students of jesus

Hope, promise, and expectation live in the most unlikely places. The birth narrative in Luke’s gospel is peopled with unknowns—unknowns who possessed a rich history with God and whose stories are preserved for our instruction. A guy named Simeon, for example. He was an individual on the margins, unnoticed in his day but preserved for us in the scripture as an example of how to walk with God.

Just after the birth of their child, Mary and Joseph took Jesus to the Temple in Jerusalem. The Temple was a massive complex of buildings, a religious marketplace at the center of Jewish life. The young couple expected anonymity in the crush of humanity flowing in and out of the Temple, but instead they encountered a man who had patiently waited to see the promise of God fulfilled before he died:

Now there was a man in Jerusalem called Simeon, who was righteous and devout. He was waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he had seen the Lord's Christ. Moved by the Spirit, he went into the temple courts. When the parents brought in the child Jesus to do for him what the custom of the Law required, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying:
"Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you now dismiss your servant in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all people,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel. (Luke 2: 25–32)

Simeon’s actions and words are recorded for us not as a matter of historical curiosity, but rather to demonstrate how we can enter into God’s purpose in our day as well. Simeon had a dynamic relationship with the Holy Spirit. In just three verses the work of the Spirit is highlighted three times, and each mention points to a distinct aspect of the Spirit’s work in Simeon’s life:

• First the scripture says simply, “the Holy Spirit was upon him.” (v25) Simeon’s life was characterized by the presence of the Spirit in an abiding way: to know Simeon, to talk with him, was to taste something of the Holy Spirit. Perhaps you have met people like him. Their lives are permeated with the presence of the Holy Spirit. They radiate the attributes of Godly character, like the list of His fruit in Galatians 5: 22-23. In Simeon’s case other people may not have been able to define the source of his distinctive character, but they undoubtedly sensed the difference.

• Second, the Holy Spirit had spoken to Simeon personally that “he would not die until he had seen the Lord’s Christ.” (v26) This is significant because no amount of study in the Old Testament could lead anyone to such a promise. It was personal. That means Simeon had trained not only his intellect but also his spirit to receive from God. Simeon combined both the ability to hear and the faith to hold on to what he heard. Can you imagine the raised eyebrows he would have encountered if he chose to share such a personal promise from God? Yet the promise was true because the scriptures assure us so.

• Third, Simeon followed the leading of the Holy Spirit in practical ways. He was “moved by the Holy Spirit” on a particular day to be at a particular place at a particular time (v27). Perhaps Simeon was consciously aware of the Spirit’s direction, or perhaps it was something less defined. But whatever level of awareness Simeon possessed it was sufficient to put him in the right place at the right time. Dallas Willard observed that God’s leading isn’t always some explicit command. In fact, we may not be able to separate our thoughts from his—until after the fact, when we realize God was leading and guiding toward a particular moment.

Although we do not know Simeon’s age at the time of the encounter with Jesus, the text leads us to believe he was a man advanced in years. His interaction with the Holy Spirit that day was not some robotic control. It was the result of years of heartfelt seeking and cooperation with the still small voice so characteristic of God’s ways.

Simeon’s relationship with the Holy Spirit placed him before the baby Jesus. Simeon’s response to the moment is instructive as well. He knew his moment had come. When Simeon declares, “dismiss your servant in peace,” (v29) he is not waxing poetic. He welcomes death because he has experienced the faithfulness of God. He has witnessed the promise of God to Abraham, to Israel, and to himself. He has seen the hope of Israel.

Simeon saw what others did not. He declared, “My eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all people” (vs 30-31) It was business as usual at the Temple that day. Priests, rabbis, and religious sorts of all kinds walked right past the King of Glory. Simeon saw a baby and witnessed the consolation of Israel. Here’s a difficult question: will I be held accountable for what the Father tried to show me, but I was unable to see?

Finally, Simeon understood that God’s purposes stretch beyond Israel to the entire world. There, in the shadow of the Temple, Simeon bore witness to the hope of the Gentiles. Most of the Temple was off-limits to women and pagans. But standing before Mary, and attracting the attention of a widow named Anna, Simeon declared that the court of the Gentiles now housed the presence of God. The God of Abraham had fulfilled a promise to bless the entire world. In our day, even among believers, we are tempted to think that God is at work on behalf of the few, when in fact his purposes include the many.

There is so much to celebrate in the Christmas story, but for followers of Jesus there is even more to learn.

From daylight to night it was, all of it, an eternal grey for Bartimaeus.

Only the sounds changed. The days were filled with the noise and activity of men, those who had sight, those who could see to walk, to work, to do. The night carried sounds deep and brooding. Through the stillness and quiet the smallest sound traveled a mile . . . two? Who knows how far?

The rhythm between day-sound and still-night was the only constant he knew. That, plus standing at the same dirty street corner day after day. Begging for coins enough to buy food. Hearing the steps of people who saw him no more than they saw the landscape beyond the city. Fighting off sighted boys with nothing better to do than torment a blind man. For so he was treated. Boys threw stones, people laughed--if they noticed at all. His deformity was proof he was clearly a man under the wrath of God. Why else had he been so afflicted?

Then he began to overhear the talk. People on their way to Jerusalem, pausing to tell stories of a miracle-working rabbi who lived far to the north, in Capernaum, by Galilee. Bartimaeus knew that healing stories traveled quickly and doubled in size for every mile they traveled, yet from his constant grey street corner he marveled to hear of demons flowing from a madman into swine. He tried to imagine a catch of fish so large it took two boats to drag the haul to shore. When he heard that a synagogue leader gambled his reputation by asking this scandalous rabbi to heal his daughter--and then received his child back from the dead--Bartimaeus took note that bold risk could be rewarded beyond all expectation.

The days had melted into awful sameness years ago. His place in Jericho was defined: a wretched man on a wretched street, differing from the dogs only because he begged for money while they begged for food scraps. Worse than a foreigner, he was a deformed and cursed Jew, but a stranger to the promise.

Out of the grey sameness came first the rumors. The miracle rabbi had turned his face toward Jerusalem. He would have to pass through Jericho. Hours later came the sounds a crowd. Dogs barking. Children's voices raised in excitement, and finally the sound of a great many people. If this rabbi existed, he would be in the center of this human storm.

On this day, a day unlike the sad march of all the days, Bartimaeus knew he must take the same risk as the ruler of that far away synagogue. He must be willing to risk the possibility that the stories might have a speck of truth, or risk the ridicule of others. But what is ridicule to a man already cast off by his own people? He must suffer the risk of a beating or being pushed aside and losing his way.

He turned his head to the direction of the sound. He asked no one, and everyone, "What is happening?"

Whether someone answered him or was merely calling out to another, Bartimaeus heard the words, "Jesus of Nazareth is passing by."

He lifted his face and bellowed toward the sky, "Jesus! Son of David! Have mercy on me!"

Nothing. No one noticed, the crowd was still moving.

Again. "Jesus! Son of David! Have mercy on me!"

"Shut up, fool!" said someone. Then a shove. Bartimaeus nearly fell. "Shut up!"

Again. "Jesus! Son of David! Have mercy on me!" He had not rehearsed the words. He had never given them thought. Still he cried the words again. And Again.

Then confusion. More shoving. And again more pushing. He was being pushed intentionally. Rudely, to be sure, but he was being pushed again and again. Guided.

He knew he was among the great crowd, but everyone had stopped. There was an unnatural stillness. Then a hand on his shoulder.

Bartimaeus heard a voice. The man asked question he had never imagined, nor even dared to hope for. Until then, mercy was his only hope. It was a question, but the blind man heard in the question what others had never been trained to hear. He heard from the voice an invitation to speak his most foolish hope. His risk had been rewarded, and the voice was asking him to risk even more. He heard, quite simply,

"What do you want me to do for you?"

All language falls short of reality, but when we try to describe the mystery of the Incarnation, words fails utterly. It is a mystery so great angels still long to look into it, yet throughout history the wise and learned have poured forth a profusion of words, trying to explain it. Good luck with that.

The Incarnation. It’s such a strange word, tinged with stained glass and solemn intonation. We inherited the word from Latin, when that beautiful language tried to express, “to be made flesh.” So strange. To be made flesh. Not to be made of flesh, but rather rendered into flesh. Someone--God--was changed into flesh. No wonder the angels were curious.

Theologians raise objections: God cannot “become” anything because God cannot change. I’m not smart enough to be a theologian. I can only point to the witness of the Holy Spirit: “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14) Although the words of men have failed to explain it, still the Word became flesh. God describes himself as “the Word.” What is that Word? It is, simply, Jesus. The Word spoken was an entire life, and that life was the light of men. In that one Word/Life, we discover the glory of God, the grace of God, and the truth of God.

In Jesus, God pitched his tent among us and showed us how to live. God wasn’t “slumming,” like some Hollywood star sleeping on the streets for one night. He left the most exclusive gated community in all creation and became a little lower than the angels. He lived among us--as one of us--without the benefits of his heavenly position. The Christmas story comes to us filled with drama and pathos, but in our celebration of the Christ Child, the faith of his parents, the wonder of the Magi, and worship from the shepherds it’s easy to miss the point: it’s the beginning of the gospel story, not the whole story. His life had just begun. He would live it to the full, as our example.

What does it look like for God to live as a man? It starts with humility, danger, and promise--not so different from each human life that comes from God. It starts with desperation and need but it continues day after day, month after month, year after year--until God’s purposes are fulfilled. Jesus the baby became Jesus the child. And in the same succession of days we all experience, Jesus the child became Jesus the man. He showed us how it’s done. He took no shortcuts, he did not cheat on the exam of life. He was “tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin” (Hebrew 4:15). Most people I know simply cannot comprehend that Jesus faced life in the very same way we face life. Surely he must’ve had some advantage, we think.

For the past two hundred years the divinity of Jesus has been under attack, and the church has rushed to defend from those attacks. Rightly so: he is the Son of God. However, decades of emphasis on his divine nature have come at the expense of an understanding of his humanity. Jesus lived his daily life in communion with the Father using the same means open to each one of us: prayer, openness to the Spirit, the witness of scripture, a listening ear, and the life of a disciple. The child Jesus “grew in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and men” (Luke 2:52). It was no charade: Jesus was a man. If we grasp his humanity we can encounter the hope of Christlikeness for ourselves. The Incarnation is not only a theological teaching, it is a picture of what is possible for followers of Jesus.

An overemphasis on his divinity creates a picture of a saving God who is beyond our reach. An overemphasis on his humanity reduces Jesus to a beloved character who was simply a good man. It took the early church two centuries to come to an acceptable statement of the mystery—Jesus is at once 100% God and 100% man. The mystery is also the stuff of which Christmas is made.

When the Preacher, who confined himself to matters under the sun, intoned, “with much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief,” he forever linked the idea that serious people were sad because disillusionment is the only choice of the enlightened. Camus, Satre, Voltaire (anyone from France, really) and most great thinkers have fallen in line with the fallen king of Israel. The wisdom of the wise is to expect disappointment, anticipate disaster, and gainsay anyone who prefers sunrise to sunset.

The worldly-wise require a dreary realism for club membership. The doorman greets the cynic, but keeps the hopeful behind the velvet rope. Happy people are hopeless, they say: hopelessly idealistic and hopelessly romantic.

In fact, the exact opposite is true: happy people are the hope-filled, the joy saturated, the ones so full of the Spirit he oozes out of them. The surprising testimony of the scripture, and the Lord of the scripture, is that history has a destination of unspeakable joy.

Even when we look cold-hard at the suffering of a desperate world, we can see the text of God super-imposed on the landscape, written with a feather-touch: “the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that is to be revealed to us.” This week I invite you to meditate with me on the fruit of the Spirit, those nine attributes I can never seem to remember in order: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Discover again with me that “serious” is not a fruit of the Spirit.

The shipwrecked and beaten apostle reminds us, “against such things there is no law.” They cannot be legislated into existence, nor regulated out. They can only be lived into. They can only be discovered as the natural outgrowth of a life lived in concert with the Great Creator, the Feast-throwing Father, the one who invites us, “enter into the joy of your Master.”