The novelist Vikram Seth has recently been on Desert Island Discs choosing his favourite music. Of all the pieces that he chose the one that he would most like to have with him on a desert island was this poignant recording made during the war by BBC sound engineer. The engineer was capturing the song of nightingales in a Surrey garden but whilst recording them 197 Lancaster bombers passed overhead en route to a bombing raid in Germany. In the recording you can hear the joyful song of the nightingale and then, underneath and growing in intensity, the ominous drone of the bombers. Seth spoke of the "heartbreaking counterpoint of joy and pain" .

Today is we celebrate Presentation of Christ in the Temple we have just such a counterpoint of joy and sorrow. Here we see so much that is good and wonderful about being human. We have a new life represented in this child only days old. Here is extraordinary hope and anticipation. Every new birth holds out the promise of new possibilities. We have the pride of grateful parents, their joy in this child who has been brought to birth, unique, theirs, and yet a gift from God. We have great devotion too. Simeon and Anna, patiently waiting for God to bring consolation and redemption to Israel. What enormous faithfulness and commitment these two people show. How easy it would be for them to be disillusioned or distracted in their waiting. But they stick with it because they believe that God is good and loves them and will act. And then there is the blessing given to the baby Jesus by the elderly Simeon and the insight that this little child will bring light not only to waiting Israel but to all the nations of the earth. The Spirit of God is at work in Anna and Simeon and hovers over this child and his parents. In God's temple, God's Spirit bears witness to God's son. Life can be glorious. It can be full of love, joy, faithfulness, gratitude, new discoveries and knowing ourselves to be in the presence of a loving God. No wonder Simeon sings a song. We can be surprisingly quick to forget the glory of human life, all that is gift and goodness and grace.

But this story of Jesus presented in the temple is a bittersweet story; there is a darker note to be heard. Because when we look at all these characters, we sense their vulnerability, their frailty. Thank God, infant mortality these days is rare and perhaps all the more devastating for that but even now when we see a baby we are acutely conscious of their fragility. Given all that they have to do to develop in the womb, be born and survive and thrive it's amazing that any of us make it into adulthood all.  Jesus' birth brings great joy and hope but also, as with the birth of any child, there is risk. What dangers lie ahead? And what of his parents? What is poor old Joseph to make of this birth in which, according to Luke's gospel, he has no physical role? How does that make you feel as a father? And Mary? Does the taint of disgrace still hang around her and her newborn child? The circumstances of Jesus' birth were, after all, let's say, unusual. It's all a bit messy and unsatisfactory, not quite the perfect family as seen on TV advertising, more like our families, more like our experience of what life is actually like.

And Simeon and Anna carry their own vulnerabilities too. Anna's husband died seven years into their marriage. For the greater part of her life she has been alone and so she has lived for years and years with that loneliness and bereavement but also, as a widow, is condemned to a precarious existence dependent on the charity of her male relatives. And Simeon, waiting and waiting and waiting must have had his moments of doubt and disappointment. Sometimes he must've hoped against hope and trusted through gritted teeth that God would console Israel. Because Simeon and Anna carry not only their own struggles, doubts and the infirmities of old age but also the sadness of their people. Simeon, we are told, is waiting for the consolation of Israel. If Israel needs consoling then Israel is living in a time of mourning and sadness. It was hard for pious and faithful people to see their nation, God's chosen people, under the oppression of the Gentile nations. Anna, we are told, is looking for the redemption of Jerusalem. If Jerusalem needs redeeming it is because Jerusalem is not free. Anna and Simeon are full of hope and expectation for Israel but they also mourn its captivity.

So into this world of human experience in all its glory and all its fragility comes Jesus, the Lord's Christ, the light that will lighten the Gentiles and the glory of his people Israel. And how does he come? Does he come as the divine fixer who will bypass all that messy human emotion and experience? Will he come as one who sweeps all that to one side is just so much froth and nonsense and establish his rule on Earth as the divine dictator? What in fact we learn is that rather than sidestepping the muddle of human life, in Jesus, God chooses to dive straight down into it. So here is a great mystery: the God who made the world and sustains it by his love and power now enters into that world and submits himself to all its glory and fragility. Simeon blesses Jesus and calls him the light of God for the world. But he also has something jarring and disturbing to say about Jesus' future:

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.

This is not what a mother wants to hear about her baby. She doesn't want to hear that he will be spoken against. She doesn't want talk of swords that pierce the heart. No mother wants to know that the future will involve conflict and judgement and suffering for her and her child. But here is the mystery, in order to redeem our suffering, God enters into our suffering. It seems that there is no way around it, the only way is to go right through it, bear with it, share in it. There is great light in this Candlemas story but there is shadow too and by far the greatest shadow is cast by the shape of a cross. We can hear, so to speak, the nightingale song and the drone of Lancaster bombers. And this light and the shade cannot somehow be separated out, as much as we might wish it to be so.

So two observations that might arise from all this.

Firstly, you will, I hope, know something of joy and love and friendship and gratitude and hope. But you will also, I fear, know something, from time to time, about disappointment, fear, bereavement, confusion, unhappiness in the family, maybe loneliness too. Because life is like that and it's like that not just for you and me but every single human being; we are all gloriously made in the image of God and yet are all frighteningly fragile and vulnerable. This means that we need a faith that can account for all this; for the frailty and messiness of life. If we think that being a Christian will somehow push to one side our struggles and difficulties then we are deceiving ourselves. The idea that being Christian lifts us above all the complexity of life is fantasy not faith. There is absolutely no evidence in the Scriptures that being a Christian will give us a free pass to escape from all the uncertainties and frailties of human existence. The fact is there is no way round being human and Christianity is not an escape route from the brokenness and unpredictability of life. What is offered is not the promise of serene and untroubled happiness but a deep sense, amidst all the conflicts and setbacks and peculiarities of life, of life as a gift and the preciousness of every human being and the wonder of God's love. This is the light that shines in the darkness and which the darkness cannot overcome.

Secondly, and finally, there is a hint here that those who follow in the way of Jesus Christ must be prepared to enter into the sufferings of others too. Just as we might try and insulate ourselves from experiencing any personal suffering so too we might be tempted to disengage from the suffering of others. The suffering of those whose family lives are turbulent and unconventional, the suffering of those who bear the infirmities of age, those who have been bereaved, the disappointed and disillusioned, the inconsolable and all those whose souls have been pierced by a sword of one kind or another. To share with others in their suffering is extremely costly, as you will know if you have ever done it. To stand up for those who experience suffering because of the cruelty of others is equally demanding. But for those who follow in the way of the one who became a sign to be spoken against we must always "rejoice with those who rejoice and mourn with those who mourn." In order to redeem the world, God in Jesus has not placed himself beyond the pain or conflict of the world but rather immersed himself in it. So when we share in another's pain does not take the pain away but perhaps redeems it a little. If we want to bring the joy and healing and peace of God's kingdom into the world then we must be prepared to share in the glory and the suffering of the world: in its Good Fridays and its Easter Days.

Today we bring to a close our celebrations of Christmas and Epiphany. Our crib will be packed up and put away and our notice sheet is full of talk of Lent. We turn our hearts and minds once again to cross and resurrection, to light and shade, to the suffering and the glory. We rejoice in the nightingale's song but we also hear the rumble of bombers. May God give us the courage to live as those who look for the consolation and redemption from the one who alone is light for the world.

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