Luke 2:22-40

In the middle of the last decade, a very popular programme on television was Grumpy Old Men. [It isn't where I got the idea for our Men's Pub Lunch from.] A selection of well-known men were given the opportunity to complain bitterly about all sorts of things which they dislike about modern life: Pop Idol, Tony Blair, mobile phones, Christmas and all sorts of other things got the grumpy treatment.

The grumpy old men, of course, are all rich and famous people - which seems to prove the old saying that money won't buy you happiness. That's quite comforting in a way, for those of us who don't have much. But we have our own grumpy old men in our lives too, don't we - the things they complain about on telly we hear people moan on about in our homes and workplaces and even in our own coffee bar here. I wonder if you have a grumpy old man in your life - I do, it's me, quite often.

Today we're thinking about the story of the Presentation of the baby Jesus in the Temple. If you like it's the point in the church year when we stop thinking of the baby Jesus, and turn our thoughts to the grown up man. This is marked on 2 February, forty days since Christmas, and is the end of the Christmas and Epiphany season. It's also half way between the winter solstice and the spring equinox.

I'd to look, this morning, at one particular character in that story, Simeon, the old man who had waited a long time in the Temple to receive Jesus, and the words that he said as he held Mary's little baby in his arms. I want to suggest to you that Simeon was a grumpy old man.

You may wonder why I say that. We have just heard that Simeon sang a song with the infant Jesus in his arms, which hardly seems the thing for a grumpy old man. Today we call this song the Nunc Dimittis - "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace." I'll be saying more about this song, and if you find it helpful, do keep a Bible open at page 56, and it starts at verse 28.

The drawback to this song of Simeon, the Nunc Dimittis, is that many of us tend to treat those words as a mug of Ovaltine, a nightcap guaranteeing a good night's sleep. In churches with a tradition of set daily prayer this is part of the evening and night prayer, when the day's work is done, and it's time for bed. The familiar cadences are like gentle lullabies, easing the listener into dreamless slumber:

Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace according to thy word.

Simeon is satisfied that all he has longed for is now fulfilled in the child in his arms. He's an old man. Now he can contentedly take his leave, in the sure knowledge that his saviour has come. As T.S. Eliot wrote in his poem A Song for Simeon:

"my life is light, waiting for the death wind,
Like a feather on the back of my hand".

Simeon's words catch his mood, and they can lead us to feel that our own worries can drain away. All's well, and we can safely rest. That's because, in his song, Simeon was looking forward to "the consolation of Israel". That curious phrase means little to most of us today, but to those reading this when it was first written it was clear that it meant the messianic age, the time when the messiah had come. It takes those famous words of Isaiah "Comfort, comfort, my people", when Isaiah announced his message of hope to the exiles in Babylon.

Simeon had craved that promised comfort all his life. Now salvation is in sight, not only for his own people, but for the Gentiles, too. Now he is holding the child messiah in his arms, at last, he can go to God with a serene heart:

For mine eyes have seen thy salvation,
Which thou hast prepared before the face of all people;
To be a light to lighten the Gentile and to be the glory of thy people Israel.

But if our impression of Simeon is of a contented figure with an unshakeably comforting message, then we've mistaken our man. Perhaps we've mistaken his song for a comforting part of the liturgy, and ignored its setting. The Song of Simeon stops sounding like soothing mood-music if we return it to its context and take account of what he actually says about the child he's holding. His words to Mary paint a darker picture, and it's this that makes him sound like a grumpy old man.

The "consolation" which Israel expected would - so they thought - follow the path mapped by the prophet Isaiah. Theirs would be the destiny he had promised. Their deliverance would fulfil his vision. They, too, would rise in triumph from bitter servitude. For them, too, the wilderness would rejoice and the desert blossom. They, too, would exult over their oppressors, who would watch this mighty act of God in abject awe.

But Simeon, the grumpy old man, wearied by a long life of waiting for the messiah to show up - Simeon foresees an altogether different fate for Israel - not a sunlit highway, but the valley of the shadow of death. The end may yet be glorious, but the path there will be a way of sadness. The doom of Israel is presaged in this baby, born to be a crucified king. Simeon speaks of light and glory, but also of "the time of cords and scourges and lamentation".

Then Simeon blessed them and said to Mary, his mother: "This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too."

In the Bible "many" often means "all", and it does so here: the "many" in Israel means all of Israel. Simeon's words also anticipate what the child himself will one day say: "The Son of Man came to give his life as a ransom for many" (Mark 10.45). For Mary herself, there's little comfort in Simeon's words. The sword, thrust into her son's side, will pierce her heart, too.

Simeon turns out to be a less reassuring figure than his image down the years has made him out to be, and this presentation of Jesus in the Temple is an altogether more disturbing event than many would like to think. Poor old Simeon turns out to be a grumpy old man. But the redeeming thing about grumpy old men is this: they often turn out to be speaking the truth.

Simeon sought consolation in the coming messiah. But he was old enough and wise enough to see that there is pain beyond consoling, as Mary later found. Simeon's words of celebration are tempered by his grumpy words because they recognise the complicated truth about the baby he was holding - Jesus would bring consolation, but he would also bring division, pain, and for those who follow him a lot of difficulty all mixed in with the joy. In A Grief Observed C. S. Lewis wrote,

Talk to me about the truth of religion and I'll listen gladly. Talk to me about the duty of religion and I'll listen submissively. But don't come talking to me about the consolations of religion or I shall suspect that you don't understand.

Sometimes there aren't many consolations in religion - just difficult decisions. Perhaps that's why Christians seem a bit grumpy at times, and perhaps that's understandable. Perhaps what we know is happening in our lives and the lives of those we know and love reinforces Simeon's words on that famous and fateful day when he held his longed-for messiah in his arms.

He was consoled by the presence of Jesus, but he was wisely grumpy enough to know that it wouldn't all be plain sailing with this saviour. And we, who like Simeon are just ordinary people practising our faith in our own modest way, might be similarly consoled but similarly warned that we're following a saviour who causes some to rise and some to fall; who is spoken of with great joy and celebration and is also fiercely spoken against. Who makes living the Christian life a great consolation and at the same time a great challenge.

May all of us who want to hold on to our saviour today learn from Simeon, to be joyful enough to celebrate the presence of Christ with us, and to be grumpy enough to learn from Christ how to be wise in the difficult decisions of our lives.