds would have had, recalling all their lives a night of mysterious glory. And we have been given the rest of the gospel story. We know what happened to the man the baby grew up to be. We know his astonishing compassion. We know his teachings. We have sat at his table. We have seen the promised future, we have entered and tasted it. Like Simeon and Anna, we may not get all the way to his future ourselves, not in this life—but we have seen it, and because we have seen it, we can go in peace.[1]And we can go with courage and hope, even into 2024.
David Steele wrote a poem about Simeon that begins with something a preacher said.
This preacher
Claimed scholarly research had documented
That Simeon,
Of Simeon and Anna,
Had pronounced the very same blessing
(The one in Luke 2:27-35)
Over all the babies presented to him in the Temple
Those final years of his life
…
He was pulling my leg, of course.
But when I read the blessing
And thought about it,
I began to wish he was right
About Simeon… and those babies.
And I began thinking about our babies.
And I wished someone,
Some Simeon, [some Anna,]
Might hold my grandbabies high… and yours…
Proclaiming to them with great conviction,
“You are the [salvation] of the world!”
Meaning it so absolutely
Those young’uns would live it,
And love it,
And make it happen! [2]
Now before you go on wrinkling your brow and making faces, suspecting blasphemous levity and poetic license gone too far, think about it. Don’t you wish every child dedicated in our sanctuary would live as a light to the world and to the glory of God’s people? Didn’t Jesus say as much when he said to the disciples, “You are the light of the world! Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”[3] Don’t you wish some Simeon or Anna would hold up every child on earth and recognize the promise of God and declare it with praise? Don’t you wish every old man and woman would recognize God in every child? I do, and I’m working on it.
Simeon and Anna were shaped by the promises of God, and over a lifetime of holy habits, their trust deepened into a way of being in the world that made them receptive to small beginnings. Living on the other side of Jesus’ death and resurrection, we see the beginnings they witnessed, the story yet to be completed, in the light of Easter; and why wouldn’t our wonder at the faithfulness of God be even greater than what Simeon and Anna were able to imagine? So let us praise God on this Freedom’s Eve. Let us praise God who will not cease to guide our feet into the way of peace, even in 2024.
[1] My thanks to John K. Stendahl, “Holding promise,” The Christian Century 119, no. 25 (December 4, 2002), 17.
[2] David Steele, The Next Voice You Hear: Sermons We Preach Together (Louisville: Geneva Press, 1999), 46.
[3] Matthew 5:14-15