Luke 2:41-52 · The Boy Jesus at the Temple
Patterns of Possibility
Luke 2:41-52
Sermon
by Susan R. Andrews
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A few years ago I revisited the places of my childhood. Sim and I piled the kids into the car and traveled to LaCrosse, Wisconsin, where I was born, and then to Erie, Pennsylvania, where I lived from the age of five until the age of twelve. Together the four of us explored what Sim fondly called the Seven Sacred Susie Sightings: the house where I was born, the two elementary schools I attended, the park by the zoo where I flew up from Brownie Scouts to Girl Scouts, and the beach on Lake Erie where I spent hour after lazy hour floating in the warmth of summer. We also visited the two churches, in Erie and LaCrosse, where my father had served as pastor, and where I had lived, happily, for many, many years. I say “lived” purposely — for those two church buildings became, for me, like second homes. Not only did the pews feel as familiar as my living room sofa, the tunnels under the church building, the closet behind the balcony, the classrooms in the Sunday school assembly hall — all these spaces became familiar places to hide in and play in and grow in.

But when Sim and the kids and I first drove up to the red brick church building in scenic downtown Erie, I didn’t recognize the facade. Years ago the First Presbyterian Church had been sold to Gannon College, and the sanctuary had been transformed into a Catholic college chapel — complete with statues of the Virgin Mary and holy water at the main entrances to the sanctuary. At first I was angry and disappointed. But then, when I went in and sat down, it all came flooding back to me — the complete safety and familiarity I have always felt in the church — and I knew that at some level, I had come home.

These experiences which shaped my childhood give me an entree into today’s gospel story that may be different from yours. Jesus’ behavior in this wonderful tale has never particularly bothered me or surprised me. Actually, it makes total sense to me that Jesus would stay behind in the temple, comfortable with the space and the priests and the holiness of the sanctuary. Why not? He had been raised by faithful parents who took him regularly to his hometown synagogue, and who had brought him here, to the special temple in Jerusalem, every single year of his life. You see this is what practicing Jewish parents were expected to do. From the moment of circumcision at the prescribed eight days, to dedication at six weeks, to the yearly sojourns for prayer and sacrifice, to this special occasion on his twelfth birthday, Jesus had been brought to the temple in Jerusalem and swept up in the rhythms and rituals of the Jewish faith. For him, to be in the temple felt like a warm bath, a sacred home, and a place of total acceptance and exciting challenge.

Mary and Joseph had taught Jesus that he did not belong to them — that he belonged to God — that he had only been lent to them for a few years. Jesus understood that his world was bigger than Nazareth. He understood that God’s family was bigger than Mary, Joseph, and his brothers and sisters. He understood that God’s table was bigger than his kitchen table. And he understood that his life, his identity, his purpose was bigger than being the oldest son of Joe and Mary. Yes, without even realizing it, these are lessons that Mary and Joseph passed onto their boy. Ironically, Jesus understood and accepted these lessons much better than did the two people who taught him.

I’ve always known, in my head, that the purpose of being a parent is to let our children go. I’ve always known in my head that the only reason we hug them tight is so that they will feel secure when they flee our arms to embrace the world. But when the idea begins to become reality, it doesn’t always feel very good.

Maxie Dunham tells simple pithy stories that capture the wisdom of ordinary living. In one such story he recounts the day a young man left home for college. His mother had helped him pack and then drove him to his new dormitory. After a warm hug, she quickly and quietly left him to get settled on his own. As he was unpacking his suitcase, he found his shirts and pants and underwear all carefully stacked. And tucked in with them were two long narrow strips of cloth, neatly ironed and folded. He had no idea what they were at first. But then looking at them closely, he recognized their pattern. These were the strings from his mother’s apron. And she had cut them off — in order to set him free. In my own journey with my young adult children, I cannot tell you how many times I have reminded myself of the wisdom of this simple story. Many times I have once again symbolically cut off the spiritual apron strings I am unconsciously using to control their lives.

Jesus began to separate from his parents, so that he could become closer to the God buried deep within his own soul. But his actions caused some to raise their eyebrows over the years. In fact, some interpreters have accused Jesus of being anti-family. This morning he seems astonished by the acute anxiety of his two over-protective parents. His response was less than respectful. Who are these crazy people? he thought. So we’ve been apart for five days. What’s the big deal? Don’t they trust me enough to know that I will eventually come home? After all they are the ones who made me comfortable with the priest, who introduced me to this temple and to these scriptures that fascinate me so.

But today’s episode was only the beginning of Jesus’ strange relationship with his family. Years later, when he arrived back in Nazareth to preach his first sermon, he embarrassed mom and dad by preaching not a warm safe message to impress the neighbors, but a prophetic, scary message, that made everyone mad. Then, at his first miracle — you know, where he changed water into wine at a cousin’s wedding — Jesus sharply rebuked Mary in front of the entire family. And a few weeks later when his mother and brothers came to get him at the synagogue trying to convince him to rest — Jesus turned on them and said: “Who are my mother, my brothers, my family? Not you. Oh, no. My family is everyone who hears the word of God and does it.” At the bitter end, when he was hanging on the cross, and his mother was weeping at his feet, Jesus gently pushed his mother away — giving her a new family — saying to Mary: “Mother, behold your new son.” And to John: “Son, behold your new mother.”

Actually, my friends, Jesus was not anti-family. He just defined family in a new way — in a much bigger and broader way. We are all brothers and sisters to each other. We are all called to nurture and to need a large group of people in order to become whole. In fact, when we focus exclusively or obsessively on the few people with whom we share a house, we risk turning “family” into an idol and we end up avoiding the larger responsibilities of kinship that God has called us to embrace.

At first glance, today’s story is about parents and children, about adolescence, and about the wider perspective and context that a disciplined spiritual life gives to our offspring and to us. But in a bigger sense, this gospel story is about a larger pattern of possibility that God has implanted in each of our souls. Whenever we decide that we have finally arrived, whenever we decide that we are finally established, whenever we decide that we are finished, or that we have life all figured out — yes, whenever we feel like we are settled — it is then that God surprises us with another whole chapter of living, whether we want it or not. At these points, we have a choice. We can either greet this surprise with anxiety and anger, as did Mary and Joseph, or we can welcome the surprise with curiosity and openness, as did Jesus. You see, the frontiers of identity formation are not just an adolescent phenomenon. Becoming who we are is a perpetual process, a continual blessing, because we are the ever-unfolding children of God. But — and this is important — trust and not control is the only way we can unfold without collapsing.

Years ago, when I served a large congregation in Pennsylvania, there was a prominent family who was ever-present in the workings of the church. John, the father, was a benevolent patriarch — very wealthy, very demanding, and very authoritative. His children did what he said — including active involvement in all aspects of the church. As a young associate pastor, I worked with the youth and young adults in that congregation, including the daughters of this family. A strange thing happened on their journey toward adulthood. All three of his children ended up going to seminary — two of them eventually becoming parish pastors.

A few years later I remember having a conversation with John — who was simply mystified as to why his children would want to enter a profession with so little status and so little financial reward. I smiled, and then gently reminded him that he had presented his three children for baptism within the walls of the church — just as Mary and Joseph had presented Jesus for circumcision within the walls of the temple. And just as the teenage Jesus found intellectual and spiritual security within the wisdom and tradition of temple life, so too had John’s children found a home away from home within the world of the church. There really was no mystery. Through the waters of baptism, John had given his children to God, steeping them in the spiritual life — and through unfolding patterns of possibility, God took care of the rest.

Our gospel lesson for this morning is framed by two almost identical phrases. Jesus grew in wisdom and in favor — with both God and humanity. Sandwiched in between is this wonderful story about Jesus in the temple — a story about being rooted in a life of faith — rooted in God, rooted in tradition, rooted in spiritual discipline, rooted in something bigger than what we can see and touch and smell and hear. My friends, in the year that stretches ahead of us, let us too root ourselves in a life of faith, being curious and open to the new things God is doing in our lives. The promise is that like Jesus we will grow in wisdom and in favor with both God and humanity.

May it be so, for you and for me. Amen.

CSS Publishing Co., Inc., God with skin on: Cycle C sermons for Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany based on the gospel texts, by Susan R. Andrews