A New, Gentle Morning

When I wrote this sermon, it was early - everyone else was still asleep from our Christmas celebration.  The sun steadily rose over freshly fallen snow across the field and pond that was framed by the picture window in my in-laws living room.  For a moment, I felt like I viewing some kind of Kinkade painting.  And, considering that I don’t get a whole lot of both quiet and snowy moments as a father of two in Austin, I put on my shoes and headed outside.  Heading out, I just took a moment to let the environment sink in.  It was winter quiet; crisp and clear save for my own breath.  And though the world was dormant, it felt alive, verdant.  It felt holy.

Then, of course, I came in a little later and checked the news, and also took some time to check Twitter feed.  And, of course, those sources painted a different world.  One of destruction and pain - everywhere I looked there was a reason to be upset.  How could one not be?

We don’t seem the be a society that’s hopeful - Gallup recently released a report stating that about 27% of Americans are satisfied with the way things are going in the country.[FN]  We can’t go too long without hearing about some person in power failing us somehow - a new lie, a new assault.  And we also seem to look forward to it: when a few years ago, a news website in Russia decided to only find the silver lining in their news stories, their online readership decreased by 2/3rds [fn].

All of this continued to remind me of a famous poem written by Dylan Thomas, entitled Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight:

    Do not go gentle into that good night,
    Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
        
    Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
    Because their words had forked no lightning they
    Do not go gentle into that good night.
        
    Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
    Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
        
    Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
    And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
    Do not go gentle into that good night.
        
    Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
    Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
        
    And you, my father, there on that sad height,
    Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
    Do not go gentle into that good night.
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I can’t help but think that our society continues to tell ourselves a story of rage and death.  Our world is coming to an end, and so we must fight.  Moreover we must go out with “words that fork lightning” - sparking some kind of wildfire.  And so, looking at the sunset, we continue to rage at everything we can, everyone a potential enemy, ready to finally snuff out the last light.

In a world like that, it’s hard to imagine the words of Isaiah - that the world is bright with righteousness, a righteousness that sprouts up as naturally and regularly as the spring, shines clearly and brightly such that everyone will see and will rejoice in.  And it’s not just humanity that will praise God and God’s righteousness, but as the Psalm says - storms and winds, mountains and hills, all creatures - they will claim God’s glory, giving praise to God.  

What kind of world tells that story?

I wonder what Mary and Joseph thought when they made their way to the temple.  They were doing what any faithful Jewish parents would do - at the end of forty days, they were taking their child to be consecrated, and brought two turtle doves to be sacrificed, as they couldn’t afford the customary dove and lamb.  They had to go on a family trip all around the countryside, and here they are, ready to present Jesus at the temple.  I imagine that at this point, exhausted doesn’t even begin to cover how Mary and Joseph feel - giving birth, having visitors, more travel - and I’m dreading getting back to Austin this week, and I have the benefit of a DVD player and a car.  But, here they are.

And here, in this moment, we are introduced to two people we don’t meet in any of the other gospels - Simeon and Anna.  Luke describes both Simeon and Anna as individuals towards the end of their lives, and each having unique parts of their stories.  Simeon was “holy and devout... waiting for the consolation of Israel.”  The word in Greek that is translated “consolation” is παράκλησιν, a word that could be translated more directly “called close to” - Simeon continued to hope for the day that Israel would be drawn near again to God, and so, it seems, dutifully remained at the Temple, paying attention to the prodding of the Holy Spirit.

We also find out more about Anna.  Luke tells us she’s from the tribe of Asher - a tribe from the North, known for its riches.  But Anna seems as though she had lost much - having been widowed after seven years, she had lived as a widow for decades (the text doesn’t make clear if she’s eighty-four years old, or has been a widow for 84 years, making her closer to 100 years old), likely being supported in community without her own means.  She too, remained near the temple, living as a prophet, speaking the word of God to the people, inviting them into new living.  She also seems to be at least if not more devoted than Simeon; never leaving the temple, devoting time to prayer and fasting.

Each had reasons to rage - Simeon’s dream deferred, Anna’s lot and loss, both close to the end of their lives - and yet when the two meet Mary, Joseph, and Jesus, the story told is markedly different.  Simeon found God calling Israel near in the Emmanuel, God with us.  And he celebrates Jesus as one who would redeem not just Israel, but the whole world as well - Jews and Gentiles alike.  Anna proclaims in her prophetic voice that this child is the one that will bring restoration.  And underneath their stories, we can begin to sense the world as the Psalmist imagines and as Isaiah proclaims.  That, perhaps, the world is not bound for a dark, raging night; but instead in the Christ child a new, gentle morning breaks.  That in that moment, exhausted parents diligently showed up in church and brought the individual that would change the entire course of Creation’s path.

I think this is why Luke tells us not once but twice that Mary and Joseph were amazed.  As much as I adore my two children, if someone at a couple months old picked them up and said how they were going to be the child that will be the salvation of our nation, well, it’ll be a little hard to believe.  I’m hopeful for my children to do well in life, but I’m not expect them to usher in a new epoch.  At least not until they’re through preschool.

But here’s the gift of the Christmastide season, nestled in between the anticipation of Advent and the regular business of Ordinary Time - it reminds us that we know what hope is.  We often do ourselves a disservice by celebrating Christ’s birth without hearing how the one who was fully-God, fully-human was rewriting our stories before he could speak.  That just simply by showing up in the normal business of “doing-what-good-faithful-people-do” he brought peace to priests and prophets who had every reason to be angry, every reason to rage because their worlds had not caught fire.  That while it might not be entirely without strife, the world is headed towards redemption.  

And if this hope can be nestled within the ordinary temple visit, I’m convinced it can - and is - happening in the ordinary moments of 2017 and in the new, soon-to-be-moments of 2018.  That we are not dying, raging towards a certain bleak end, but an entirely new way of living.  That while we need to call attention to the broken parts of this world and work towards justice, the deeds of those oppressing are not the final voice.  That the poor and disenfranchised - the people of the world who can only afford two turtledoves - they are just as central to the story of redemption as the wealthy and powerful.  That we need not go gentle into a good night, but we need not rage against the dying light, either.  Everyone and everything changed when the child showed up at Temple.

And, so, my dear siblings in Christ, as we walk through these next days in the beautiful and blustery mid-winter when all seems silenced, know that the verdant, pregnant spring will shoot forth claiming the righteousness of the child, and once again, all of Creation will praise the risen one as he grows in our midst.  Amen.