Embraceable

Pastor Sevig is known for scooping babies into her arms. Not being a parent, I learned how to hold a baby correctly when my godchildren were born. These days you can learn how to hold an infant online—diagrams and You Tube videos. It’s a thing.

This description from raisingchildren.net almost sounds like a yoga pose. “Always support your newborn's head and neck. To pick up baby, slide one hand under baby's head and neck and the other hand under their bottom. Bend your knees to protect your back. Once you've got a good hold, scoop up your baby and bring baby close to your chest as you straighten your legs again.” Okay, got it!

A minor detail in our gospel jumps out at me this year. Aged Simeon scoops the Christ Child in his arms and sings of God’s faithfulness. He has waited for this moment. Now he can die in peace.

Apart from the few people some of us live with, we have been starved for human touch these past months. Grandparents not being able to take a grandchild in their arms. Families separated from a dying loved one. And when a short visit is allowed for the immediate family, bodies are so covered in protective gear they barely seem recognizable. Small weddings and funerals without even a handshake, let alone a full embrace or a kiss. When there have been small communion services, some pastors have sanitized their hands, worn gloves, and dropped the wafer into a worshipper’s hands. All so that we avoid what we crave: human touch.

We people of flesh have come to fear the flesh of others and the air they breathe. We distance ourselves. We move to one side as someone approaches us on a sidewalk or in a store. Masks make it hard to smile. Even eye contact is limited.

Our multi-sensory liturgy becomes one-dimensional online. Without the bodily sharing of the peace. The smelling of incense. The tasting of bread and wine. Without dipping our hands in the water of the font. Without the full-throated, spit-spraying singing to lift our spirits.

I envy Simeon and Anna in the temple. They are devout. They love being in the house of God more than anywhere on earth. It’s a place of familiarity and comfort in a changing world. They are waiting the redemption of Jerusalem and to see the Messiah with their own eyes. We, too, are waiting to see what 2021 will bring: vaccines, a new president, when we will gather in person again for the things we so deeply miss. And when we will be able to scoop those we love in our arms and weep for the joy of it.

We know the story of the shepherds and the angels better than this account forty days after Jesus’ birth. But for Luke, this is the climax of his birth narrative. As Simeon and Anna bless the child and his parents, it’s as if God embraces a weary world through this newborn.

As beloved as these two elders are in the biblical witness, I cannot recall any churches named Anna and Simeon Lutheran Church. We honor them today be recalling those who have passed on the faith to us, such as grandparents, godparents, or wise elders who have influenced our lives. We honor them today wearing masks and doing what we need to do to protect our elders, whether at home or in senior living facilities.

Yet this is no baptism or bris party! Simeon’s words are downright harrowing. This child is destined for the falling and rising of many. His radical outreach to those on the margins will be too much for some. His embrace of the untouchables, a scandal to others.

And Simeon has hard words for Mary: a sword will pierce your soul. In Luke, Mary is the first to say “yes” to the gospel as we heard in the annunciation story only one week ago. Mary will witness the sword of division her son brings. Her beloved child—God’s embrace for a needy world—will be ridiculed, suffer and die. Joy and suffering always intermingle, it seems.

Simeon sings one of the great canticles of our faith, called the Nunc Dimittis. We sing it a Compline. We sing it funerals. His words become ours. Now, Lord, let your servant depart in peace. With our own eyes we have seen the salvation prepared in the sight of every people. “Every” could not be more inclusive! Beyond the people of Jesus’ birth. Beyond our own faith or denomination.

In Byzantine icons, Simeon is often rendered with covered hands as he holds the Christ Child. Veiled hands signify that what is being touched is holy. You see it in other icons. Angels at Jesus’ baptism have veiled hands. They look like towels to dry him off, but it is to show reverence and humility. You see angels with covered hands in the nativity icon. The disciples approach Jesus with covered hands to receive the sacred bread and wine.

In the 1980s people feared touching persons with AIDS. People were irrational even when told they couldn’t contract AIDS that way. When we come through this pandemic—and God willing, hug, touch and embrace again—what if we imagined veiled or covered hands not as protective gear. But a sign of reverence and humility, honoring the body—the flesh—of a fellow human being. What if we imagined veiled hands when we serve those in need at pantries and shelters and community tables, reminding us that these bodies are icons of the holy?

But remember, Simeon gives us a cutting reality check today. Along with joy, life will bring the sword of pain and sorrow. But through whatever is to come, as Simeon blesses God for the birth of the Holy One, God now embraces you with grace and mercy. You are God’s embraceable one. Your very flesh holy, good, and beautiful.

At the end, like Anna and Simeon, when it is our time, may we be depart in peace. Having held the body of Christ in our hands at holy communion. Having held loved ones close to our heart. God’s very embrace.