Beholding Glory
“The glory of the Lord filled the temple of the Lord; and I fell upon my face”
It feels a little as though we have been hurled around in a liturgical time machine during the past six weeks – racing forwards at an amazing pace, from the birth of a baby boy, visits by strange people from a far off land bringing even stranger gifts; then in a flash, forwards about thirty years – the little boy has grown into a man, is baptised and at that moment, gets a very real sense of who he is and what his life’s work should be. We have experienced moments when we have glimpsed the power of God at work in our midst and then almost without warning, we are hurled back, liturgically speaking, to share a moment (and what a moment) in the babyhood of Jesus and his parents.
That moment takes us to the Temple in Jerusalem, but the lectionary writers take us first to a time about six hundred years earlier. In the chapters immediately preceding the passage we have just heard, the prophet Ezekiel, in exile in Babylon, is transported in a vision to Israel, to a high mountain, and a man whose appearance shone like bronze took him on a tour of the temple – not an ordinary tour, but a tour that looked at the building in very great detail, measuring as they go. I cannot begin to comprehend the meaning of those measurements in an architectural sense, but I do get the very real sense of how important, how impressive, how beautiful this temple was, and how essential it was to get all that detail right. Everything is prescribed down to what must be washed and where, what must be offered as a sacrifice and where. Then into the middle of this mundane particularity, God comes to his temple and fills it with his glory. Ezekiel could only prostrate himself in wonder and in awe.
St. Luke ends his stories about the birth of Jesus where he began – in the temple in Jerusalem. These stories also begin with a vision, but this time it was Zechariah while on priestly duty. In his vision, he is told that his wife, who had lived for so long in seclusion because of the disgrace that childlessness brought, would in her old age bear a son. Today’s story involves another woman who has known the pain of social disgrace, disgrace born this time as a result of bearing a child – but outside marriage. How fickle we humans can be. And as St. Luke draws us back to the temple, God enters again, this time as a tiny baby in his mother’s arms.
This little one was at the centre of a religious ritual, brought to the temple by his devout parents in full accordance with religious law and custom. Following the birth of her baby, Mary would have been forbidden to visit the synagogue with other women, until she had been ritually purified. Now the time for her purification and the presentation to God of her first born had arrived. For many families, this would have been a time of great rejoicing and celebration, surrounded by family and friends, but not for Mary, Joseph and their baby. This young family travelled alone to fulfil the requirements of their religion; certainly Luke makes no mention here of them travelling in company. And like all young families as they journey, I daresay they carried with them not just their baby, but their hopes and dreams for him, their joys and undoubtedly the fears that so often lurk not too far beneath the surface. They travelled alone as she had travelled alone to Elizabeth just months earlier, no one around to support or encourage them. They bring with them the minimum that the law required for those who were poor – two turtle doves.
And then, when they reached the Temple, this wise old man, Simeon, did what the majority of people failed to do and recognises in the small family group before him something far from the ordinary. He sees cradled in the arms of this young woman a lamb, the helpless vulnerable Lamb of God in the arms of the poor.
Centuries earlier, Ezekiel saw the glory of the Lord in the temple in what he clearly knew was a vision, and yet it was something for which he yearned, for which he longed. Like Ezekiel, Simeon has longed for, waited patiently, watched and prayed for this moment, and then recognises the moment for what it is. How unlike so many of the people at the time, how unlike many who would encounter Jesus in the years to come; how unlike us when we fail to see the glory of God in the eyes, in the lives of those who are different to us, those we struggle to understand, those whom we judge. Simeon gently takes the baby from his mother, and speaks in those remarkable words we know as the Nunc Dimitus, words that have brought comfort and peace to people down the years at the end of each day and at the end of life. The power and significance of those words dawned on me afresh last week as I recited them, leading Winnie Spence from this church, in which she had worshipped so faithfully, for the last time.
St. Luke tells us that the child’s mother and father were amazed at what was being said – and no wonder; if the experience months earlier wasn’t disconcerting enough, what on earth did this old man mean. And then those words – 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. I can imagine an icy blast shooting down her spine. It will be several years later when perhaps those words will come flooding back to her. For now the lamb is safely cradled in his mother’s arms, but in years to come, he will be sacrificed, but outside the city walls.
Luke leads us on through the temple to meet Anna and is careful to tell us that she, like Simeon, is very elderly. He also tells us that she is from the tribe of Asher, a people who had been driven from their homelands or killed by the Assyrians many, many years earlier. Anna had lived just seven years with her husband before she was widowed. From that moment, we are told, she never left the temple, ‘but worshipped night and day with fasting and prayer.’ Like Simeon, both her patience and perseverance have paid off. When this little family group left the temple, Anna talked, we are told, about the child she had seen to all who were looking for the liberation of Jerusalem. The glory of God shines in the temple in the arms of this poor country girl and her husband. Ezekiel, Simeon and Anna have persevered, have actively looked for the presence of God in their midst and have been rewarded but the light of love and hope and joy flooding the temple. But even in the middle of that beautifully profound moment, a shadow falls. The events we have witnessed lead us away from the joy and celebrations of the Christmas and Epiphany seasons and point us towards an altogether more challenging and painful period.
Cradled in the warmth, comfort and security of her arms, Mary takes her baby and with Joseph, they make their way back to Nazareth. In years to come, there would be little warmth, little comfort. While Ezekiel, Simeon and Anna had actively sought the glory of God, there will be others who are far from pleased by what they see, who will turn their backs on that glory once recognised and celebrated in the Temple, who will reject the Truth before them, and who will ultimately nail perfect love to a cross.
It is perhaps all too easy to become sentimental at Christmas time, but today we are reminded that our faith cannot be without pain; but we are also reminded that even in the midst of darkest moments, the light of God’s glory shines, and the darkness will never overcome it. We know that dark horror of Good Friday is followed by the shining glory of Easter day.
Ezekiel, Simeon and Anna, in awe and wonder, praised God when they had witnessed the light of His glory in their midst. We too are called to kneel in wonder, awe and praise as we experience the light of God’s presence in the world around us, in the eyes of the people amongst whom we live, with whom we work and play. Amen.
Lesley McCormack, 31st January, 2010
