What the Light Reveals
Series: Epiphany
Speaker: The Rev'd Emily Griffin
What exactly are we celebrating today? Every six years or so, whenever February 2 falls on a Sunday, we interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for the Feast of the Presentation, otherwise known as Candlemas. I know - it’s not a ratings grabber or a money magnet like the Super Bowl; even Groundhog Day gets more press. No one could accuse us of chasing headlines on this one. It’s about as churchy as we can get. But really, why the flashback now? I mean – who wants to hear about a sword piercing Mary’s soul when the baby Jesus is just 6 weeks old? Christmas was only 40 days ago. It feels like a little too much truth for a Sunday morning, when the impeachment hearings have already plunged us into darkness and daylight itself is still a precious commodity. We all know Lent is coming; can’t we keep the shadow of death at bay just a little bit longer?
The more we dig into this feast, the harder it is to know what we’re celebrating. Officially, we are remembering the moment when Mary and Joseph present their infant at the Temple to God. They come for a couple of reasons, neither of which seems immediately relevant. The first is for Mary’s purification. Given that we no longer consider childbirth a matter of ritual impurity requiring animal sacrifice, I think we can move along to the second reason for their visit.
Say what you will about Jesus’ parents; they are following the Jewish law as they understand it. Whatever dreams they may have had for their son, none of them involved his followers starting a new religion. It wasn’t on their horizon. They were trying to raise a nice Jewish boy, and part of that for them meant presenting him to the Lord. Jewish scholars say this wasn’t a universal practice, but we can see where it comes from. Exodus 13 does designate firstborn males as holy to the Lord, and subsequent passages try to work out what that means. In some places, it involved redeeming your son with a nominal fee, symbolically buying him back; in other places, it simply meant an occasion to give thanks for your family line continuing.
Some say Luke, our Gospel writer here, was confused about actual Temple practice or perhaps, like any great storyteller, went for the “good” story over the accurate one. The idea is that Mary and Joseph offer the first fruit of their life together to God, in recognition that that “all things come of Thee, O Lord, and of Thine own have we given thee.” As faithful followers of God, they likely would have done this even if they hadn’t received an angelic heads up beforehand about their son. They knew he was a gift from God, and that he didn’t belong to them (any more than our children belong to us.) Surely that is a worthwhile reminder. Every child regardless of gender is an unspeakable gift from God, and our children, as much as we love them, belong not to us but to God. It’s a hard truth on the days when we want to protect them at all costs, or when we’d like to see a little more return on our investment in them. It can be tempting to act like owners sometimes, but that is not the role God calls us to play. We’re at best caretakers of our children; we’re investing in a future that’s not our own.
But that’s not the only reason we remember today. There is something about this particular child Jesus, something Simeon and Anna see with complete clarity. Anyone who has ever sung Evensong or prayed Compline (again, very churchy activities, I realize) recognizes Simeon’s first words, otherwise known as the Nunc Dimittis: “Lord, you now have set your servant free to go in peace as you have promised.” In the face of Jesus, we’re told, Simeon sees a Savior, “a light to enlighten the nations and the glory of your people Israel.”
There’s something about this child; in his light, those who might otherwise fade into the background come center stage. Back in 1st century Palestine, those who weren’t in their prime income producing or childbearing years were given very little weight or value – be it the very young or the very old. They were socially invisible - yet here infants and the elderly are given primacy of place. They’re held up to the light, and they’re honored.
You had to know I’d mention Anna. I can’t let a named woman in the Bible pass me by, much less the only woman in the New Testament explicitly called a prophet. She’s a singular figure in Scripture – a woman who is known neither for her beauty nor her infamy, a widow who is neither a victim nor a recipient of charity, who’s identified not as somebody else’s wife or mother – but for who she is in her own right. She’s known for being faithful, for her prayer life.
As someone who was in the Temple night and day for decades, imagine all she had seen. She knew this community inside and out, it all its beauty and ugliness. She’d lived through more priests than she could count, more false Messiahs than she could name. I don’t know about you, but for me – someone who’s in this worship space a lot, it’s good to know that you can feel like you’ve seen everything and yet, in the face of this child, still see something new.
But what about the rest of us? What’s the good news for the non-churchy among us? Perhaps it’s the reminder that we all belong to God. We’re not owned by our employers or by our family. Nor are we cast adrift by the universe, isolated and alone. When we present ourselves to God in worship, we’re acknowledging what has always been true; that all things come of Thee, O Lord – including us; and of Thine own have we given thee. The point of church, of places of worship like these, isn’t to pretend to a holiness that isn’t there; it’s not to erase or mask who we are. In part, it’s to reveal who we are.
In the light of Christ, it’s true, we see more than might feel manageable on a Sunday morning. We see that tomorrow isn’t promised, that death is real, and that we don’t have unlimited time to make things right. Simeon wasn’t wrong to say that in Christ, our inner thoughts and fears would be revealed. Nor was he wrong about Mary and the pain she’d risk by loving her son. In loving others, a sword just might pierce our own souls too. Any faith that doesn’t admit that isn’t worth following.
The light does more than just expose our vulnerabilities, though. It can also purify us, if we let it. A refiner’s fire doesn’t sound pleasant, I know, but think about its purpose. It’s to burn away what’s inessential – what doesn’t matter in the end - so that what is essential – what’s most true about us - can remain. In Christ’s light, what is most precious and valuable and beautiful about each one of us as a beloved, irreplaceable child of God has a chance to be seen and honored and, yes, celebrated. In the silence that follows, on this Candlemas, I invite you to sit in the light of Christ for a moment. Feel its warmth, feel its fire, and then carry that light with you when you go. Lord knows, the world needs it; the world needs you. In the Name of the One who gave us light so we could share it, Amen.