At some bright moment, some Shekinah moment in our own souls, we recognize that we have been waiting, long waiting to carry this child in our own empty hearts. The handing over of God’s eternal torch to the Son, The One who lights the way.Īnd we hold it now, this torch-as God’s People have since Jesus left us many centuries ago. The parents cradled their probably wailing babe, and “marveled at what was said about him.” The scriptures were fulfilled on that day.the circumcision of the earthling born of GOD, as God enfleshed. The child was handed over to priestly hands, and the ancient dictum and its requisite ceremonial cut was carried out one more time. And then Simeon went home to die “completed,” as God had promised. He cradled this little one, spoke his now-hallowed words, trembling with the miracle of this child in his arms. Simeon held out his arms and received the Son of the Great I AM. Perhaps the young mother looked up and saw before her the face of love, the stream of tears. Between God’s unlikely prophet, and the newborn- the oh, so unlikely One foretold. There in the dust and bustle and eventual hush of familiar religious practice, the Old and New Testaments interwove suddenly, quite simply. That’s where it always begins, in each of us, invisible but to the seer. But probably the only light was deep behind the old man’s eyes.
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That not only Simeon, but all who entered were immersed in the sudden radiance. That the dim corridors could not contain such Shekhinah glory. We’d like to think that Light spilled down upon them, and from them. Clingjng together, they entered the inner sanctuary, the sacristy of the altar of the Begetter of all life. Jostled by those entering and leaving, they were oblivious-focused on the ancient rite before them, that exacting pain to be inflicted on their son. How many years had Simeon walked this earth, haunted by this incredible secret? How many times might he have wanted to waver or admit that he might have imagined that “still, small voice?” A stubborn old fool is what some would call him today.īut then, at last, they had come-anonymous, ordinary, and no doubt travel-weary, this couple with their swaddled infant. Son of God? An inconceivable concept! And if it weren’t, why would the Ancient of Days choose Simeon for the privilege? Simeon had been plucked from the small world of the prophetic-that exclusive and historic assortment of Called Ones who spoke for YHWH. He had a mission, a fixation that would not rest easily in the back of his mind:īefore he left this earth, he would hold in his arms the Son of God.
He was probably well known around the temple, this frail old man who haunted the outer courts. The infant Son of God was awaited by no one but mis-matched and inexperienced parents trekking in from a local village and an insistent God-speaker, a prophet -Simeon. Except that Simeon interrupted.Īnd there the miraculous became. An ordinary first-male-child of ordinary people. The infant became simply an identified member of the Jewish faith. There, the obedience of Joseph and Mary became ordinary society’s usual religious news. He was at the temple, where the extraordinary ordinaries of Judaism’s spiritual life were centered-where the newborn sons of Israel were “trimmed” into inherited righteousness, readied by the formal, ceremonial proclamation and introduction into the life of God’s people. Yes, the Magi drove their camels across deserts to track and greet him. Yes, the heavens proclaimed the “impossible” birth of this child of YHWH. As if keeping one foot in the present, we step the other into ancient history and mystery, alongside a very singular person. Yes, in the midst of the seasonal flurry-the “Ho Ho’s” of a shopping center Santa, the flickering lights and fluttering expectations, we are waiting. A singular anticipation leading to Christmas.
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Advent.a time of waiting within the Christian tradition.