Luke 2:22-40

When the time came for their purification according to the law of Moses, they brought Jesus up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord (as it is written in the law of the Lord, “Every firstborn male shall be designated as holy to the Lord”), and they offered a sacrifice according to what is stated in the law of the Lord, “a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons.”

Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying,

‘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 the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, ‘This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.’

There was also a prophet, Anna the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was of a great age, having lived with her husband for seven years after her marriage, then as a widow to the age of eighty-four. She never left the temple but worshipped there with fasting and prayer night and day. At that moment she came, and began to praise God and to speak about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.

When they had finished everything required by the law of the Lord, they returned to Galilee, to their own town of Nazareth. The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him.

Maybe you’ve seen this poem by Howard Thurman that seems, in the last few years to, appropriately, make its rounds on social media in the days after Christmas. Thurman was a Black American theologian, philosopher, writer, civil rights leader, born at the end of the 19th Century. He wrote a poem called The Work of Christmas Begins. It goes like this:

When the song of the angels is stilled,

when the star in the sky is gone,

when the kings and princes are home,

when the shepherds are back with their flocks,

the work of Christmas begins:

to find the lost,

to heal the broken,

to feed the hungry,

to release the prisoner,

to rebuild the nations,

to bring peace among the people,

to make music in the heart.

That’s a lot of work, don’t you think? It’s a reality-check, for sure. Frankly, it’s kind of a holiday buzz kill. It’s feels like a bah humbug moment, for anyone still basking in the glow of Christmas with fun plans for New Year’s Eve tonight. It makes me think of those people who already have their Christmas decorations packed up and put away. (You know who you are.)

But it makes me think of Simeon and Anna, in this morning’s Gospel for the First Sunday of Christmas, too. These sages of the synagogue who are hip to what Jesus was really all about.

This morning… the Holy Family… Jesus, Mary and Joseph, are doing their thing as faithful Jews in their day and age: it’s been eight days since his birth, so they’ve made their way to Jerusalem, for the required rituals of purification and for the baby’s dedication at the temple. They’ve brought their simple, customary sacrifice of some birds – two turtledoves or a couple of pigeons – nothing of much value, unless you’re a young, peasant couple in First Century Palestine.

And while they’re likely still tired from all of their recent travels and still shocked and surprised and trying to make sense of all that had already happened in their lives in the last week or so – those angels, that manger, the shepherds, and all the rest – and still living into what it means to be brand new parents and hopefully finding some joy in all of that … along comes this old guy in the temple, claiming to have been guided there by the Holy Spirit, saying all kinds of craziness about Jesus and to his parents; nothing altogether new that they hadn’t already heard from the angels or wondered about in Bethlehem, but still crazy, nonetheless.

Simeon wandered in off the street, looked at Jesus – this baby he’d never met – and claimed to be seeing, in him, the salvation of God … a light for revelation to the Gentiles … and glory to the people of Israel. And while all of that’s a tall order in-and-of itself, then comes the real kicker … the Howard Thurman, buzz-kill, bah humbug, reality-check, “Work of Christmas” kind of moment.

Simeon takes his eyes off of Jesus, turns his attention to the young parents, and says to Mary that her child is “destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel” and that this sweet little baby Jesus is going to “be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed” and that a sword would – somehow, someway – pierce the soul of Mary, because of it.

Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. Bah Humbug.

But seriously… This shouldn’t be news to us and may not have been all that surprising to Mary, really. She may never have been able to guess the details or predict the future of how it was all going to pan out, but Simeon was just another in a line of prophets and angels to let Mary know Jesus was destined for something big – that he was going to save his people from their sins, and whatnot.

So we have to wonder… like Mary must have wondered… what Simeon’s words announced… and what Howard Thurman’s words mean to inspire: What’s the point? What happens now? What do we do next about this “good news of great joy for all people?” What is the work of Christmas that Jesus’ birth and life meant to instigate?

Are we doing the work of Christmas if there’s still no peace in Israel and Palestine?

Are we doing the work of Christmas if God’s creation groans under the weight of our pollution and misuse?

Are we doing the work of Christmas if 44 million people in the US are food insecure?

Are we doing the work of Christmas if people of color are still imprisoned more often and for longer sentences than white people for the same crimes?

Are we doing the work of Christmas if we still spend and invest more on war than on healthcare?

Are we doing the work of Christmas if it’s all and only about the trappings and traditions we’ve created to make it all rhyme like a poem, sound like a song, sparkle like the lights on a tree, or shine like the candles we held to sing about silent, holy nights? Or about babies, tender and mild, sleeping in heavenly peace? (None of that sounds very much like the piercing sword Simeon was yapping about just eight days later in Jerusalem.)

But, speaking of candles … I didn’t come here just to rain on your New Year’s Eve parade. Howard Thurman wrote another Christmas poem that’s full of as much hope as “The Work of Christmas” is full of challenge. It goes like this:

I will light Candles this Christmas:

candles of joy despite all the sadness,

candles of hope where despair keeps watch,

candles of courage for fears ever present,

candles of peace for tempest-tossed days,

candles of grace to ease heavy burdens,

candles of love to inspire all my living,

candles that will burn all year long.

My prayer for these remaining days of Christmas, for this New Year’s Eve, and for every day of the year ahead is that we’ll be honest, deliberate, and faithful about what the work of Christmas looks like. That it’s not always clean and neat and tidy. But that it’s hard and holy a lot of the time, too. And that it’s our work to do – that it requires something of us – as recipients of and in grateful response for the gift of grace that has come in Jesus.

And that if we can’t … or when we won’t … or if we refuse … or when we don’t … we’ll at least light a candle maybe … to remind ourselves and to let others see that the work of Christmas can’t be packed up or put away; that it may never be complete on our watch; but that the light of God’s love in Jesus, always shines in the darkness of this world, and the darkness will never overcome it.

Amen. Merry Christmas. Happy New Year.

Lester Holt shared a story on the NBC Nightly News a few weeks ago that had me thinking about Christmas and what I knew we’d be up to tonight: celebrating that Jesus was born, in the flesh, so that the world could see and feel and experience the power of God in a way they hadn’t before. Check it out…

For my money, this artist – Tomás Bustos – does for people who can’t see the beauty of visual artwork, something like what God did at Christmas – and what God does, still – for anyone looking for the Divine in the world and in their lives. They bend the rules – God and Tomás. They do the unexpected. They go out of their way to let their work be seen by those who have a hard time doing that. They bring beauty and love to life – to be “seen” in new ways that matter for whoever’s looking, and sometimes for those who thought they’d never see it.

The gift of Christmas … what theologians call the Incarnation … the revelation of God in the person of Jesus from Nazareth … is about God re-imagining everything we think we know – or ever thought to look for – in our quest for understanding what makes God, God; and why that changes everything for us and for the world.

What I mean is, until Jesus showed up, God was off-limits, relatively speaking. God was around, and present, and active in the world – and always had been – don’t get me wrong. But in Jesus, God came close in a new way.

As Scripture tells it, before Jesus, in the story of creation, God was like a spirit of some sort that moved over the face of the waters. In Scripture, before Jesus, in the Garden of Eden, God was like the sound of the evening breeze. Before Jesus, God was a burning bush. Before Jesus, God was a pillar of clouds or a pillar of fire. Before Jesus, God was like the untouchable ark of the covenant. (The ark itself was, literally, not to be touched by the average bear.) Before Jesus, God was like the sound of sheer silence – whatever the heaven that means.

In Jesus, though … at Christmas? … God got even more creative than all of that – pillars of clouds, burning bushes, and evening breezes, I mean. Like Tomás Bustos, the artist in that news story, God opened up a whole new world for the world as we know it. What once seemed unknowable and off-limits and untouchable had shown up precisely to be touched, to be felt, to be embraced, and understood differently altogether – in Jesus.

(Think of the sick woman who touched the hem of Jesus’ cloak – as though she were running her fingers along the embroidery of Mona Lisa’s dress – and was healed because of it. Or the other who washed Jesus’ feet with her tears and dried them with her hair – like maybe she was seeing the Mona Lisa smile with her fingertips for the first time ever. Or that disciple whom Jesus loved so much he reclined against him at the Last Supper, like maybe he was resting under Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” sky in a way he never could have appreciated before.)

In Jesus, the beauty and peace and hope and presence of God was no longer out of reach. God wasn’t to be kept in a frame on the wall, or behind a curtain in the holy of holies, or safe and secure from the trials and troubles of life as we know it.

And, while that’s good news – great news, really – it’s nothing many of you haven’t heard me say in one way or another before, especially on Christmas Eve, over the years. So, I thought I’d kick it up a notch and dig a little deeper and take all of this a bit further this time around.

Because way back in the Hebrew scriptures, in the book of Genesis, there’s a story about Hagar, a poor young girl, who was enslaved and forced to carry and to bear the child of her enslavers – Abram and Sarai – when they couldn’t conceive a child of their own because, as the story goes, Sarai was believed to be barren. When Hagar became pregnant she fled, out of fear and contempt for her master and mistress. And she had a run-in with God somewhere in the middle of the desert. And God told her, “You have conceived and shall bear a son and you shall call him…” (Sound familiar?) “…and you shall call him Ishmael, for the Lord has given heed to your affliction.”

And the cool thing about this story – and why it came to mind for me tonight – is that Hagar, this poor, lowly, enslaved young girl with about as much status, credibility, and value in her day as the desert sand beneath her feet, is known for being the first person in all of Scripture to have had the nerve to give God a name – something you just didn’t do way back when. (You didn’t come near... You didn’t touch… And you didn’t speak the name of the almighty.) And the name Hagar gave to God – the God who met her in her darkest hour of deepest need – was “el Roi.” And “el Roi,” according to smarter people than me, means “the God who sees me.”

“The God who sees me.”

So, just as I always imagine and celebrate and give thanks that Christmas is about God coming to live and move and breathe among us so that we might see God differently… in the flesh… for a change. Hagar – and Jesus – remind me that God always sees us differently, too. That God shows up even and especially in our darkest, most desperate hours some of the time, and sees in us something the rest of the world – and maybe even we, ourselves – don’t see or refuse to look at.

Like, where the world sees a worthless slave girl, God sees a bold, brave, beautiful force for and source of life.

Where the world sees a Republican or a Democrat; or an “L” a “G” a “B” a “T” or a “Q”; where the world sees an Israeli or a Palestinian; a Russian or a Ukrainian; a Jew, a Muslim, or a Christian – Jesus sees a child of God.

Where the world sees a sinner, God sees forgiveness.

Where the world sees war, God sees the possibility for peace.

Where the world sees despair, God sees hope.

Where the world sees death, God sees new life.

Where the world sees a grudge, God sees grace.

And where we – and the world – look at ourselves and each other and see, too often, the worst thing(s) we’ve ever done, Jesus sees, instead, the beloved children we were created to be – and always are – in the eyes of our maker.

And in seeing all of it, God, in Jesus, gives up his life so that we would know what love looks like, and so that we might live differently – on this side of heaven and the next – in response to that deep, abiding, everlasting gift.

So Merry Christmas in the name of the God who came so that we might see LOVE in all of its fullness and in new ways, every day. And so that we might know that we are seen, each of us – in our joy and our sorrow, in our grief and our gladness – by the fullness of that LOVE, just the same… and just in time, perhaps… and just because we’re worth it, always, in the eyes of our creator.

Amen