One of the greatest gifts we have in Scripture—perhaps because it is good literature, or it can be read or interpreted in a multitude of ways, based on the lens through which we explore it—is that it has the potential to be heard anew, have new things reveal themselves to us at different times when we hear it.
Today, we read the lessons for the celebration of the Feast of the presentation of our Lord. I have a particular fondness for this Gospel text, because three years ago, this was the text and the day in the church year when I gave my senior sermon at seminary. I was maybe two or three days off of doing my in-person visit and interview here at Trinity. And I was also about two months from giving birth to Mac, which had a fairly profound impact on my own view and understanding of the text.
The Feast of the Presentation of our Lord is the celebration of the day that Jesus was presented at the Temple. But the reason the holy family was coming to the Temple was likely less about Jesus in this period of time and more about Mary. In Leviticus, it is instructed that women who have given birth are to not enter the temple until 33 days have passed when she will then return to the temple with an offering in order to be atoned for by the priest. It is easy for most of us, who likely dwell outside of the particularities of the Jewish faith of this time, to cringe at this, to read into it backwardness or sexism. But as Hebrew scholar Amy Jill Levine states, the ritual that Mary and her family partake in, in order for her to return to the temple after childbirth, sanctify and make holy her body, not because she was ever dirty or impure, but because her body was so near to the beginning or cessation of life.
We see the Holy family enter the Temple, and they are approached by Simeon, who takes the baby in his arms and pronounces this prophecy that those familiar with the Evening Prayer service will know as the nunc dimitus, which is a canticle that speaks to Simeon’s experience of waiting for the messiah, the fulfillment of a promise, and the hope of Christ that has come for Jews and non-Jews alike. Simeon, we hear, is a devout man, who received word from the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he sees the Messiah. And when he sees the holy family, sees Jesus, this prophecy is what he speaks:
Lord, you now have set your servant free
to go in peace as you have promised;
For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior,
whom you have prepared for all the world to see:
A Light to enlighten the nations, and the glory of your people Israel.
Another major player in this scene is Anna— honored for her steadfast presence in the temple, her pious practices, and notably shares many of the same qualities as Simeon that leads him to make the proclamations regarding Jesus that he does. In Anna’s case, the hearer is told by Luke that Anna engages in prophetic praise to God, and even more, began to tell others about this miraculous child. But none of the words are her’s, regardless of her pious, continuous presence in the temple. You see, this reading, this story, for all its lauding about the males here—Jesus, of course, and the prophecy of Simeon—is also very much about the women who are present, but do not speak. I can’t help but think of the litany of church women, community organizing women, who throughout church history have been responsible for making church happen: those who do so much without being seen, who do the work without recognition or title, the voiceless women of scripture whose evangelizing of their experience of Jesus means we have the narrative of Jesus to tell at all.
Admittedly, this is the place in the reading that I begin to relook a bit at what I had to say three years ago, particularly about Simeon. It is Mary and Simeon’s interaction where I have found some new understanding, a chance to relook, relearn, re-wonder. After blessing the family, Simeon has more to say to Mary…he says…
This child is destined for the falling and 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.
Now, it is important to recall that the Gospel of Luke is the same Gospel that gave Mary her tremendous, radical Magnificat. At the announcement of her pregnancy, she proclaimed a clear understanding that this birth, this child, was going to upend the world through a lowly, teenager. Her words at this time are compelling, and quite honestly astonishing.
So when I read these words three years ago, it struck me as odd, and even a bit man-splain-y that Simeon would tell her how her child was to be the reason for the rising and falling of many, that people’s inner thoughts would be revealed, that a sword will piece her soul, too. Of course she knew this. It felt as though he was restating her Magnificat to her. In some ways, it perhaps still does.
But I am also able to find some more compassion for Simeon here. Where I previously read his words as some kind of warning to Mary, I now hear them for the words of care, the invitation to perseverance that I think they might be.
Mary is about to set off on an extreme journey of mothering this child of God. I can imagine that while she knows she is in the midst of an important and meaningful calling, she likely also fears what it will mean for her and for Jesus. I know personally that I could not have fathomed all that my family would go through in the short three years since Mac was born. And as we look out at the state of our country, the division and fear, we might wonder what risks we may be called to make for our faith, our families, our friends, our desire to seek justice and mercy and peace. But here’s the thing—if we think about the moments in life where we take big risks: falling in love, accepting a new path or call, building new relationships, standing up to injustice, moving our home, ending relationships that are harmful, speaking truth to power, making big choices for our own healing, welcoming children into our world—if we knew the extent of the grief and hurt and heartache we might experience because of such a risk…we likely would not ever do it.
Another element about this ritual that the gospel mentions is the small offering that Mary and her family bring to the temple. It was expected that every family would bring an offering of some kind, based on their economic status. And Mary, Joseph and Jesus bring two turtle doves, the smallest offering they can. In Jesus, we see a reflection of their offering: this baby, only weeks old, brought to the Temple, and then recognized by Simeon and Anna as the incredible offering for God’s creation that he will become. And in return, Anna offers her two turtle dove gift of evangelism, spreading the word of of this child. Simeon proclaims his messiah-ship, and also offers his two turtle doves to Mary, some words of care: this will break you open, but do not fear. This will wound you, but your child and your God will be with you. Anna and Simeon gift the family the first pieces of community, and the encouragement to continue this holy risk.
I wonder, what is your two turtle dove offering? This week, my small offering feels like giving Simeon a second look, a look with less defensiveness on my part, and more compassion and understanding. I know that I can do better to offer that to more than characters on a page of Scripture. What are your two turtle doves? The thing that seems to mean so little, that God is waiting to transform? The thing that you are being called to offer up to God, that might cause yourself and others to find community, courage, belonging? The thing that might allow for a fresh perspective, a bit of understanding, or listening, permission or transformation, or risk? Like Anna, share those two turtle doves, if you are remembered for it or not. Like Simeon, allow joy and direct honesty to be a two turtle dove offering that encourages others. Like Mary, acknowledge that there is almost always risk of transformation when we follow God’s call, and offer those turtle doves anyway.
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