Month: December 2019

“In Jerusalem at the time, there was a man, Simeon by name, a good man, a man who lived in the prayerful expectancy of help for Israel. And the Holy Spirit was on him. The Holy Spirit had shown him that he would see the Messiah of God before he died. Led by the Spirit, he entered the Temple. As the parents of the child Jesus brought him in to carry out the rituals of the Law, Simeon took him into his arms and blessed God: God, you can now release your servant; release me in peace as you promised. With my own eyes I’ve seen your salvation; it’s now out in the open for everyone to see: A God-revealing light to the non-Jewish nations, and of glory for your people Israel. 33-35Jesus’ father and mother were speechless with surprise at these words. Simeon went on to bless them, and said to Mary his mother, This child marks both the failure and the recovery of many in Israel, A figure misunderstood and contradicted— the pain of a sword-thrust through you— But the rejection will force honesty, as God reveals who they really are” (Luke 2:25-35 MSG).

This is a tough passage to relate too for me. As I scroll through the list of characters I find very little in common with any of them. I suppose I too had an eighth day experience. I recall very little about it, other than I was unable to walk for a year. (that’s actually a joke) I’m a stepdad, and didn’t arrive on the scene until my girls were 9 and 6, so it’s hard for me to relate to Mary and Joseph. Simeon seems like a nice man, as does Anna seem like a nice women, but I don’t think I really relate to them either. They seem to be really into church and hangout there a lot. But as I continued to read the passage, I finally did see where I fit, and who I am in this story. The Message translation says it this way:

God, you can now release your servant; release me in peace as you promised. With my own eyes I’ve seen your salvation; it’s now out in the open for everyone to see: A God-revealing light to the non-Jewish nations, and of glory for your people Israel.

A God-revealing light to the non-Jewish nations. That’s me. Simeon says “the non-Jewish nation”. Simeon was talking about me. Having grown up in church, I tend to just assume that God has to love me. It’s just who he is. And in turn, I try my best to live right and do his will. And when I fail, He must forgive me and we move on. Seems like a really sweet deal from my side. But does he have too? Up until this point in time, the God of Israel was just that, the God of Israel. Simeon saw him not as he was, but who he would become. Everyone else saw a baby boy heading into the temple and knew what was about to happen.

Simeon saw the Son of God headed into temple and knew that the world had changed.

He saw that, not only had the religious leaders of Israel just lost their control of the system, but that the entire world had just gained a savoir. Israel would serve as the starting point, but Simeon says ultimately the world would know God.

Fast forward to every church across our nation. Picture the padded pews, the stained glass windows, and the hand carved alters. Or maybe it is wooden pews, folding chairs, and a simple pulpit. Now look out over the congregation. These are the people Simeon talked about. We are the people he saw when he witnessed Jesus entering the temple. Simon knew that the love of God would reach us. Simeon says the savoir of the WORLD has arrived.

Now look back over the same congregation you just imagined. Why so empty? Why aren’t we scooting over to make room on our pew? Why aren’t we hurrying to bring in more folding chairs? Where are the people? I’m not sure where or when or how we lost the excitement that Simon had. Honestly, I’m not sure I ever had it quite like Simeon did. But if the “non-jewish nations” aren’t sitting next to us in our sanctuaries, that must mean they are still out there searching. They may be hanging out in the “temple courtyard” unaware that salvation just walked passed them. They may not be anywhere close to the temple, still waiting on salvation to reach them. They may be wanting salvation, but not wanting our padded pews and stained glass windows. Simeon says this to Mary. This child marks both the failure and the recovery of many in Israel, The NIV says the rise and fall of many in Israel. Simeon says that with the coming of Christ, many would hold on to the old way and fall, and others would embraced the new way and rise, or recover. The choice is clearly yours, but Simeon says choose salvation. Simeon says God sent us his son and a better way of life. Simeon says this act of God will reveal who we truly are. Simeon says a lot. And at the end of the day, Simeon rejoices and worships the great gift that God sent him. Simeon was a pretty wise fellow, who saw what others missed. It might serve us all well, to do what Simeon says.

All but one of the birthday cards I can remember receiving from my dad were signed in the same way: simply, “Love, Dad.” Clearly, his native “love language” was not words of affirmation, either written or spoken. He was more of an “acts of service” kind of guy. My brother and I knew Dad loved us more by what he did for us than by what he said or wrote to us.

I can picture my mom going to the store to pick out our birthday cards and bringing them home for him to sign before giving it to us on our birthdays. I’ve kept a few of them from across the years. But there’s one that is one of the very few things I own that I always know exactly where it is. If our house were ever to catch fire, it’s one of the things I would try to grab on my way out. It’s the last birthday card I ever got from him. It’s the one he signed with more than just “Love, Dad.”

It was my 21st birthday. I was a senior in college. My dad had just been diagnosed the month before with cancer – non-Hodgkins lymphoma. He was undergoing chemotherapy and radiation treatments that we all were optimistic would do the trick.

I had gone to the college’s post office that day after class, and there in my mailbox was an envelope addressed to me. It was in my mom’s handwriting. I opened it up and found a card in the shape of a golf ball, with the pre-printed message inside, “I hope your birthday suits you to a tee!” But there, filling up both sides of the card, was handwriting. It was my dad’s handwriting.

He started off telling me how proud he was of me. (Finally, he’s speaking my love language!) He told me he knew how hard a time I was having deciding what to do with my life after I graduated. I was thinking about going into teaching. I was thinking about following in his footsteps and going to law school, which probably would have pleased him to no end. But still nothing felt quite right. He expressed his confidence that in time I would find my way, and then he added, “and if you want to become a bishop, that is ok with me.” That made me chuckle, because I thought I had shelved an earlier sense of calling into the ministry. And who actually wants to become a bishop anyway? But maybe he was trying to give me his advice in an indirect sort of way. Or maybe he had a suspicion that a sense of a call into ministry would eventually come back around.

He had started writing on the right side of the card, under the message, but he kept going. He continued over on the left side, and as he got closer to the bottom of the card, as he was running out of room, he wrote these words to me:

“Nothing can separate you from my love. Dad.”

There’s a world of difference between “Love, Dad,” and “Nothing can separate you from my love. Dad.”

I don’t know if he even faintly suspected it at the time, but it was a promise he was making to me in the face of his own impending death, which would come just sixty-some days after he wrote that birthday card. He died 25 years ago today.

When he died, it felt like that promise had been broken. Not so much broken by him as by his death. It was a promise that I know he wanted desperately to keep, and he did everything in his power to try to keep, but in the end, he simply couldn’t keep. It seemed like it would remain a promise unfulfilled, unrealized.

But in the 25 years that have passed since then, as I’ve held this card and his promise in my heart, I’ve come to learn something. I’ve learned that death may mark the end of life, but it need not mark the end of love. There is something of my dad’s love for me that outlives his life, that has outlived his death. The Apostle Paul promised that “neither death nor life…nor anything else in all of creation” can separate us from God’s love for us in Christ, and I have found that to be true for Dad’s love for me.

His love for me is there whenever I think of that birthday card. It’s there when I go through old pictures and papers. It’s there when my mind wanders onto old memories and stories. It’s there when he comes up in conversation with my mom and my brother and with others who remember him. And it’s there as an inspiration to me as I try to be the best dad I can be with my own two sons, as I try to show and share my love for them in their own love languages. Maybe it can be a promise that I can pass on down to them, too, the promise that my dad passed down to me:

“Nothing can separate you from my love. Dad.”