Presentation of Christ in the Temple

 

As many of you will know, Jo and I are members of the Sunderland Strollers running club. At the start of each year, the club runs a Beginners’ group, for anyone who wants to get into running. It is, obviously, a self-selecting group—not everyone is interested in running—but some come only able to run 100 yards. We tell them that if they stick with it, over 12 weeks, we will get them to the point where they can run for 5 miles without stopping. It won’t necessarily be fast—we will focus on stamina, not speed, which some will choose to work on later—but it is achievable. By increasing the distance little by little, and how often they go for a run, they will become a runner—perhaps to their own amazement.

We—the congregation of St Nicholas,’ here this morning—are also a self-selecting group (called by God; drawn-in by others; but you choose to be here). Along with congregations across Durham Diocese, we are called to a life of ‘Blessing our communities in Jesus’ name’. Not those who run, but those who bless—in how we think and what we say and do. And perhaps you might say, “I couldn’t pronounce a blessing, I wouldn’t know the right words to use”—as if it depended on getting the words right, like some sort of magic spell. But think of anything that you do know how to do—speak, or walk, or read. You weren’t born able to do that, you learnt: by repetitive practice, by trial and error, and by example.

Accompanied by her husband, a young mother brings her firstborn son to public worship for the first time, at forty days old. As they come into the space and look around, an older man approaches, takes the child in his arms (always ask for, and be given, permission before doing this; and don’t take offence if permission is not forthcoming) and sings a song of praise. First, he honours God; then, he blesses the father and mother, and their child. As he does so, an older woman joins them, takes up the theme, and extends it to include others who had gathered in that place.

Simeon was not a priest, not the public face of the faith. Anna was recognised as a prophet, an oracle who spoke words of godly wisdom; but she had no official role or office. They were simply human beings who were well-soaked in the ways of God. And uttering blessings is central to such a life—not something reserved for vicars. You don’t even need to be Christian.

To bless something—whether a person, or some other part of creation, or a place, or a tool, or a circumstance—is to affirm its essential goodness. From our faith perspective, that essential goodness is God-given.

Jewish blessings always begin, ‘Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe …’

Christian blessings, which derive from Jewish blessings, are similarly framed, ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation …’

If we are to bless, we first need to meet what we find, where we find it, and then pay it attention. Simeon meets Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus in the temple court, takes the child in his arms, and pays close attention. Then, he speaks out what he sees.

My back door faces east, and I can stand there a while and watch the sunrise. ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, giver of light and love. And blessed be you, O dawn, that paints the sky in pink and orange to welcome the day.’

Then, as I stand there, I become aware of the dawn chorus. ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, who feeds the birds of the air. And blessed be you, garden bird, who fills the sky with your song.’

Or perhaps this morning it is raining, and I can choose to be grumpy about that or I can choose to bless the rain. ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, who gives the water of life. And blessed be you, rain, that refreshes the earth.’

If we can get into the habit of blessing, it will form us over time, so that we meet all things open to the goodness hidden within them—even if that goodness is not immediately apparent. So, for example, if you fall and break your leg, ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, who has fashioned our flesh and bone. And blessed be you, O femur, who have borne my weight all these years, and who now calls me to rest and to heal.’

So, let us have a go, and together learn how to bless. Who, or what, might you bless today?

 

Candlemas 2020

Gospel reading: Luke 2:22-40

Once upon a time in Pallion [here in Sunderland] there was born a boy called Joseph Swan, who would grow up to become a physicist, chemist and inventor. He was one of a number of independent pioneers of the incandescent lightbulb, and the first person to light both private homes and public buildings solely by electric light. And while, today, his successors are pioneering new ways to generate electricity, we can’t conceive of living in the world without such light.

There are times, however, when electric light doesn’t cut it. Birthday celebrations. Romantic dinners. The self-care of a deep bubble-bath. A family remembering a loved one who is no longer with us. A community keeping vigil in the wake of tragedy. Some moments cry out to be candle-lit.

Today is Candlemas, when people have traditionally brought candles to church to be blessed. As you arrived today, you were given a candle. You might even have brought one with you. We no longer depend on them for our day-to-day existence. But they still speak to us of the mystery of life. They point beyond themselves to those moments in which we are privileged to glimpse a revelation of the glory of a people who reflect God’s glory in the world.

Do you feel glorious? Do you feel glorious, on this cold February morning, on which you have struggled, with the circumstances of your life, to get here? Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps you feel as small as the unlit candle in your hand, in this artificially lit room.

Once upon a time in Jerusalem there was an old man called Simeon, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. The imagery of that statement recalls the dove sent out by Noah [whose name means Rest] after the Great Flood, who finds an olive tree standing amid the devastation, a place to land and rest, and return with a symbol of new beginning. [It is an image juxtaposed with the sacrifice of a pair of turtle doves, of new life and death hand-in-hand...]

Simeon knew that he was going to die, and walked towards that moment in the comfort and courage that comes from the Holy Spirit. Of course, he didn’t know when he would die; but he did know that there was something he needed to see first. And when he had seen it — when he had seen Jesus, the anointed One — nothing and everything changed. He still knew that he was going to die; he still didn’t know when — would it be that night? within days? or longer? — and he was still enabled by the comforting, encouraging Spirit: but now he describes himself as a slave who has been given his freedom by his master, in gratitude for his years of service. Now he steps into a new chapter, a new adventure, a new life.

And the first thing that Simeon does with this new-found freedom is to bless a young family. Though it may sound a strange blessing to our ears. First, he blesses the child as one destined for the falling and rising of many. The Greek words convey ruin and resurrection. This child will be a sign of life falling apart, and being given back, by God, demonstrating his justice and mercy. And then Simeon blesses Mary, saying, you too, young girl holding your baby, with life stretching ahead of you, will die; will know the breath of God cut free from the earth it now animates. That’s a blessing? Yes! Because to bless is to release something: and Simeon is releasing the consolation of God’s people; and releasing Mary from the fear of death.

Anna, likewise, is an elder among her people, soaked in prayer, waiting to welcome this liberation for the people of God, overflowing in celebration. She knows the blessings Simeon speaks of; she has lived them.

When a baby is brought to a place like this — into a community like that — the one thing we can know with absolute certainty is that they are going to die. We don’t know whether they will feel at home within, or estranged from, their community. We don’t even know whether they will feel at home within, or estranged from, themselves. We don’t know who will love them, and who will hurt them; or whom they will love, and whom they will hurt. We don’t know when they will die — whether their lives will be cut short like the baby boys of Bethlehem; or spared unto old age, like Simeon and Anna. We can say with some confidence but without precision that they will know ruin and resurrection, as Anna’s life story testifies. But the one thing we can say for sure is that they will die. We will die.

And yet, as a society, we live as if we are immortal. In absolute, terrified denial of death. It doesn’t matter if we live today in electric light, just passing the hours between yesterday and tomorrow, because there will always be tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, and we can get around to lighting the candles then.

But we do not know which birthday will be the last birthday. We do not know when we will find ourselves eating alone; or when it will become too laborious to lower ourselves into, and lift ourselves out of, the bath. We do not know how many losses we shall know, nor how many vigils we will be called upon to keep. So, don’t hold back. Light the candles, at every opportunity. Candles that have been blessed, to hallow our days, that we might live life in its fullness. For that is why Jesus, the Christ, came.

At the end of our service this morning, we shall light our candles and bless them, in celebration and remembrance of what God has done for his people, and in an act of rededicating ourselves to bear and to live in that light in the world. You’ll find the words* we will say on an insert at the back of your order of service. Take the insert home with you, use these words as a prayer over the coming days. Light your candle at home; or give it to someone who can’t be here, to say, ‘here is the light of hope.’

May you live in that light all the days of your life. And may you go from this place, into whatever adventure awaits, in the three-fold peace of the releasing Master, the raised Infant, and the resting Spirit. Amen.

*Alternative Candlemas Procession, Common Worship: Times and Seasons, p. 205

Blessed are you, Lord our God,

King of the universe.

Blessed be God for ever.

Your light shines on us

and all peoples shall see your glory.

Blessed be God for ever.

You gave us Jesus to be the light of the world;

he makes our darkness to be light.

Blessed be God for ever.

Through the Holy Spirit your love burns within us,

bearing witness to your truth.

Blessed be God for ever.

As we bear your light,

may our lips never cease to sing your praise.

Blessed be God for ever.

Blessed be God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Blessed be God for ever.

Father, we have sung your praise with shepherds and angels:

may Christ be born in our hearts today.

Praise to Christ our light.

We have shared in the joy of Simeon and Anna;

help us, like them, to trust your word.

Praise to Christ our light.

We have greeted Jesus, the light of the world;

may we be filled with the light of your love.

Praise to Christ our light.

We stand near the place of new birth.

Let us shine with the light of your love.

We turn from the crib to the cross.

Let us shine with the light of your love.

We go to carry his light.

Let us shine with the light of your love.

Thanks be to God.