The Sashes of Our Inner Souls

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” [Luke 2:34-35].

In this Sunday’s Gospel lesson, Luke 2:22-40 [First Sunday After Christmas Day, RCL, Year B], Joseph and Mary continue their delicate “dance” with the secular and the sacred. Following secular law, they had traveled to Bethlehem to complete new W-9 forms in order that they could be properly taxed by the secular savior of the world, Caesar Augustus [Luke 2:1]. In this week’s lesson, following sacred law, they’ve traveled to the Jerusalem Temple to satisfy the requirements laid out in Leviticus 12:3-8.

According to that ancient text, after a woman gave birth to a son, she would be considered ritually unclean for 40 days. At the end of that period, she and her husband were to bring a specific offering to the synagogue, or in this case, to the Temple, since they were close enough to do so, in order that the priest might offer their gift up as a sacrifice, effecting Mary’s purification. The Lucan text provides us with an important detail here: Mary and Joseph brought “a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons” [2:24]. This was the appropriate offering for people who were poor.

Because we are so far removed from the time of the text, we may miss the heavy irony within this story told only in Luke’s Gospel. While the reader can see that the sacred setting—the Temple—references a time and a place within which traditions could be observed, by the time Luke writes these words and the early Christian congregations hear and read them in worship, that same Temple has been destroyed by Caesar’s legions (in 70 A.D.). It turns out that the secular prince is not a man of peace, but rather a tyrant with a sword. Only the true Prince of Peace offers love and hope.

Returning to this week’s story, while they are in the temple, Mary and Joseph meet an interesting character, Simeon. Righteous and devout, Simeon, upon whom the Holy Spirit rests, looks forward to “consolation of Israel” [2:25]. Indeed, the Holy Spirit had revealed to Simeon that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the same Spirit, Simeon came into the temple, encountered Mary, Joseph, and the child, Jesus. Then, taking the infant into his arms, Simeon declares that his eyes have seen salvation.

That’s the good news we’ve all been waiting to hear. As St. Paul would later point out in his letter to the Galatian church [Galatians 4:4-7, the Epistle reading for this Sunday, the First Sunday After Christmas, RCL, Year B]:

But when the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, in order to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children [Galatians 4:4-5].

Indeed, “all is calm; all is bright.” Or so it seems. And yet, we know from other stories that the birth of Jesus is not Good News for everyone. Herod will view the news so negatively that he will order the death of all male babies born in and around Bethlehem around the time identified by the Magi as the time of the new king’s birth. Parenthetically, I’d note that tomorrow (December 28) is the Feast of the Holy Innocents, the Holy Feast in which many Christians remember the massacre of those ordered killed by Herod [Matthew 2:16-18].

Returning to happier thoughts, within the Lucan text, as happy as any “dedication” of a child might be, if one carefully listens, one can hear the approach of a qualifying statement, a caveat—a “but.” Indeed, as soon as Simeon has handed the baby back to His mother, he warns the parents that their child not only signifies the presence of God’s salvation, this Little One is also “destined for the falling and the rising of many [2:34].

No one, not even Simeon, knows yet about the Innocents. Simeon’s concern is for all of humanity. Within Simeon’s powerful word picture, the “falling and rising” will not be the consequence of soldiers or war, or famine, or economic disaster. Nor will it result from a storm or natural conflagration. The falling and rising will instead occur through disruptive transparency, as people’s “inner thoughts” [2:35] are truly revealed.

Essentially, Simeon allows that the existence of the Messiah in the world becomes a sort of litmus test. Through the presence and power of Christ, represented in the life of an infant brought to Temple by poor parents who, along with their child, are in grave danger, all the sashes of our inner souls are thrown open to reveal what lies therein. To be sure, what lies beneath contains elements of great beauty; alas, yet also laced therein are both ugliness and sin. Simeon senses, I think, that the call of Christ must either be heeded or ignored. Christ’s call differs drastically from that of the world.

The siren call of the secular gods is loud and insistent. It is alluring. Ah, yet the call of the secular siren is inherently dishonest. It allows that we can move down the cafeteria line, choosing a bit of this, a dollop of that, all the while rationalizing that such choices, after all, are ours to make. The secular siren insists that we can be the masters of our fate, that like Invictus, we are never conquered. And yet, if we heed that siren’s call, inevitably we will only know brokenness and sorrow.

I think Simeon clearly sensed that the call of Messiah before him in infant form would be different. While Christ’s call is strong, while His call is resilient, while His call is forever loving, the Messiah’s call can be as quiet as a sleeping child held lovingly by his mother. Christ’s call is also as confident as the gaze of the child’s father as he contemplates how the promises of God always are met. But here’s the rub: Christ’s call is always disruptive.

Christ calls us toward people and places that we would otherwise carefully avoid and ignore. His call is costly for, as Bonhoeffer would later write, “When Christ calls a man or a woman, he bids us forth to die” [Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship]. To heed Christ’s call, and here’s the real surprise — or to ignore it — results in transparency of the human soul. The sash of the soul is thrown open either way. The sash isn’t strong enough to endure the force and fact of Christ’s prevenient Truth. Whether we like it or not, He knows our secrets. And whether we’re falling or rising, He loves us anyway.