A3 - Birth of Jesus in Bethlehem

HISTORICAL AND THEOLOGICAL FRAMEWORK IN LUKE’S GOSPEL

“In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be enrolled” (Lk 2:1). With these words, Luke introduces his account of the birth of Jesus and explains how it came to take place in Bethlehem. A population census, for purposes of determining and collecting taxes, was what prompted Joseph to set off from Nazareth for Bethlehem, together with Mary, his betrothed, who was expecting a child. The birth of Jesus in the city of David is placed within the overarching framework of world history, even though Caesar was quite unaware of the difficult journey that these ordinary people were making on his account. And so it is that the child Jesus is born, seemingly by chance, in the place of the promise.

The context in world history is important for Luke. For the first time, “all the world,” the ecumene in its entirety, is to be enrolled. For the first time there is a government and an empire that spans the globe. For the first time, there is a great expanse of peace in which everyone’s property can be registered and placed at the service of the wider community. Only now, when there is a commonality of law and property on a large scale, and when a universal language has made it possible for a cultural community to trade in ideas and goods, only now can a message of universal salvation, a universal Saviour, enter the world: it is indeed the “fullness of time.”

Yet the link between Jesus and Augustus goes deeper. Augustus did not want merely to be a ruler like any other, such as had existed before him and would come after him. The inscription at Priene, from the year 9 B.C., helps us to understand how he wanted to be seen and understood. There it is said that the day of the Emperor’s birth “gave the whole world a new aspect. It would have fallen into ruin had not a widespread well-being shone forth through him, the one now born … Providence, which has ordered all things, filled this man with virtue that he might benefit mankind, sending him as a Saviour (sõt?r) both for us and our descendants … The birthday of the god was the beginning of the good tidings that he brought for the world. From his birth, a new reckoning of time must begin” (cf. Stöger, Lukasevangelium, p. 74).

From a text like this it is clear that Augustus was regarded not just as a politician, but as a theological figure - which shows that our distinction between politics and religion, between politics and theology, simply did not exist in the ancient world. In the year 27 B.C., three years after his assumption of office, the Roman Senate had already awarded him the title Augustus (in Greek: sebastós) - meaning “one worthy of adoration.” In the inscription at Priene, he is called Saviour, Redeemer (tõt?r). This title, which literature ascribed to Zeus, but also to Epicurus and Asclepius, is reserved in the Greek translation of the Old Testament to God alone. For Augustus too, there was a divine ring to it: the Emperor ushered in a changed world, a new era.

In Virgil’s Fourth Eclogue, we have already encountered the hope of a new world, the expectation of a return to Paradise. While in Virgil, as we have seen, there is a broader background to this, nevertheless the outlook on life typical of the Augustan era leaves its mark: “Now all must change …”

There are two aspects of the self-understanding of Augustus and his contemporaries that I would like to single out. Peace, above all, was what the “Saviour” brought to the world. Augustus himself left a lasting monument to his peace-bringing mission in the Ara Pacis Augusti, the remains of which, even today, manifest most impressively how the universal peace that he established for a certain period made it possible to breathe freely and to hope. Marius Reiser, citing Antonie Wlosok, writes as follows: On 23 September (the Emperor’s birthday), “between morning and evening, the shadow of this sun clock moved about 150m straight along the equinox, to the very centre of the Ara Pacis; there is thus a direct line from the birth of this man to Pax, and in this way it is clearly demonstrated that he is natus ad pacem (born for peace). The shadow comes from a ball, and the ball … is both the heavenly sphere and the earthly globe, a symbol of dominion over the world which is now at peace” (Wie wahr, p. 459).

Here we see the second aspect of Augustus’ self-image: the universality that, once again, he himself put on display in a very public record of his life and work, listing specific facts - the so-called Monumentum Ancyranum.

This brings us back to the registration of all the inhabitants of the empire, by which the birth of Jesus of Nazareth is linked to Caesar Augustus. There is a long-running dispute among experts regarding this tax collection (population census), but there is no need for us to enter into all the details here.

One initial problem can be solved quite easily: the census took place at the time of King Herod the Great, who actually died in the year 4 B.C. The starting-point for our reckoning of time - the calculation of Jesus’ date of birth - goes back to the monk Dionysius Exiguus († c. 550), who evidently miscalculated by a few years. The historical date of the birth of Jesus is therefore to be placed a few years earlier.

There is much debate regarding the date of the census. According to Flavius Josephus, to whom we owe most of our knowledge of Jewish history around the time of Jesus, it took place in the year 6 A.D. under the governor Quirinius, and as it was ultimately a question of money, it led to the uprising of Judas the Galilean (cf. Acts 5:37). According to Josephus it was only then, and not before, that Quirinius was active in the region of Syria and Judea. Yet these claims in their turn are uncertain. At any rate, there are indications that Quirinius was already in the Emperor’s service in Syria around 9 B.C. So it is most illuminating when such scholars as Alois Stöger suggest that the “population census” was a slow process in the conditions of the time, dragging on over several years. Moreover, it was implemented in two stages: firstly, registration of all land and property ownership, and then - in the second phase - determination of the payments that were due. The first stage would have taken place at the time of Jesus’ birth; the second, much more injurious for the people, was what provoked the uprising (cf. Stöger, Lukasevangelium, pp. 372f.).

Some have raised the further objection that there was no need, in a census of this kind, for each person to travel to his hometown (cf. Lk 2:3). But we also know from various sources that those affected had to present themselves where they owned property. Accordingly, we may assume that Joseph, of the house of David, had property in Bethlehem, so that he had to go there for tax registration.

Regarding the details, the discussion could continue indefinitely. It is difficult to gain an insight into the daily life of a society so complex and so distant from our own as that of the Roman Empire. Yet the essential content of Luke’s narrative remains historically credible all the same: Luke set out, as he says in the prologue to his Gospel, “to write an orderly account” (1:3). This he evidently did, making use of the means at his disposal. In any case, he was situated much closer to the sources and events than we could ever claim to be, despite all our historical scholarship.

Let us return to the wider context of the moment in history when Jesus’ birth took place. By referring to the Emperor Augustus and to “the whole ecumene,” Luke was intentionally creating both a historical and a theological framework for the events he was about to recount.

Jesus was born at a time that can be precisely determined. Later, at the start of Jesus’ public ministry, Luke once again offers a meticulously detailed chronology of that particular moment in history: the fifteenth year of the reign of the Emperor Tiberius. He adds the names of the Roman governor that year, the tetrarchs of Galilee, of Ituraea and Trachonitis and of Abilene, as well as the high-priests (cf. Lk 3:1f.).

It was not with the timelessness of myth that Jesus came to be born among us. He belongs to a time that can be precisely dated and a geographical area that is precisely defined: here the universal and the concrete converge. It was in him that the Lógos, the creative logic behind all things, entered the world. The eternal Lógos became man: the context of place and time is part of this. Faith attaches itself to this concrete reality, even if the resurrection then bursts open the categories of time and space, as the risen Lord, going before the disciples into Galilee (cf. Mt 28:7), opens up a pathway into the vast expanse of humanity (cf. Mt 28:16ff.).

There is a further important element. Augustus’ instruction regarding the registration, for tax purposes, of all the citizens of the ecumene leads Joseph, together with Mary, his betrothed, to Bethlehem, the city of David, and thus it helps to bring to fulfillment the promise of the prophet Micah that the shepherd of Israel would be born in that city (cf. 5:1 - 3). The Emperor unwittingly contributes to the realization of the prophecy: the history of the Roman Empire is interwoven with the history of the salvation that God established with Israel. The history of God’s election, hitherto confined to Israel, enters the wider world, it enters world history. God, who is the God of Israel and of all peoples, shows himself to be the true guiding force behind all history.

Significant exponents of modern exegesis take the view that when Matthew and Luke say Jesus was born in Bethlehem, they are making a theological statement, not a historical one. In actual fact, these exegetes claim, Jesus was born in Nazareth. By placing the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem, the evangelists are thought to have refashioned history theologically, in accordance with the promises, so as to make it possible to designate Jesus, on the basis of his birthplace, as the long-awaited shepherd of Israel (cf. Mic 5:1 - 3; Mt 2:6).

I do not see how a basis for this theory can be gleaned from the actual sources. As far as the birth of Jesus is concerned, the only sources we have are the infancy narratives of Matthew and Luke. The two evidently belong to quite distinct narrative traditions. They are marked by different theological visions, just as their historical details are in some respects different.

Matthew apparently did not know that Joseph and Mary were both originally from Nazareth. Hence, on returning from Egypt, Joseph initially wants to go to Bethlehem, and it is only the news that a son of Herod is reigning in Judea that causes him to travel to Galilee instead. For Luke, on the other hand, it is clear from the outset that the holy family returned to Nazareth after the events surrounding the birth. The two different strands of tradition agree on the fact that Bethlehem was Jesus’ birthplace. If we abide by the sources, it is clear that Jesus was born in Bethlehem and grew up in Nazareth.

THE BIRTH OF JESUS

“And while they were there [in Bethlehem], the time came for her to be delivered. And she gave birth to her first-born son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn” (Lk 2:6f.).

Let us begin our exegesis with the concluding words of this passage: there was no room for them in the inn. Prayerful reflection over these words has highlighted an inner parallel between this saying and the profoundly moving verse from Saint John’s Prologue: “He came to his own home, and his own people received him not” (1:11). For the Saviour of the world, for him in whom all things were created (cf. Col 1:16), there was no room. “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head” (Mt 8:20). He who was crucified outside the city (cf. Heb 13:12) also came into the world outside the city.

This should cause us to reflect - it points toward the reversal of values found in the figure of Jesus Christ and his message. From the moment of his birth, he belongs outside the realm of what is important and powerful in worldly terms. Yet it is this unimportant and powerless child that proves to be the truly powerful one, the one on whom ultimately everything depends. So one aspect of becoming a Christian is having to leave behind what everyone else thinks and wants, the prevailing standards, in order to enter the light of the truth of our being, and aided by that light to find the right path.

Mary laid her newborn child in a manger (cf. Lk 2:7). From this detail it has been correctly deduced that Jesus was born in a stable, in an inhospitable - one might even say unworthy - space, which nevertheless provided the necessary privacy for the sacred event. In the area around Bethlehem, rocky caves had been used as stables since ancient times (cf. Stuhlmacher, Die Geburt des Immanuel, p. 51).

As early as Justin Martyr († 165) and Origen († c. 254), we find the tradition that Jesus was born in a cave, which Christians in Palestine could point to. The fact that after the expulsion of the Jews from the Holy Land in the second century, Rome turned the cave into a shrine of Tammuz-Adonis, thereby evidently intending to suppress the Christian memorial cult, confirms the age of this shrine and also shows how important it was thought to be by the Romans. Local traditions are frequently a more reliable source than written records. So a considerable measure of credibility may be assigned to the tradition that Bethlehem was Jesus’ birthplace, a tradition to which the Church of the Nativity also bears witness.

Mary wrapped the child in swaddling cloths. Without yielding to sentimentality, we may imagine with what great love Mary approached her hour and prepared for the birth of her child. Iconographic tradition has theologically interpreted the manger and the swaddling cloths in terms of the theology of the Fathers. The child stiffly wrapped in bandages is seen as prefiguring the hour of his death: from the outset, he is the sacrificial victim, as we shall see more closely when we examine the reference to the first-born. The manger, then, was seen as a kind of altar.

Augustine drew out the meaning of the manger using an idea that at first seems almost shocking, but on closer examination contains a profound truth. The manger is the place where animals find their food. But now, lying in the manger, is he who called himself the true bread come down from heaven, the true nourishment that we need in order to be fully ourselves. This is the food that gives us true life, eternal life. Thus the manger becomes a reference to the table of God, to which we are invited so as to receive the bread of God. From the poverty of Jesus’ birth emerges the miracle in which man’s redemption is mysteriously accomplished. The manger, as we have seen, indicates animals, who come to it for their food. In the Gospel there is no reference to animals at this point. But prayerful reflection, reading Old and New Testaments in the light of one another, filled this lacuna at a very early stage by pointing to Is 1:3: “The ox knows its owner, and the ass its master’s crib; but Israel does not know, my people does not understand.”

Peter Stuhlmacher points out that the Greek version of Hab 3:2 may well have contributed here: “In the midst of two living creatures you will be recognized … when the time has come, you will appear” (cf. Die Geburt des Immanuel, p. 52). The two living creatures would appear to refer to the two cherubs on the mercy-seat of the Ark of the Covenant (cf. Ex 25:18 - 20), who both reveal and conceal the mysterious presence of God. So the manger has in some sense become the Ark of the Covenant, in which God is mysteriously hidden among men, and before which the time has come for “ox and ass” - humanity made up of Jews and Gentiles - to acknowledge God.

Through this remarkable combination of Is 1:3, Hab 3:2, Ex 25:18 - 20 and the manger, the two animals now appear as an image of a hitherto blind humanity which now, before the child, before God’s humble self-manifestation in the stable, has learned to recognize him, and in the lowliness of his birth receives the revelation that now teaches all people to see. Christian iconography adopted this motif at an early stage. No representation of the crib is complete without the ox and the ass. After this brief digression, let us return to the text of the Gospel. “Mary gave birth to her first-born son,” we read in Lk 2:7. What does this mean?

The first-born is not necessarily the first in a series. The word “first-born” points not to a continuing number, but rather indicates a theological quality which finds expression in the oldest of Israel’s collections of laws. The instructions for the Passover contain the following passages: “The Lord said to Moses: ‘Consecrate to me all the first-born; whatever is the first to open the womb among the people of Israel, both of man and of beast, is mine’ ” (Ex 13:1f.). “Every first-born of man among your sons you shall redeem” (Ex 13:13). So the reference to the first-born is also an anticipation of the account, soon to follow, of Jesus’ presentation in the Temple. Clearly, this word highlights the particular way in which Jesus belongs to God.

Pauline theology took the idea of Jesus as first-born two steps further. In the Letter to the Romans, Paul calls Jesus the “first-born among many brethren” (8:29). Having risen, he is now “first-born” in a new way, and at the same time he is the beginning of a host of brethren. In the new birth of the resurrection, Jesus is no longer merely the first in dignity, he now ushers in a new humanity. Once he has broken through the iron door of death, there are many more who can pass through with him - many who in baptism have died with him and risen with him.

In the Letter to the Colossians, the idea is developed further: Christ is called “first-born of all creation” (1:15) and “first-born from the dead” (1:18). “In him all things were created” (1:16), “that in everything he might be pre-eminent” (1:18). The concept of first-born takes on a cosmic dimension. Christ, the incarnate Son, is - so to speak - God’s first thought, preceding all creation, which is ordered toward him and proceeds from him. He is both the beginning and the goal of the new creation that was initiated with the resurrection.

Luke does not speak in these terms, yet for us, reading his Gospel with the benefit of hindsight, this cosmic glory is already present in the lowly manger in the cave at Bethlehem: here, he who is truly the first-born of all that is, came to dwell in our midst.

“And in that region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them” (Lk 2:8f.). The first witnesses of the great event are watchful shepherds. There has been much reflection on the significance of the fact that shepherds were the first to receive the message. It seems to me that we should not read too much into this. Jesus was born outside the city in an area surrounded by grazing grounds where shepherds would pasture their flocks. So it was natural that, as the people physically closest to the event, they would be the first to be summoned to the manger.

Of course one could immediately develop this idea further: perhaps they were living not only outwardly but also inwardly closer to the event than the peacefully sleeping townsfolk. Inwardly too, they were not far from the God who had become a child. What is more, they were among the poor, the simple souls whom Jesus would bless, because to them above all is granted access to the mystery of God (cf. Lk 10:21f.). They represent the poor of Israel, the poor in general: God’s first love.

Another element has been particularly emphasized by the monastic tradition: the shepherds’ watchfulness. Monks set out to be watchful in this world - in the first place through their nocturnal prayer, but above all inwardly, open to receiving God’s call through the signs of his presence.

Finally we may allude to the story of how David was chosen to be king. King Saul is rejected by God, and Samuel is sent to Bethlehem, to Jesse, to anoint as king one of his sons, whom the Lord will point out. None of the sons who appear before Samuel is the one. The youngest is still absent, but he is looking after the sheep, as Jesse explains to the prophet. Samuel has him fetched from the fields, and at God’s indication, he anoints the young David “in the midst of his brothers” (cf. 1 Sam 16:1 - 13). David comes from looking after the sheep, and he is made the shepherd of Israel (cf. 2 Sam 5:2). The prophet Micah, gazing far into the future, announces that from Bethlehem will come the one who is to pasture the people of Israel (cf. 5:1 - 3; Mt 2:6). Jesus is born among shepherds. He is the great Shepherd of mankind (cf. 1 Pet 2:25; Heb 13:20).

Let us return to the text of the Christmas story. The angel of the Lord appears to the shepherds and the glory of the Lord shines around them. “They were filled with fear” (Lk 2:9). But the angel takes away their fear and announces to them “a great joy, which will come to all the people; for to you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord” (Lk 2:10f.). They are told that, as a sign, they will find a child wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.

“And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among men with whom he is pleased’ ” (Lk 2:12 - 14). According to the evangelist, the angels “said” this. But Christianity has always understood that the speech of angels is actually song, in which all the glory of the great joy that they proclaim becomes tangibly present. And so, from that moment, the angels’ song of praise has never gone silent. It continues down the centuries in constantly new forms and it resounds ever anew at the celebration of Jesus’ birth. It is only natural that simple believers would then hear the shepherds singing too, and to this day they join in their caroling on the Holy Night, proclaiming in song the great joy that, from then until the end of time, is bestowed on all people.

What was it, though, according to Saint Luke’s account, that the angels sang? They link God’s glory “in the highest” with peace among men “on earth.” The Church has taken up these words and crafted an entire hymn from them. In matters of detail, one has to admit, there is disagreement over how best to translate the angels’ words.1

The familiar Latin text was until recently rendered thus: “Glory be to God on high and on earth peace to men of good will.” This translation has been rejected by modern exegetes - not without reason - as one-sided and moralizing. “God’s glory” is not something to be brought about by men (“Glory be to God”). The “glory” of God is real, God is glorious, and this is truly a reason for joy: there is truth, there is goodness, there is beauty. It is there - in God - indestructibly.

Of greater significance are the differences in translation of the second half of the angels’ song. What was previously translated as “men of good will” is now rendered in the translation of the German Bishops’ Conference “Menschen seiner Gnade [men of his grace].” In the translation of the Italian Bishops’ Conference, the text reads “uomini che egli ama [men that he loves].” Here the question naturally arises: which men does God love? Are there any that he does not love? Does he not love them all as his creatures? What is added by the words “that God loves”? A similar question could be asked regarding the German translation. Who are the “men of his grace”? Are there any who are not in his grace? And if not, why not? The literal translation of the original Greek reads: peace “to men of good pleasure [= to men with whom he is pleased].” Here too the question obviously arises: which men enjoy God’s “good pleasure”? And why?

Now, with regard to this question, the New Testament itself provides an aid to understanding. In the account of Jesus’ baptism, Luke tells us that as Jesus was praying, the heavens opened and a voice came from heaven, saying: “You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased [= I have good pleasure]” (3:22). The man “with whom he is pleased” is Jesus. And the reason for this is that Jesus lives completely oriented toward the Father, focused upon him and in communion of will with him. So men “with whom he is pleased” are those who share the attitude of the Son - those who are conformed to Christ.

Behind the differences in translation, what is ultimately at stake here is the relationship between God’s grace and human freedom. Two extreme positions are possible: firstly, the idea of the absolutely exclusive action of God, in which everything depends on his predestination. At the other extreme, there is a moralizing position, according to which everything is ultimately decided through the good will of the human person. The older translation - men “of good will” - could be misconstrued in this direction. The new translation can be misinterpreted in the opposite direction, as if everything depended uniquely on God’s predestination.

The overall testimony of sacred Scripture demonstrates beyond doubt that neither of the two extreme positions is correct. Grace and freedom are thoroughly interwoven, and we cannot unravel their interrelatedness into clear formulae. It remains true that we could not love if we were not first loved by God. God’s grace always precedes us, embraces us and carries us. But it also remains true that man is called to love in return, he does not remain an unwilling tool of God’s omnipotence: he can love in return or he can refuse God’s love. It seems to me that the literal translation - “of good pleasure” (or “of his good pleasure”) - captures this mystery most fully, without resolving it one-sidedly.

As far as “glory in the highest” is concerned, the key word is the indicative “is.”2 God is glorious, he is indestructible truth, eternal beauty. That is the fundamental, comforting security of our faith. Yet this also contains an implicit imperative to us, corresponding to the first three commandments of the Decalogue: to ensure that God’s great glory is not sullied or distorted in the world, that his greatness and his holy will are held in honor.

At this point, we must consider a further aspect of the angels’ message. It brings us back to the fundamental categories of Caesar Augustus’ self-understanding and worldview: sõt?f (Saviour), peace, ecumene - this time, though, reaching beyond the Mediterranean region to encompass heaven and earth - and finally, the word applied to the good news itself (euangélion). These parallels are by no means coincidental. Luke intends to say that what Caesar Augustus claimed for himself is realized in a loftier way in the defenseless and powerless child born in a Bethlehem cave and visited by poor shepherds.

Reiser rightly emphasizes that at the heart of both messages is peace, and that the Pax Christi is not necessarily opposed to the Pax Augusti. Yet the peace of Christ surpasses the peace of Augustus as heaven surpasses earth (cf. Wie wahr, p. 460). Hence the juxtaposition of these two forms of peace need not be seen in a one-sidedly polemical way. Augustus truly brought “peace, security of law and prosperity for 250 years, which many countries of the former Roman Empire can only dream of today” (ibid., p. 458). Politics retains its own sphere of competence and responsibility. And yet when Caesar claims divine status and divine attributes, politics oversteps its boundaries and makes promises that it cannot deliver. And it must be acknowledged that, even at the height of the Roman Empire, security of law, peace and prosperity were never entirely unthreatened and never completely realized. One need only look to the Holy Land to see the limits of the Pax Romana.

The kingdom that Jesus proclaimed, the kingdom of God, is of another kind. It applies not just to the Mediterranean region and not just to a particular era. It applies to man in the depths of his being, and it opens him toward the true God. The peace of Jesus is a peace that the world cannot give (cf. Jn 14:27). Ultimately, the question here is what redemption, liberation and salvation actually mean. One thing is clear, though: Augustus belongs to the past, Jesus Christ on the other hand is the present and the future - he is “the same yesterday and today and for ever” (Heb 13:8).

“When the angels went away from them … the shepherds said to one another, ‘Let us go over to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us.’ And they went with haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger” (Lk 2:15f.). The shepherds made haste. In a similar way, the evangelist had said that Mary, on receiving the angel’s message about her cousin Elizabeth’s pregnancy, went “with haste” to the town in Judea where Zechariah and Elizabeth lived (cf. Lk 1:39). The shepherds made haste, partly no doubt from human curiosity, in order to see this great thing that had been announced to them. But surely, too, they were driven by their joy on hearing that now, truly, the Saviour, the Messiah, the Lord had been born, the one so long awaited - and they would be the first to see him.

How many Christians make haste today, where the things of God are concerned? Surely if anything merits haste - so the evangelist is discreetly telling us - then it is the things of God.

As a sign, the angel had told the shepherds that they would find a child wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger. This is an identifying sign - a description of what they would see. It is not a “sign” in the sense that God’s glory would be rendered visible, so that one might say unequivocally: this is the true Lord of the world. Far from it. In this sense, the sign is also a non-sign. God’s poverty is his real sign. But for the shepherds, who had seen God’s glory shining in their fields, this is sign enough. They see inwardly. They see that the angel’s words are true. So the shepherds return home with joy. They glorify God and praise him for what they have heard and seen (cf. Lk 2:20).

THE PRESENTATION OF JESUS IN THE TEMPLE

Luke concludes the narrative of Jesus’ birth with an account of what happened to him, in accordance with Israel’s law, on the eighth day and on the fortieth day.

The eighth day is the day of circumcision, when Jesus is formally taken up into the community of the promises extending back to Abraham: now he is legally a member of the people of Israel. Paul speaks of this event when he writes to the Galatians: “But when the time had fully come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons” (4:4f.). In addition to the circumcision, Luke expressly mentions the naming of the child (2:21) with the name that had been foretold - Jesus (“God saves”) - so that from the circumcision, the reader’s gaze is opened up toward the fulfillment of the expectations that belong to the essence of the Covenant.

Three events belong to the fortieth day: the “purification” of Mary, the “redemption” of the first-born child Jesus through an offering prescribed by the law, and the “presentation” of Jesus in the Temple.

In the infancy narrative overall, not least in this passage, it is easy to recognize the Jewish Christian substratum which is derived from the tradition of Jesus’ family. But it has evidently been reformulated by a redactor who wrote and thought in Greek, and this person may reasonably be identified as the evangelist Luke himself. In this redaction, it is clear on the one hand that the writer lacked precise knowledge of Old Testament legislation, and on the other hand that his interest lay not in such details, but rather in the theological kernel of the event, which he wanted to make clear to his readers.

In the Book of Leviticus it is laid down that, after giving birth to a male child, a woman is impure for seven days (that is, she is excluded from taking part in worship), that the boy is to be circumcised on the eighth day, and that the woman must then remain at home a further thirty-three days for her blood to be purified (cf. Lev 12:1 - 4). After this she is to present a purification sacrifice: a lamb for a burnt-offering and a young pigeon or turtle-dove for a sin-offering. Poor people need bring only two turtle-doves or two young pigeons.

Mary presented the offering of the poor (cf. Lk 2:24). Luke, whose entire Gospel is shot through with a theology of the poor and a theology of poverty, is once again making it abundantly clear that Jesus’ family belonged to the poor of Israel, and that it was among such as them that the promises would be fulfilled. Here too, we discover afresh what is meant by “under the law,” what is meant when Jesus says to John the Baptist that all righteousness must be fulfilled (cf. Mt 3:15). Mary does not need to be purified from the birth of Jesus: his birth ushers in the purification of the world. But she obeys the law, and in this way she serves the fulfillment of the promises.

The second event involved here is the redemption of the first-born, who belongs unreservedly to God. The price of the redemption was five shekels, and one could pay it to any priest one chose throughout the land.

Luke begins by specifically quoting the law regarding the consecration of the first-born: “Every male that opens the womb shall be called holy to the Lord” (2:23; cf. Ex 13:2; 13:12f., 15). What is unusual about this account is that instead of then relating the redemption of Jesus, it speaks of a third event: Jesus’ presentation. Evidently Luke intends to say that instead of being “redeemed” and restored to his parents, this child was personally handed over to God in the Temple, given over completely to God. The verb paristánai, here translated as “to present,” also means “to offer,” in the way that sacrifices in the Temple were “offered.” The language of sacrificial offering and priesthood is evoked here.

Luke has nothing to say regarding the act of “redemption” prescribed by the law. In its place we find the exact opposite: the child is handed over to God, and from now on belongs to him completely. None of the aforementioned acts prescribed by the law required an appearance in the Temple. Yet for Luke, Jesus’ first entry into the Temple as the locus of the event is essential. Here, in the place of encounter between God and his people, instead of the reclamation of the first-born, what happens is that Jesus is publicly handed over to God, his Father.

This act - in the deepest sense of the word, a cultic act - is followed in Luke’s Gospel by a scene of prophecy. The old man Simeon and the prophetess Anna, prompted by the Spirit of God, appear in the Temple, and as representatives of faithful Israel they greet the “Lord’s Christ” (2:26).

Three things are said to us regarding Simeon: he is righteous (just), he is devout, and he is looking for the consolation of Israel. When we were considering the figure of Saint Joseph, we saw what a just man is: one whose life is lived in and from the word of God, in the will of God as expressed in the Torah. Simeon is “devout” - his whole person is oriented toward God. He is inwardly close to the Temple, he lives the encounter with God and awaits the “consolation of Israel.” He lives for the Redeemer, for the one who is to come.

In the word “consolation” (paráklesis), we hear echoes of the Johannine name for the Holy Spirit - the Paraclete, the consoling God. Simeon is a man of hope and expectation, and in this sense he already has the Holy Spirit upon him. We could say that he is a spiritual man and is therefore attuned to God’s call, to his presence. So on this occasion he speaks as a prophet. First he takes the child Jesus into his arms and praises God, saying: “At last, all-powerful Master, you give leave to your servant to go in peace, according to your promise …” (Lk 2:29).

The form of the text, as presented by Luke, is already liturgical. In the churches of East and West it has formed part of the Church’s night prayer from the earliest times. Together with the Benedictus and the Magnificat, which also come from Luke’s infancy narratives, it belongs to the patrimony of prayer of the early Jewish Christian Church, into whose spirit-filled liturgical life we are here granted a privileged insight. In this prayer addressed to God, the child Jesus is spoken of as “your salvation,” echoing the word sõt?r (Redeemer, Saviour) that we encountered in the angel’s message on the Holy Night.

This canticle contains two Christological statements: Jesus is “the light to enlighten the Gentiles,” and he gives “glory to your people Israel” (Lk 2:32). Both expressions are taken from the prophet Isaiah. The reference to the “light to enlighten the Gentiles” comes from the first and second Suffering Servant songs (cf. Is 42:6; 49:6). Jesus is identified as Isaiah’s Suffering Servant - a mysterious figure, pointing toward the future. Central to the Servant’s mission is universality, revelation to the Gentiles, to whom he brings God’s light. The text referring to the glory of Israel is found in the prophet’s words of consolation to suffering Israel, for whom help is promised through God’s saving power (cf. Is 46:13).

Having given praise to God with the child in his arms, Simeon turns to Mary with a prophetic saying. After the joyful words spoken over the child, what he tells her is a kind of Passion prophecy (cf. Lk 2:34f.). Jesus is “set for the fall and rising of many in Israel,” for a sign of contradiction. Simeon concludes with a very personal prophecy to the child’s mother: “a sword will pierce through your own soul.” The theology of glory is inseparably linked with the theology of the Cross. The Suffering Servant has the great mission to bring God’s light to the world. Yet it is in the darkness of the Cross that this mission is fulfilled.

Beneath the language about the falling and rising of many, there are echoes of a prophecy from Is 8:14, in which God himself is designated as a rock against which men stumble and fall. So within the Passion saying, we see the deep bond that links Jesus with God himself. God and his word - Jesus, God’s living word - are “signs,” challenging us to make a choice. Man’s “contradiction” of God runs all the way through history. What proves Jesus to be the true sign of God is that he takes upon himself the contradiction of God, he draws it to himself all the way to the contradiction of the Cross.

We are not talking about the past here. We all know to what extent Christ remains a sign of contradiction today, a contradiction that in the final analysis is directed at God. God himself is constantly regarded as a limitation placed on our freedom, that must be set aside if man is ever to be completely himself. God, with his truth, stands in opposition to man’s manifold lies, his self-seeking and his pride.

God is love. But love can also be hated when it challenges us to transcend ourselves. It is not a romantic “good feeling.” Redemption is not “wellness,” it is not about basking in self-indulgence; on the contrary it is a liberation from imprisonment in self-absorption. This liberation comes at a price: the anguish of the Cross. The prophecy of light and that of the Cross belong together.

Finally, as we have seen, Simeon’s Passion prophecy becomes quite specific - in the words spoken directly to Mary: “a sword will pierce through your own soul” (Lk 2:35). We may assume that this saying was preserved in the early Jewish Christian community as a personal recollection of Mary herself. The community would also have known, from the same source, what the saying had actually meant in practice. But we too can know this, in union with the believing and praying Church. The contradiction against the Son is also directed against the mother and it cuts her to the heart. For her, the Cross of radical contradiction becomes the sword that pierces through her soul. From Mary we can learn what true com-passion is: quite unsentimentally assuming the sufferings of others as one’s own.

In the writings of the Church Fathers, a lack of feeling - insensitivity toward the suffering of others - is considered typical of paganism. In contrast to this attitude, the Christian faith holds up the God who suffers with men, and thereby draws us into his “com-passion.” The Mater Dolorosa, the mother whose heart is pierced by a sword, is an iconic image of this fundamental attitude of Christian faith.

Alongside the prophet Simeon, there now appears the prophetess Anna, an 84-year-old woman, who after seven years of marriage, had lived for decades as a widow. “She did not depart from the Temple, worshipping with fasting and prayer night and day” (Lk 2:37). She is the model of the truly devout person. She is quite simply at home in the Temple. She lives with God and for God, body and soul. So she is truly a spirit-filled woman, a prophetess. Because she spends her life in the Temple - in adoration - she is there at the hour of Jesus’ appearing. “Coming up at that very hour she gave thanks to God, and spoke of him to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem” (Lk 2:38). Her prophecy consists in her proclamation - in passing on to others the hope by which she lives.

Luke concludes his account of Jesus’ birth, which included the implementation of all the requirements of the law (cf. 2:39), by announcing the return of the Holy Family to Nazareth. “The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favour of God was upon him” (2:40).

1 Translator’s Note: It should be noted that in what follows, the author is chiefly concerned with the translation into German of the Greek text of Lk 2:14.

2 Translator’s Note: The German text to which the author refers, literally translated into English, would read: “God is glorified in the highest, and there is peace on earth …”