The local mortuary asked me to speak at the annual Christmas memorial
service...this is what I came up with...perhaps someone will find it
helpful.

Rev. Peter K. Perry
Prescott United Methodist Church
505 West Gurley Street
Prescott, AZ USA 86301
mailto:pkperry@cableone.net
http://www.prescottumc.com
520-717-1688 Home
520-778-1950 Work

A Sword-Pierced Soul
Luke 2:25-35

I remember our first Christmas in our new house here in Prescott. Being a
Methodist minister and spouse, Karen and I were accustomed to living in
parsonages. This is the first time we’ve ever owned our own home, and our
house was brand new. When Karen got out the box of Christmas decorations, I
reluctantly went to the garage and grabbed a hammer. I was glad to be
decorating our house for the holidays, but I was worried about all of the
nails I had to put in the walls.

Now, five Christmases later, our house bears the marks of Christmases past.
There are nail holes that I look for every year as I hang the decorations,
trying hard not to make new holes if I don’t have to. There are even some
nails and hooks that are left up year round, especially outside on the
eaves, where I hang the outdoor lights. Our house bears the scars of
Christmases past. It has been wounded by the celebrations of joy and all of
the hang-ups of Christmas.

And friends, what is true for our house is also true for our lives. We can
decorate for the holidays, but we can never avoid the truth that the
holidays are often hard for us. We are here today at this service because
we all have one thing in common. We have lost someone we care deeply about.
Death has taken them away from us and we still mourn. I understand that far
better this year than I have ever understood it before. Some of you know
that last December my father took ill, he was put on a respirator on the day
after Christmas, and he died a few weeks later on January 5. I cried then,
and in the eleven months since he died, I’ve thought of him often and felt
the loss numerous times, in the least expected of places. I remember in
May, standing in line at the grocery and seeing someone who looked like my
dad. I remember opening an old notebook and finding a letter in my father’s
handwriting. I remember calling my daughter by her nickname and realizing
that dad is the one who first called her Betsy-boo. I remember one Sunday
morning, getting ready for church, putting on a tie, and glancing down at a
photo of dad and remembering how he taught me to knot a tie. And
Christmas…well, Christmas is filled with memories, isn’t it? Who taught me
to string lights on a house? Who always sang the bass line of Angels We
Have Heard on High, who assembled the toys for my Christmases, who said the
grace at the Christmas dinner table? My father…Thomas Clifton Perry. I’ve
lost lots of friends and church members over the years…many during the
holidays, a few on Christmas Day itself. But I didn’t realize how hard
Christmas can be until I lost my father just about a year ago.

Especially when all of the world is celebrating with lights and parties and
presents and caroling and visits from family and exchanging cards and… and…
and… Holidays are hard. Birthdays and anniversaries are hard. They are
hard because we have a sword-pierced soul.

You know where that phrase comes from? In Luke’s gospel, the story is told
of the day when Mary and Joseph take Jesus to be presented at the temple, to
offer the required sacrifice following the birth of a child.

(Luke 2:25-35) Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this
man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel,
and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy
Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord's Messiah.
Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents
brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law,
Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying, "Master, now you are
dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have
seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel."
And the child's father and mother were amazed at what was being said about
him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, "This child is
destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign
that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be
revealed--and a sword will pierce your own soul too."

The story of Christmas is good news for all people. God has come to his
people. The word has become flesh and dwells among us! "Peace on Earth!"
cried the angels, "and goodwill among all!" Christmas is good news! Say
that with me… "Christmas is good news!" Amen.

But Christmas is also frightening. Imagine being Mary and Joseph. Imagine
being visited by angels. Imagine hearing the stories of the shepherds who
ran from the fields to see your baby. Imagine being visited by the wise men
from the East. God has blessed them with this precious child, and they are
grateful, but they are also frightened. For with light of God’s love coming
through this baby, there is also a shadow … the shadow of a cross. And
Simeon can see the shadow. He is just a crazy old man who hangs out at the
Temple every day because he believes God is going to show him the salvation
of God. When Simeon sees Jesus, he says, "OK God, you can take me home now!
I’ve seen your salvation! This baby is a light for the whole world and a
glory for Israel!" Simeon blesses the young family, and then he looks at
Mary and says, "This baby has an important destiny…one that will pierce your
soul with a sword."

The sword-pierced soul… with the good in this life there comes some bad.
Imagine Mary’s anguish at the foot of the cross, thirty years later, as she
hears Simeon’s words echoing from her memory: "…and a sword will pierce your
soul." Do you think that Mary regretted her love for Jesus? Do you think
she ever cursed God for have chosen her to be the bearer of God’s son? Do
think she ever wished that she had never heard the name Jesus? I don’t
think so.

What is the price we pay for loving someone? Every time we love someone, we
give away a little bit of our heart. And it works the other way, when are
loved by someone, we own a little bit of their heart. And when death
divides our love, our hearts are wounded. And we hurt, just as surely as
Mary hurt when her infant son, the Baby of Bethlehem, grew up to become the
world’s Messiah, and to die on a cross.

The poet who penned the words, "‘Tis better to have loved and lost than
never to have loved at all" understood that love is worth the price. Love
is worth the price.

When we think of our loved ones who are gone from us, we mourn, but we also
give thanks for these lives that touched our own in such significant
ways…husbands, wives, children, parents, siblings, family, friends… We are
better people for have lived and loved with them. Lives end…but faith
teaches us that love doesn’t. Love is eternal and the bonds of love are not
broken by death. Saint Paul says in First Corinthians:

(1 Corinthians 13:4-8) Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious
or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is
not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices
in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things,
endures all things. Love never ends.

Mary, who loved her child with a mother’s love, experienced great pain
precisely because she loved. Yes, she had a sword-pierced soul. But her
wounded soul was mended by the promise of Easter, by the promise that love
never ends, by the promise that we shall rise again…
rise up from our broken lives…
rise up from lonely days and nights…
rise up from the tombs of the past…
rise up from tears of grief…
rise up from the fear of change…
rise up from sword-pierced souls.

The story is told of some who suffered much tragedy in their lives, but rose
up with this promise of God. It happened one Christmas eve during the
fourteenth century. The greatest pestilence of history was sweeping through
Europe. It was the "Black Death," the plague, and it claimed its victims by
the hundreds of thousands, in every country, in every city, and every
hamlet. In that dreadful time, men sought to save their lives through
isolation. Since a simple touch, the sweep of a passing garment, might
bring death, many barred themselves up in their houses, with such provisions
as they could gather, and sustained a strange siege against the invisible
enemy without. In such a manner did one of the citizens of Goldberg, in
Germany, save his life until Christmas eve 1353. He thought himself the
last inhabitant of the plague-stricken city, and as the time of the joyous
festival approached he could not but recall how many of his old companions
had joined with him in merrymaking in the past years; and now he was left
alone in the midst of desolation. The thought must have been borne in upon
him that his life was not worth saving at the price of such loneliness, for
he unbarred his door and went out into the street to take the plague, if God
willed it, and to die. As he went forth he sang the old Christmas songs
that he had sung in the old days before the plague. He was astounded to
hear a voice respond to his own, and in a little while another citizen had
unbarred his door and sang with him; as the two went down the street they
were joined by another, and another, until, when they had come to the far
end of the road at the Neiderring, a hill close to the town, there was a
band of twenty-five, men, women, and children, all that was left of the town
of Goldberg. Whether it was that the plague had spent its violence or,
which is more probable, that the minds of the survivors were more serene and
less afraid of death, none of this little band died of the Black Death.
They returned to their homes, set their houses in order, buried their dead,
and the town began to prosper anew. But each Christmas eve for centuries
after this event, even to this very year, the inhabitants of the town gather
together for worship at midnight, and then march together through the
streets, to the Neiderring. (from THE HEART HAS ITS SEASONS, W.P. Webb,
p.70)

That’s sort of what we are doing here, isn’t it? We who have born the pain
of losing a loved one have gathered to remember, to pray, to say that the
gift of the love we have known is worth the pain we feel at the loss.
Brothers and sisters, the holidays are hard when we mourn. But we do not
mourn alone. And God has not left us without hope. God sends his love at
Christmas, and God has promised that his love, and all love, will last
forever. Amen.