For others it could be the seaside, or in a boat at sea under twinkling stars. For others it is in a forest, strolling within the embrace of an aspen grove, which is actually a single tree, or lying on a soft bed of needles under giant redwoods thousands of years old. For others, it is looking in the face of their sleeping spouse, or child, or grandchildren. It can be in the voice of a loved one. It can be in a sesshin of Zen meditation.
Today, the regular readings for the 4th Sunday after Epiphany give way because today is a particular Feast Day—one that has fallen from observance in much of the Christian world, but a feast day nonetheless. Today is the Feast of the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple, which occurs 40 days exactly after Christmas Day. And for those who contemplate scripture seriously, when we hear the number 40 our ears should perk up, because 40 is always a significant number. Forty days and nights of the flood, 40 days, excluding Sundays of Lent; 40 days of Jesus being tempted in the wilderness by the forces of evil, 40 years of the Israelites wandering in the desert after their liberation from slavery in Egypt.
This feast is also known as Candlemas—a day when a vigil would be held at nightfall with the candles of Christmas at last extinguished. Taken together, we move closer to the closing of the three-part liturgical season of the Church’s Year called the Incarnation Cycle, which contains the seasons of Advent, Christmas, and Epiphanytide. In all this time since the end of last November, we have been called especially to contemplate and celebrate the coming of God into human flesh, as a helpless, impoverished child of a subject, oppressed people.
We are called to wonder, awe, and overwhelming gratitude that God came to live among us as one of us, to teach us how to live a fully God-centered life that connects us with all of our kindred creatures. It is necessary that we mindfully embody that sense of gratitude and wonder before God and before Christ as we prepare to enter the season of Lent three days after the last Sunday after the Epiphany in just a few weeks.
We remember and remind ourselves Jesus in his body, in the Incarnation, as a supreme act of love, generosity, and mercy— gifts we ourselves have received countless times throughout our lives, and in following the Way of Jesus we are called to ourselves embody to all those we meet, especially, the poor, the destitute, the desperate, or the oppressed. We take this call to embodying mercy and grace seriously, for if we only look around, we know that is all too often in fact too short a supply in the world in which we live. This is part of the counter-cultural aspect of being not just a fan but a follower of Jesus.
Because we are hearing these readings today, I regret to inform you that we had to skip one of the greatest poems to God’s love and caritas for us, and the love and caritas we are to hold for each other in 1 Corinthians 13—that describes God’s love, and the love Christians are therefore called to boldly embody in witness to the world. So I just want to remind you of what is lying just offstage this day. That beautiful proclamation that we had to skip this year begins with these truths:
If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging symbol. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing….
Love is patient; Love is kind; Love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; It is not irritable or resentful; It does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.
That love that never ends, that active, muscular love, that protects, forgives, nurtures, shelters, and embraces through grace and mercy, must be at the center of our lives in Christ—or we have no life in Christ at all, and our claim to be Christians is hollow. Our deliberate, brave embrace of the obligations those words place upon us is what makes us true witnesses to Christ in a world that has almost given up searching for him. Unless we make him visible. Unless we ourselves embody the mercy, love and grace of our Savior who came for all.
We do not get to hear these words today. But we get to see how God’s very being, how God’s very presence among us in spirit as well as flesh, is borne out, and we are called to attention to that presence and its blessings, in this festival day.
In all of our readings this weekend, we hear of focus on holy places and spaces: Malachi is attempting to prepare the people of Israel to be able to worship once again in the rebuilt Temple in Jerusalem. This is necessary because during the years of exile, the people’s collective memory of the parts of the covenant attuned to prayer in the Temple had faded. Then we have the beautiful, joyful description of being in the presence of God, and knowing it as a place of safety, security, and well-being for all that is described in Psalm 84, which is also the subject of one of my very favorite hymns we sing today.
Psalm 84 also starts with an outburst of joy as the psalmist stands within the boundaries of the Temple. And in the midst of that grandeur, we also have a beautiful, delicate, humble image. The image of the sparrow and the swallow, two tiny birds who could both fit in the palm of one hand, so fragile and vulnerable, nonetheless knowing that they were safe by the altars of God—that really speaks to me. They feel so safe they have made their homes, their nests, right up alongside the altars of God. The utter transformation of the holy temple of God described here becomes even more vivid when we consider that in other biblical testimony, including our gospel, birds were more likely to be sacrificed near that altar than find their home there.
We have in these readings today a celebration of dedication and promises fulfilled, both for the very young and for the very old. A baby boy is brought into the temple to be dedicated to God as the firstborn son, as required in Exodus. His parents, not being wealthy, choose the least expensive of the pair of birds to be offered on the altar, we assume. His mother also was to go through rites of purification from childbirth. But this is not simply any baby—this is, as is proclaimed openly in the courts of the Temple by an old man of faith named Simeon—the Messiah himself. Simeon, and Anna, proclaim the great mercy God has for us in sending us a Savior to teach us, step by step, how to be true children of God—each and every one precious and beloved, especially those in danger or trouble.
Simeon’s famous song of praise, the Nunc dimittis, is often prayed during evening prayer, vespers, or compline in the Episcopal Church as a canticle. It signifies, in these uses, the fading of the light of one day into the hope of another, the sense of peace on has in being in the presence of God as night begins, which for much of human history was a time of fear, as fevers could strike in the night that could claim one for death before morning. Simeon’s joyful proclamation that he has had the promise God made to him fulfilled so that he can now depart in peace from this life, is a comfort to those who are of advanced age or in danger.
Last night at the 505 the worshipers all prayed that part of the gospel aloud. And in praying that prayer of Simeon’s, we are reminded that Jesus sets us free from all fear, even the fear of death. The fear of scarcity. Jesus sets us free—so that we can share the gospel of love, freedom, and welcome with all of those we encounter. With all who are made in the image of God, who bear the love of God, even down to the tiniest sparrow.
As Christians, we do not attach the dwelling place of God to a particular place. No, instead, we are called to ourselves make ourselves a living temple for our God, within us. We do this by following the precepts of God, and by embodying them and standing up for them even in the face of contempt or hostility in the world around us. We honor the dignity and worth of every person, No exceptions, as we have been discussing our baptismal covenant repeatedly this Epiphany season. We do this by aligning ourselves with the refugee, the homeless, the poor, the outcast, just as Jesus did.
When we preach and pronounce God’s mercy, we must do it boldly. We must place that message as witnesses before the thrones of power. We must especially do it when we encounter forces that seek to dehumanize and mock, and threaten the most helpless among us. The concept of the church as a sanctuary and refuge is many millennia old--- going all the way back to the Torah. It is an obligation that is similar to the seal of the confessional. Worship spaces as shelters and refuges is a sacred tradition and fulfillment of the Law and Gospel.
We were reminded last week that we are all the members of Christ’s Body, and that the Church only exists if it makes Christ’s body visible and active in the world, no matter the cost. When the Church has NOT been a safe place for people, that has been a failure of our call to witness to the gospel of Jesus. May we ever be willing to stand up and stand with those who seek refuge, and mercy. To stand between those the world counts worthless and instead proclaim to others what we ourselves have received: the love, mercy, and grace revealed in making Jesus visible in the world ourselves.
When we realize that our very bodies are the dwelling place of God, all that we do matters in proclaiming the gospel.
“The sparrow has found her a house
and the swallow a nest where she may lay her young; *
by the side of your altars, O Lord of hosts,
my King and my God.
Happy are they who dwell in your house! *
they will always be praising you.
Happy are the people whose strength is in you! *
whose hearts are set on the pilgrims' way.
Hear these words again, and take this opportunity to make an altar in your heart where the most vulnerable may find not just refuge but protection and security. And when you do so, do so knowing you are helping other eyes to see our Savior, who calls us all to safety, and security, and hope. Who loves us with a love that never fails. We have been set free, for our eyes have seen the Savior. Let us stand up for that freedom for all by making Christ visible for all. Bu boldly bearing the light of Christ into the darkest parts of our hearts and of our society. By being and insisting upon sanctuary, grace, and mercy for all. No exceptions.
Amen.
Preached at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.
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