Looking for Consolation

The scene is set very simply: a little child is brought into the Temple in Jerusalem, just as all first-born children were brought according to the Jewish Law: There is nothing here uncommon or striking so far, his parents are with him, poor people, bringing two pigeons or doves, as a thank-offering to God. They are met in the Temple by an old man, who takes the child in his arms, offers a thanksgiving to God, and blesses the parents. They are joined by an elderly woman, a widow of eighty-four years. There is nothing evidently great or impressive in this; nothing to excite the feelings or interest the imagination.

So John Henry Newman describes the scene just outlined in our gospel reading. In his mind, the people described are ‘unremarkable, weak, helpless, whether from age or infancy’, nothing to see here. The world passes by.

And yet, St Luke records that Simeon has come into the temple day by day, looking forward to the consolation of Israel. And day after day, nothing will have happened. No chance encounter. No moment of revelation. He will have gone home feeling disappointed, perhaps simply exhausted, trying to garner the energy and the hope to come back the next day, to wait again in the temple, to pray and to look for the consolation of Israel.

‘Looking for consolation’ is a phrase we might do well to ponder in the light of recent months. For many of us, this pandemic has been exhausting and we know what it is like to wait as the latest iteration of the pandemic has unfolded, not sure when it will end, garnering the energy and the hope to negotiate the latest challenge. With plans disrupted, people living apart and isolated, or thrown together uncomfortably, health workers and medical professionals at breaking point, loved ones lost, whatever the trauma or the tragedy, we have experienced something or our own frailty and vulnerability – unremarkable, weak, helpless….nothing to see here. The world passes by.

So, like Simeon, we look for consolation. And the word that Luke uses at this point in Greek is the word, paraklesis. It’s a word which is familiar in the New Testament, because of course the Paraclete, the Holy Spirit, is not simply the advocate, beloved of John the Evangelist. It is also the comforter, the one who brings consolation. One of the striking things that has happened in the course of the pandemic, and this is I think one of the reasons why it was such a devastating mistake to close churches, is that when crowds of people used to enter the church, there was a sense of hustle and bustle about the place, people would pass through very quickly. Now they stop, they sit and they stay. No longer selfie-taking tourists, a more contemplative and reflective mood has taken over, perhaps more attentive to the comfort of the Holy Spirit. Perhaps people are more accustomed to reflecting on their own solitude these days. I wonder how many come to this place looking for consolation?

And yet, Simeon finds consolation when he least expects it. He sits with eyes set on the great curtain that covers the entrance to the Holy of Holies in the Temple, the place where God’s presence can be felt, straining his eyes to look for a twitch of the curtain, a hint of God’s dazzling darkness. And yet, he finds consolation not in some dramatic demonstration of God’s transcendence, but in the promise and the joy and the hope and the love of a new born child. At Candlemas, we light candles and bless the light, just as the days begin to lengthen after the darkness of winter and as we look forward to Lent, Holy Week and Easter. We celebrate the consolation of Simeon in the words of the Nunc Dimittis: Simeon praises God and sings of ‘a light to reveal you to the Gentiles and the glory of your people Israel’.

And yet, the odd thing, the difficult thing, about this story is that in spite of the consolation offered to Simeon, that sense of a life well lived and brought to fulfilment, his prophetic words appear to offer very little consolation to Mary, the young mother of Jesus. Perhaps Luke rushes too readily to disclose the denouement of his tale, looking forward to the passion narrative, as Simeon blesses the young family and tells Mary that ‘a sword will pierce your own soul too’.

Are those words of consolation? They sound more like cold comfort.  Perhaps Luke is reminding us that in looking for consolation, we may also need to cultivate what the great poet, Geoffrey Hill, once described as the ‘intelligence of grief’. For as we wrestle with the experience of recent months, as things fall into place or even when they appear to fall apart again, as we ponder what we have lost and what we have gained, we may yet begin to ‘carry out that intense work of the soul, that gradual rearrangement of its boundaries’ that enlarges the heart in compassion and empathy.

And compassion and empathy is the tangible sign and signature of comfort and consolation, as we learn to care for one another and support one another as a community. And that experience of community is one of the things that enables us to gather here today to share in delight and joy with Gabrielle and Hugh as they give thanks for their little boy. The prayers of thanksgiving that we offer this morning may not provoke words of prophecy. But we can be sure that in the joy of this moment, our prayers of thanksgiving for Alexander will be accompanied by a combination of glorious music and lovely cake.

As we ponder the gospel reading today, we think of Simeon and Anna ‘longing for consolation’. As we  ponder the experience, the waiting and the uncertainty of recent months, we also have learned something of what it means to long for consolation, for the promise of redemption.

Luke teaches us that even though the world may pass by, our attention may suddenly be arrested, - when we least expect it, - by a poised moment of grace when we are invited to share with others in the hospitality of a God, who welcomes the weak and the helpless, the least and the lost, who embraces those whose hearts are broken, who welcomes each of us to be honoured guests at Christ’s table, who invites us to find here in these tokens of bread and wine ‘the healing of broken love’.