Funerals are part and parcel of life in a church. While the Church gathers for celebrations such as Christmas and Easter morning and is a fixture of baptismal ceremonies, confirmations, and weddings, it is also the main place people turn toward for a funeral. When I first became a pastor, all but funerals were things I looked forward to doing. A funeral meant loss and grief which I felt unprepared to deal with. What did I know about such things? That sort of pain was beyond my comprehension. My first call was to Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in southeast Georgia. It was a military town with lots of young families, a place where I did not have to do many funerals. Sure, baptisms and weddings were regular, but it was over two years before I presided over my first funeral.

My barber at the time was an old man named Parnell Crump. It was a single-chair barber shop where he also fixed vacuum cleaners in the back. Whenever I sat in his chair, he would begin by saying, “So, preacher, have you buried anyone yet?”  I would answer, “No. Not yet, Mr. Crump.” To which he would reply, “Oh, it’ll come.” Now, he said it with a smile. He knew this was part of the job, that it was part of what churches do. He was just amused that I had not had to do one yet. He operated as sort of a reminder of the impending reality of death. Of course, it did come, and it was not what I had imagined it to be. It was not the elderly member dying at home in hospice care with their family surrounding them. It was a man who had a massive stroke, a man with a young wife and teenage daughter. I have vivid memories of standing in the ER with his daughter, with nothing to say, nothing to offer as we went into the room with her mother, and through all the tears, they said their goodbyes. I was weak and small in the face of death.

The funeral was later that week. The whole church and many from the community showed up to pay their respects and offer condolences. The text we used was the Song of Simeon, an incredible confession from Luke 2: “Lord, now You are letting Your servant depart in peace, according to Your Word; for my eyes have seen Your salvation that You have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to Your people Israel.” It is a unique call to be allowed to depart in peace, to proceed in the completeness of the promises of God, in the assurance of all He has declared to His people. I cannot recall if the family had asked for this text or if I suggested it, but I know that, even now, I regularly use it at funerals. When my words and my experience failed me, these ancient words carried us all.

On the heels of Luke’s description of the shepherds going to see the child born of Mary, he then tells us about Jesus’ presentation at the Temple in Jerusalem. They went there to do what the Law required. There was a sacrifice to be made, a blood offering binding the birth of a firstborn son to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the God who had delivered His people from the house of slavery, the same God who led them to the Promised Land. And there, in the Temple, we learn about Simeon. Simeon is described as “righteous” and “devout.” He is a man faithfully waiting for the consolation of Israel. That is, he was waiting for the Messiah, the long-awaited anointed servant of Yahweh. All the sacrifices, all the rituals, even the Temple itself, were pointing toward and awaiting this Promised One. The Holy Spirit had told Simeon he would not see death until he had seen the Lord’s Christ.

On this particular day, the Spirit directs him to the Temple. You can imagine him there, eyes scanning through the crowds of people, the sounds of animals and prayers echoing in his ears. The work of the Temple was in full swing, people coming and going, and then he spotted them. He sees Mary and Joseph entering the outer court. He does not know how he knows, but he knows that this is it. Here is the One he has been waiting for, and he pushes through the crowds to get near the young family. He takes the child in his old hands, lifts his eyes toward Heaven, and sings that famous song. Now, he can depart in peace. Now, he can die. For now, he has seen the salvation of God, and he holds that salvation in his hands. His proclamation is confirmed by Anna the prophetess. This old lady who never left the temple, day and night, was there praying, fasting, and longing for this moment, and she began to thank God for the fact that redemption had come.

In this moment, we see the excitement and confidence which is born by a God who keeps His Word. For unto us a Savior has been born. Saint Paul later writes, “All the promises of God find their Yes in Him. That is why it is through Him that we utter our Amen to God for His glory.” The promise of deliverance, the promise of reconciliation with the Father, the answer to a more glorious day to come, a day beyond this vale of tears, is found here in the child held in Simeon’s hands.

Of course, this song of Simeon, the confession that he can now depart in peace, has a special place in the Church’s life. The Church has been singing these words since at least the fourth century when they were carried into the regular liturgical practices of God’s people. I grew up with them being sung every Sunday when we received the Lord’s Supper. After they all received the gifts of Christ, the congregation would stand and sing, in the old King James language, “Lord now lettest thou Thy servant depart in peace, according to thy Word.” Simeon’s words become our words, his confidence our confidence, his assurance our assurance.

But what is it we see? What do we behold? It is not a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. No, we see bread and wine, a ritual and reverence, but by faith, we confess that far more is happening here. In, with, and under the bread and wine, we receive the very body and blood of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. It is His body and blood given and shed for the forgiveness of all your sins. When you gather around the altar, you receive the assurance of God’s promises. What you are given is grace itself. Jesus Himself commands you to take and eat, take and drink, so you know this day that you are forgiven, forgiven for what you have done and left undone, forgiven for your failures of fellowship and stewardship, forgiven for your thoughts, words, and deeds.

As a result, having received such a blessing, having tasted and confessed that God is good and He keeps His Word of promise, it is okay to die. It is okay to depart in peace, for you are held in the loving and gracious arms of the Creator of Heaven and Earth. This means your end is not “the end.” To depart in peace is to be gathered into the bosom of Abraham, to be joined with all the faithful who have gone before us. It is to await the new Heaven and the new Earth, to look forward to the resurrection of all the dead. Therefore, it is fitting how, for all these years after we receive such a gift from God, we sing Simeon’s hymn. It repeatedly comes to life as we trust in the promises of our God.

So, at that funeral, in the midst of so many questions which went unanswered: Why this one? Why now? What good can possibly come from this? We found strength and comfort in Simeon’s words. We discovered peace not just because Simeon confessed them, but because the one in the casket in front of us confessed those exact words as well. Every Sunday, week in and week out, he sang this song with us. It is the song of the faithful, the song of us all. It gives the assurance that even the grave itself will not stop the promises of our God. We can depart in peace, for your Father in Heaven keeps His promises.