Simeon’s Farewell

Let the infant, the still unspeaking and unspoken word,
Grant Israel’s consolation
To one who has eighty years and no tomorrow.

~T. S. Eliot, “A Song for Simeon”

Scripture: Luke 2:25–35

Simeon was a venerable old saint who had long waited “the comforting of
Israel” (see Isaiah 40:1). The Holy Spirit had revealed to him that he
would not die until he had seen the Lord’s Anointed.

“By chance,” some would erringly say, Simeon arrived at the temple coincident
with Mary, Joseph, and the infant Jesus. Seeing the child, Simeon took Him
from His mother, cradled Him in his arms, and began to sing:

Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you now dismiss your servant in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all people,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel (Luke 2:29–32).

Thus Simeon passed off the scene, his small part in the drama well played,
“with peace and consolation dismissed,” as Milton said.

Much of what Simeon sang came from the prophet Isaiah, who promised that
“all the ends of the earth will see the salvation of our God” (Isaiah
52:10). This infant would bring glory to Israel and revelation to the
Gentiles spread around the world.

This was surely a moment of great joy for Mary. All mothers know that their
children are special, but for Mary, this was a public ratification of what
she already knew: that her son’s kingdom would “never end” (Luke
1:33).

But Simeon then states a hard fact: though the child was appointed for
“the . . . rise of many,” many would fall over Him and curse Him in the
darkness. He would be slandered, rejected, and killed, and Mary herself would
suffer excruciating pain.

Simeon’s words reinforce the bittersweet quality of the nativity: the story
delights us, but we know that the birth of the child will lead to suffering,
as do, in fact, all births.

Perhaps that’s why we old folks are strangely moved when we look at
snapshots of happy parents cradling a newborn baby, for we know that their
child will surely suffer and that a sword will pierce their own souls as
well. I’ve been around too long and have seen too much to believe otherwise.

How often have I listened to the stories of old friends and thought back to
our youthful naiveté. Little did we know what sufferings we would endure.

I think of a childhood friend whose wife was murdered in a savage invasion
of his home, while he was left confined to a wheelchair. Two other friends
have challenged children; others have lost their children or seen them
damaged in tragic ways. One friend’s wife was injured in an accident from
which she never fully recovered; others have suffered multiple losses
through disease, death, or divorce. In fact, I can think of no childhood
friend who has not suffered in a significant way. I recall George
Herbert’s poignant words, “I cried when I was born and every day shows why.”

“In this world you will have tribulation,” Jesus said, but, He continued,
“be of good cheer!” I must say—as I think of my friends—that despite their
challenges they are of good cheer. They sorrow—Christianity is not
stoicism; there’s no virtue in the stiff upper lip. But they do not sorrow
as those who have no hope, for they have learned that we share in Jesus’
sufferings, for if nothing else, the incarnation tells us that at the center
of our life is One who has been broken—who, from the cradle to the cross,
has been one with us in our pain and loss.

Dorothy Sayers puts it this way: “For whatever reason God chose to make man
as he is—limited and suffering and subject to sorrows and death—He had the
honesty and courage to take His own medicine. Whatever the game He is
playing with His creation, He has kept his own rules and played fair. He can
exact nothing from man that He has not exacted from himself. He has himself
gone through the whole of human experience—the humiliation of the manger,
the trivial irritations of family life, the cramping restrictions of hard
work and lack of money, the worst horrors of pain and humiliation, defeat,
despair, and death.”

Does God promise that we will not feel pain? Not in this life. Does He feel
our pain? The incarnation is the final, irrefutable proof that He does. We can cast our care upon Him, knowing that our sufferings matter to Him, that He understands and cares, and sometimes that’s all we need to know.

There is great relief in laying our burden down, even briefly, in the
presence of someone who cares. Author Margaret Guenther tells of a Scottish
pediatrician who comforted her hurt and frightened child, not with medicine,
but with a great, enveloping bear hug and the words, “Och, poor wee bairn!”

“The poor wee bairn stopped crying at once,” Mrs. Guenther said, “for she
realized that another understood her pain and did not seek to minimize it.”

Thus Jesus comforts our broken hearts.

Does Jesus care when my heart is pained
Too deeply for mirth and song;
As the burdens press, and the cares distress,
And the way grows weary and long?
O yes, He cares—I know he cares!
His heart is touched with my grief;
When the days are weary, the long nights dreary,
I know my Savior cares.

~Frank E. Graeff