It Was Not Like Any Other Day
Posted by stpauls on December 28, 2008 under Sermons | 
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It was not like any other day – that day.
Sure, there were some clouds in the sky and the sun had risen over the horizon. God, baruch et-haShem, had provided us with the daily rising and setting of the sun. And God had said, ki tow, God had said, it was good, good indeed. And it all looked very normal that day.
Yet, it was not like any other day – that day.
Sure, the people from the city were still going about their daily business: trading, buying, selling, bartering, but also stealing, cheating, even murdering. Nothing new under the sun. The garbage still stank. The shouts of the market were still heard all over the city. Street musicians still filled the air with noise. Jugglers, jousters, and jokers still annoyed the heck out of the rest of us.
Midday would again see the sun burning down mercilessly. We all had to flee deeper into our buildings to take refuge in the shade, in some cooler place, in the sleep of the afternoon. Even the children stopped playing then and the women selling food on the streets and the craftsmen would vanish. Only some lost dog chased after a rat or a squirrel or a loose rooster. Its bark echoed through the streets.
Still, it was not like any other day – that day.
Sure, the soldiers of the occupying forces still marched. The powerful still enjoyed their access to the privileges of the Empire. The rich were still able to life with all kinds of luxuries. The elites still had only eyes and ears for their needs. Sure, the poor were still begging in the street. The sick were still suffering. Widows and orphans still wondered about their access to the table. And, the dying were still pushed to the margins of society.
But, it really was not like any other day – that day.
Sure, even at the temple everything seemed normal. The usual buzz was filling the air, merchants selling all kinds of stuff, or changing money required for the temple tax, or offering sacrificial animals: like a blameless lamb for your first-born son, or a pair of turtledoves, or two young pigeons for those who couldn’t afford the lamb, the poor and the underprivileged.
And the priests were going about their own business, chanting the required songs and prayers, mostly oblivious to what was going on around them, only interacting with those who were part of the nation. It had always been that way, after all. They dressed in the garments and vestments, put on the breast-plates and their head gear, and then they entered the most sacred part of the Temple, only accessible to them, lifting up their hands and minds, interceding to the throne of God for Israel, for God’s chosen ones. And the congregation joined in with their “Amen.”
Nobody noticed the couple with their young child coming up the street. They were just like most folk, poor and humble; city folks would hardly describe their garb as correct. These pieces of clothes looked more like rags, and dust was sticking to every piece of fabric and every hair on their body. Their clothes also showed the familiar white stains so common in hot climates. It was the constant sweat that had left its mark. And they, too, stank. Yet, this young family – well, at least the baby and his mother were young; “young” would be a stretch for the father – they looked like they knew why they were there. They had come to offer their firstborn son to God, as it is written in pages of God’s revelation to God’s people.
This is when things turned upside down. I didn’t quite get to see the first encounter with one of those charismatic sages lingering about within the walls of the temple. But the murmur of some of the merchants and some of the pilgrims made me curious – and I investigated. Just in time too.
Anna, that old crone, who had been in the temple for longer than anybody could remember, cried out in ecstasy. She leaped up to her feet with a force I had not imagined to be in her as the three from up North (I am sure that is where they were from) passed her by. Her eyes were big; huge even. Her smile, though toothless, stretched from one ear to the other with a grin that wasn’t pretty, but it was heartfelt; it came from deep within. A tear was running down her wrinkle-furrowed face. She hunched over, not because of her age, but to fawn over the baby – or did she bow to him? Yes, she was happy, she was joyous. And with her thin, agéd hands she scooped up the baby from the woman’s arms and held the babe, rocking him back and forth, never losing contact with his eyes, ahing and oohing over what she held in her fragile and age-spot covered arms, delighting in the baby’s delight.
And then she began to sing. Began to sing of God’s goodness and mercy, of God’s love and compassion, of God’s blessing and God’s righteousness. It wasn’t melodious. But it was a song that revealed hope and forgiveness and justice and peace and healing for the nations. It was a song that stopped us all in our tracks.
Yes, it really was not a day like any other.
[Pause]
Christmas is over for this year – or so the secular media and maybe even many fellow believers want to tell us, no matter that we are only on Day Four and still have eight days of Christmas before us. And with the end of secular Christmas comes the realisation that not much has changed – despite the most amazing story ever told. Families still bicker, church congregations still do not know how to exercise forgiveness, solidarity, and gentleness with each other; people still ignore the needs of others; the poor still go hungry or cold or without medication; the homeless are still left sleeping in the gutter; children are still exploited and abused; girls and women are still harassed; minorities are still made fun of and brutalized; soldiers are still killed in faraway places where native war-casualties do not even have names; peoples and nations are in turmoil, and, and, and. It is all very much. It is all too much. No wonder many fear the post-Christmas blues. No wonder.
But in the midst of our darkness, we hear today a story that is too fantastic to be true – or so it seems. Yes, it is business as usual – for us. But in the midst of her old age, Anna recognizes the love of God, God’s incarnate compassion in a wee child. Anna, herself fragile, herself an outsider who barely makes it into the pages of our sacred texts – notice her words are not even recorded by Luke – Anna is touched by the fragile hands and fingers, by the fragile smile and laughter of a baby.
And maybe today, after we have come down from the high of days past, after we have crashed and burned, in the midst of our suffering, not just from depression, it might be a good idea to take a clue from Anna, from her joy over the baby, a baby that touched her deep within, that reminded her of her God-given beauty, her gifts and talents ordained by God.
Many words have been said over the last few days. But maybe it is time to stop just for a moment and instead put before our inner eyes Anna’s delight in the child born in Bethlehem. Maybe we need to watch the old crone, this unlikely prophet of God, so that we too can be reminded of our God-given beauty, of our many gifts and talents ordained in us by God.
God becomes one of us in a baby, becomes helpless and vulnerable, so we can scoop him up, cradle him, embrace him, hug him, hold him tight, delight in him, fawn over him, kiss him. And in return, the babe will smile at us and touch us deep within, will reveal to us our own inner beauty and restore us to it, and will ordain us as healers for the nations and their peoples.
[Reverend Markus Duenzkofer delivered this sermon on December 28, 2008.]