Advent IV – Love Luke 2: 25-38
“Hush-a-bye, lullaby. Hush your weeping, little baby,” the mother sang. And in her tear-filled eyes one would see the love Mary felt for her baby son, this Child of Love.
Through this Holy Child, God transcended all time and space, planned a way to come and dwell among us, became flesh that we could see and touch. And in a way all of us could understand, God spoke to us of Love.
Kahlil Gibran’s poetry weaves the beautiful story of Almustafa, a young man who lived among the people of Orphalese for twelve years. Almustafa waited for his ship to return to take him back to the isle of his birth. One day, he climbed the hill, looked toward the sea, and saw his ship coming in the mist.
The gates of Almustafa’s heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea. He closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul. But as he descended the hill, a sadness came upon him, and he thought in his heart:
How shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city. Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret? Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets . . .
It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.
Yet I cannot tarry longer. The sea that calls all things unto her calls me . . .
Almustafa looked again towards the sea, and saw his ship approaching the harbour, and upon her the mariners, the men of his own land.
His soul cried out to them, and he said: Sons of my ancient mother, riders of the tides, How often have you sailed in my dreams. Now you come in my awakening. . . Ready am I to go.
And as he walked, he saw from afar men and women leaving their fields and their vineyards and hastening toward the city gates. And he heard their voices calling his name, and shouting from field to field telling one another of the coming of his ship.
And he said to himself:
. . . What shall I give unto these who have left their ploughs in midfurrow, or to these who have stopped the wheel of their winepresses? A seeker of silences am I; what treasure have I found in silences that I may dispense with confidence?
When Almustafa entered the city all the people came to meet him, and they were crying out to him as with one voice:.“Go not yet away from us. Much have we loved you.
And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation. Others came and entreated him. But he answered them not. He only bent his head. And those who stood near saw his tears falling upon his breast.
Almustafa and the people proceeded towards the great square before the temple. And there came out of the sanctuary a woman whose name was Almitra. She was a seeress, and he looked upon her with exceeding tenderness, for it was she who had first sought and believed in him when he had been but a day in their city.
And she hailed him, saying: “Prophet of God . . . long have you searched the distances for your ship. Now your ship has come, and you must go. Deep is your longing for the land of your memories. Our love would not bind you nor our needs hold you. Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that you speak to us and give us of your truth. In your aloneness you have watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have listened to the weeping and the laughter of our sleep. Now therefore disclose us to ourselves and tell us all that has been shown you . . .”
And he answered, “People of Orphalese, of what can I speak?”
Then said Almitra, “Speak to us of Love.”
And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice, he said:
When love beckons to you, follow, though love’s ways are hard and steep . . .
And when love speaks to you, believe, though love’s voice may shatter your dreams. For even as love crowns you, so shall love crucify you. . ."
As I lingered over the poetry in this book, I was struck once again by the image of the aged Simeon holding the infant Christ in his arms and saying to the Mother: “This child is destined for the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed. . . and a sword will pierce even your own soul.”
Prophet, speak to us of Love.
In his words to the mother of Jesus, Simeon spoke of love:
* A love that would send a holy infant to be born under the light of a star.
* A love that would place a Savior among us, with us in our world.
* A love that would endure opposition even unto death.
* A love that would compel a young girl to bear love in her womb and cradle love in her arms, knowing the pain she would endure when the sword pierced her soul.
Imagine, if you can, the feeling of holding and protecting your newborn, your first, and then hearing Simeon’s foreboding words. Simeon looked into the face of this young mother and foretold the fate of her child, and her own pain. “A sword will pierce through your own soul also.”
The last thing she wanted to hear was that her baby son would suffer pain in his life, and that she would feel the stab of sorrow’s sword. This had been so glorious a birth--anounced by the angels and the shepherds, marked by a brilliant star in the east. Yet now, Mary was hearing of the dark side, when all she wanted to do was gather her family in a warm, safe place and hold her new baby. Every nurturing instinct within her whispered, “Hold him close, feed him, keep him warm, protect him from harm.”
But now this prophet speaking to her of a love that fills the heart, but leaves wounds in the soul. It’s the kind of love many of us have known. When relationships shatter leaving your heart a wasteland of sorrow, that love you once knew in your relationship becomes a love that pierces your soul.
When you stand beside the deathbed of your own child knowing that the love you have shared can never be the same, that love you gave and received becomes a love that pierces the soul.
When your parent is gone, forever lost to you through death or mental impairment, you know that you can never know the love of being a son or daughter in quite the same way. . . and that parent-love becomes a love that pierces the soul.
When you wake up one morning and find only the shell of what you once were, somehow you truly beleive you can never love yourself again. And self-love becomes self-recrimination, a tormented love . . . a love that pierces your soul.
In the infant born in Bethlehem, God sent a wondrous love to us and deposited it in our hearts. But as that love grows within us and matures into wisdom, we hear a voice-- scarcely audible--yet strong and certain, saying: “This love will pierce your soul.”
And we shudder at the truth of those ominous words. Yet, those of us who love deeply know that the object of our love can raise in us the most intense sorrow. Have we not wept most passionately for those persons who have been our greatest delight?
Stark and cruel reality can cause us to look at love square in the face, and say, “I will not love again. I will not love so fully and deeply that I am wounded by the sword that pierces the soul. Even though persons of wisdom have stated otherwise, I know that it is NOT ‘better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’”
So we ask the prophet, “Make us understand. Speak to us of Love.”
And before we have a chance to order our self-imposed ban on loving, another prophet does speak. And Anna’s words rebut our conclusion to never love again.
Eighty-four year old Anna, who married and experienced the sorrow of becoming a widow within seven years, never left the temple. I have often wondered if Anna made her peace with the pain of loss and then poured out her love in service to God? Did Anna take all that was left of her shattered love, and did she allow God to help her love again as a servant in the temple?
When Anna saw the infant, she gave thanks to God and spoke of the child of love to all who had longed to hear of the redemption of Jerusalem. Anna, the prophetess, became the first witness that the Messiah had come. How wonderful for Mary to hear Anna’s hope-filled message of an astounding love that God had sent in the form of this baby.
Perhaps now Mary could forget the sword for a time and enjoy the new-born blessing of love she held in her arms.
And perhaps you and I might pause in the blessedness of Advent and Christmas when love comes gently down to us. Perhaps we can gaze into the face of pure love in the manger and forget the sword for a time.
Mary wrapped her baby snugly and held him close as they entered the temple. She would always remember this day. The words the prophets Simeon and Anna spoke would burn in her memory.
From the cradle. . . to the cross and the tomb, Mary would remember the prophecy that warned her of the pain. She would remember the words that foretold both the depth of her love, and the depth of the wound that pierced her soul.
She learned, as Anna had learned - and as we have learned - that the wounds are permanent, but so is the love that makes life worth living anyway.
God who sent us this Child on a silent, holy night,
speak to us of Love.
