When You Become That Consolation

Reflections on Luke 2: 22 - 40

When I was in high school, we attended a small church in Midland, Michigan called Our Redeemer Church. In the shadow of Dow Chemical, Our Redeemer was a country church instead of a city church. It wasn’t fancy. The carpet needed to be replaced and there were plastic plants that decorated the A-frame shape — one of the many reasons that I felt immediately at home at St. Andrew’s. But it wasn’t just architecture of the church I loved, I loved the people, especially the old people. I became friends with Herman Leuscher, a man who had lost his wife a few years before and loved crafting. He’d go to craft shows with his wares — sometimes paint by number paintings, sometimes ornaments that he’d made himself, sometimes other crafts and sell them. The greatest thing that could happen at those shows? They sold like hotcakes, he’d exclaim. 

Herman showed me what intergenerational friendship could look like. Herman enjoyed me and I enjoyed him and I brought one of his paint by number landscapes with me to college. Herman was one of many. There was Mary Margaret and Lila Ruth and Miss Polly and the other Herman and countless others who showed me, rather than telling me, what it meant to be a person of faith, what it meant to be part of a faith community, and what it meant to love. For me, these relationships with these beautiful saints of the church made the difference. When I struggled at school or with my parents, these saints held me up. When my parents didn’t value Easter baskets like I did, these saints came through. When I didn’t like myself, these saints reminded me that I was lovable. To me, they were consolations.

I’ll bet that Anna and Simeon were like this in the temple courts. I’ll bet they were the kind who noticed. They saw you when things were tough. They saw you when life wasn’t clear. They saw the young mothers who brought their children to the temple year after year. They saw careworn and shared a kind word. They saw the children who struggled because they were orphaned. They personified wisdom and Spirit. 

Because if you’re devout, and if you participate in the love of God, if the Holy Spirit rests on you, it spills over. Everyone who comes in contact with you knows it, because you can't help but give this gift to everyone you meet. 

So what was their secret? How did their goodness become legendary, so much so that we hear about it today? 

It wasn’t rocket science. 

Let’s talk Simeon for just a minute. His name begins to give a hint. It means “he who listens, or he who hears.” It’s a rare gift, listening, especially one who listens with the ear of their heart. It takes more than just being quiet — a more rare gift — to listen with the ear of the heart. Listening takes the quieting of one’s soul, of your being. And I’m not talking about quieting your heart with all of the ways that spin around us today — with entertainment, with scrolling, with shortcuts. No. Simone was righteous and devout and God’s Spirit rested on him. He’d done his work. He’d faced his own darkness. He wasn’t perfect, but he could see God’s action when they walked into the Temple. And I’d guess that God’s Spirit was walking with Simeon, because Simeon wanted it and searched for it. 

Simeon prayed. Simeon listened. Simeon walked with God. 

Simeon searched and yearned for the consolation of Israel. 

Consolation is not a word we use much any more. It’s more than comfort, more than softness. It’s the deep healing of wounds, the reminder of the ways that God comes to us. 

We all have those wounds, don’t we? It’s impossible to be human without them. And so often these wounds seem more like liabilities than strength. They seem like the places of embarrassment, where we couldn’t “get over it,” where others took and continue to take advantage, and even though we say “time heals all wounds,” we all know that this true and also so completely not true, all at the same time. In our text this morning we hear a bit of it, with Anna, “who having lived with her husband seven years after her marriage, then as a widow.” There is so much packed in there, so many stories, so much sorrow. 

But consolation is that beautiful work, that beautiful work of God as God heals. The word in Greek here is paraklesis — which is so close to the word for Spirit — paraklete, the one who walks with us, the one who helps us move forward. 

Now this work isn’t blind optimism; it’s in fact almost the opposite. Nor it is pessimism, where all you see is the darkness, forgetting that there is any such thing as light in our world. Moving forward means knowing what came before, the traumas, the struggle, and deciding still that there is hope, a way forward. We see this movement in Simeon’s song. In the prayer book, it’s called the Nunc Dimittis, meaning “now you let depart.” We big Anglican Anglicans use these words of this ancient hymn every night during evening prayer, reminding us that even though the world does not seem to be participating in the logic of God’s world, yet God’s logic still is. Simeon can go, because Simeon has seen salvation — the way God comes to God’s people. Yet this work, this glory of God is for all. Yet don’t forget. It’s not only about rising, but also for the falling of those who need to fall. 

You hear the strength there? It’s there, but it’s gritty. This consolation has teeth. It purifies. It’s like that pumice soap that scraped your skin off that my grandpa had in the downstairs shower for those times he wasn’t just dirty but also full of oil based paint. Y’all know what I mean. 

And Simeon, searching for the Consolation of Israel, was also a consoler. He blessed Mary and Joseph, reminding them who they were, and Jesus’ place in the cosmic order of things. But it wasn’t only Mary and Joseph that Simeon blessed. There were those others, the day by day blessings of his presence, his very being. 

How did he grow this gift of blessing? 

There’s this story about dogs, about how to have a dog walk well on the leash without pulling. This is what you do. You go to obedience classes. You teach the dog how to walk on the leash. You give treats. You practice every day at least twice. And then, you wait seven years. 

I think this is also the truth for those who console, for people like Anna and Simeon, for people from my church like Herman or Lila Ruth. It just takes time. It takes life and life experience. It takes a lot of walking alongside God and God’s people. It takes lots of mistakes and mishaps, a lot of wounds, as much healing, prayer in excess, and so much Spirit. But then when it happens, when you become that consolation, not just to yourself but to so many others, your light shines like the sun. And don’t think we don’t see you sitting in these pews, acting like you’re just like everyone else. Don’t think your very presence doesn’t console us. Don’t think you’re not making a difference. Don’t think we don’t notice. 

 We do. And for us, it makes all the difference. 

Image: Greg A. Hartford AcadiaMagic.com