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Sermons at St. John’s Presbyterian Church …for
my eyes have seen your salvation St. John’s Presbyterian Church 2727 College Avenue, Berkeley, CA 94705 Telephone 510-845-6830 Fax 510-845-6837 office@stjohns.presbychurch.net http://www.stjohns.presbychurch.net The book of Leviticus tells us that a
woman who had given birth to a son was considered ritually unclean, and
therefore not allowed to touch any holy object or enter the sanctuary, for
forty days. If she gave birth to a
girl, by the way, she was considered unclean for twice as long. When her time of impurity was past, she was
to go to the priest and offer a lamb and a turtledove or pigeon. If she was unable to afford a sheep, she was
to offer two turtledoves. Since Luke
tells us that Mary offered two turtle doves, we know that she and Joseph were
poor. The other reason for making a
sacrifice, as mentioned, was to present Jesus, the firstborn son of Joseph and
Mary. Firstborn sons belonged to God
and were under the authority of the temple.
By making payment to the temple, a father could, in effect, buy back his
son, and take him home. In some cases,
like the prophet Samuel, his parents dedicated their son to the priests, and he
would be in their care and serve in the temple his whole life long. Luke does not mention either that Jesus was
bought back, or that he stayed in the temple. In just three verses, then, Luke
establishes that Jesus grew up a devout Jew, and that his parents were not
wealthy. Later on, when Jesus
challenges the authorities from the religious community, Luke wants the reader
to understand it is an insider challenging the status quo, not some
Gentile. Also, Luke is the champion of
the poor. This is in contrast to
Matthew, who tells us about Jesus’ genealogy, from Abraham to David and from
David to Joseph. From the start,
Matthew is concerned with lineage, with King Herod and the wise men from the
east, great matters of state, and how a little baby upset the established
order. Luke, on the other hand, tells
us about a couple too poor to make a proper sacrifice, but who nonetheless are
faithful to their Jewish heritage. It
is Luke, and no one else, to whom we are indebted for the story of the babe
lying in a manger, and the visiting ragtag band of shepherds. A remarkable thing happens next. An old man, Simeon, who has as a constant
companion the Holy Spirit, comes up and takes the child in his arms and says
those words that have come down to us through the ages, known by the first two
words of the Latin translation, Nunc
dimittis: 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. There
is a play on words here. If we were to
translate the child’s name directly from Hebrew, rather than letting it bounce
from Hebrew to Aramaic to Greek to Latin and finally to English, it would not
be Jesus, but Joshua, which means “God is salvation.” When Simeon says his eyes have seen God’s salvation, he is saying
he has seen Joshua, whose name means God’s salvation. Has anyone here looked deeply into a
six-week-old baby’s eyes and not seen
God’s salvation? Hold that thought. After Simeon has declared that Jesus
is a light for revelation to all people, not just Jews, and offers a few
ominous words about a painful future, he is joined by Anna. Anna is either eighty-four years old, or has
lived eighty-four years past her seven-year marriage to her deceased
husband. In either case, she is older
than most of us sitting here around this table. She corroborates Simeon’s testimony about the child. In keeping with the pattern Luke has
already begun, these are not words spoken by the high priest. They are not the words of the king. They are not uttered within the holy of
holies. One wonders that these words
were ever written down at all. These
are not people who would have been followed around by reporters from MSNBC, or
Fox News, or even KGO. Heck, it isn’t
likely the Daily Californian would be
covering these two. As an old widow,
Anna is below the bottom rung of the social ladder. She is the dirt upon which the ladder sits. Prophet and devout worshipper that she is,
she still would have no standing among the Jews of first century
Palestine. Simeon isn’t much better
off. He is an old man who is about to
die. Notwithstanding his constant
communion with the Holy Spirit, he simply didn’t pack much political punch. And yet here are verses that have been
set to music more times than anyone can count.
The Nunc Dimittis, along with
the Magnificat, or song of Mary,
makes up the shorter service of the Anglican Church. I have directed performances of no less than four settings of it
this year, by Thomas Tallis, Orlando Gibbons, Robert Parsons, and Thomas
Weelkes. A couple of months ago, we
sang a setting of it in worship.
Against all odds, and to the bewilderment of marketing teams and
research analysts, this little ditty has been on the hit parade for a very long
time. It appears that, while Matthew’s
gospel is intent on proving Jesus’ divine
nature, Luke is much more interested in his human
nature. In Luke’s account, Jesus comes
from simple folk. They are not
educated, and they are not well connected.
How seriously should we take them? So when was the last time you looked into the eyes of a six-week-old
baby? Did you see God’s salvation
there? When was the last time you played with
a kitten, or stroked the hair on an old dog’s belly? When was the last time you smelled the sap of a tree, or the
richness of earth around its roots?
When was the last time you took time to savor the flavor of your
food? The sweetness of syrup, the
texture of a pancake? When did you last
notice, really notice, the difference in the feeling on your skin between a
brisk breeze and the warmth of someone’s body before you even touch? When was the last time your eyes saw the
salvation of God? When I was a teenager I read The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R.
Tolkien. There is a poem in it, by the
hobbit Bilbo Baggins, written about the exiled king Aragorn. Aragorn does not wear a crown. His clothes blend in with the forest. He does not stand out: he does not appear to be a king at all. And so the poem goes:
Not
all those who wander are lost. The
old that is strong does not wither; Deep
roots are not reached by the frost. For
the longest time, I tried to rewrite that first line, because I was sure that
what Tolkien, or Bilbo, intended, was that not all that is gold glitters. It was difficult, though, to get the rhyme
and meter right. I have used that poem now three times
in sermons, over the years. It has kept
nagging at me, that first line, over the past three decades or so: All
that is gold does not glitter. I
think perhaps it was intended exactly that way. In other words, if it glitters, it’s not the real thing. That is a sentiment with which the
gospel writer Luke would probably agree.
God’s salvation is not revealed, typically, in the seat of power,
nestled in the lap of luxury, wrapped in sparkle of high society. How could it be, if it is the sort of
salvation that is, in Simeon’s words, prepared in the presence of all peoples? All that is gold does not glitter. I have come to gauge friendship in
light of this idea. My strongest
friendships have been mostly with people who do not glitter, at least not on
the surface. In most cases, there was
not an instant spark of energy when we first met, so much as a sense of trust. And so God’s salvation comes to us, in
the everyday, simple things. If we pay
attention, we can taste that salvation in a shared meal. We can feel it in the breeze on our skin. We can hear it in a baby’s giggle. We can see it in the life that is all around
us. May each of us see God’s salvation
today. Amen. |