The Feast of the Presentation Sunday
By the Rev. Matthew Ichihashi Potts, Ph.D ’13
Plummer Professor of Christian Morals in the Faculty of Divinity
Pusey Minister in the Memorial Church
(The following is a transcript of the service audio, Feb. 2, 2025)
So as I said, today is traditionally known as the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord of the Temple or the Feast of the Purification of his Mother. This day happens because this family comes to the temple so that Mary can be ritually purified, having given birth, and so that Jesus can be redeemed. The firstborn male in an Israelite family, a Jewish family, was offered to the priests and then had to be redeemed.
And this always happens 33 days after circumcision, which is eight days after birth. So 33 plus eight plus Dec. 25th means Feb. 2nd, Groundhog's Day. Groundhog's Day is the Feast of the Presentation, and what we commemorate this day, as I said, in this season of darkness, of seasonal darkness, of spiritual darkness, is Jesus, the light of the world, but not just that Jesus is the light of the world, but also, and in particular, that Jesus is recognized as the light of the world by these two folks at the temple, Simeon, who sees Jesus and then sings this song that our choir sang in Latin for us and Anna. They see Jesus, and they recognize him in the bustle of the crowd at the temple. And this act of recognition, that is what we commemorate on this Feast Day.
This invitation to recognition is a theme throughout the Gospels and maybe especially so in the Gospel of Luke. This lesson comes from the Gospel of Luke. This year in the church we're focusing especially on the Gospel of Luke. Throughout the Gospel of Luke, there are these repeated invitations to recognize Jesus. This happened last week. If you were here, Jesus goes to his hometown, and his people of his hometown, they want a sign from him. "Show us, so we can see that you are the one." He gives them one. It's not the one they like. They try to throw him off a cliff.
The problem is that when the Son of God walks into a room, he looks like anybody else. So how do you know when he has walked into the room? And this goes on throughout the Gospel, Jesus is asking his disciples, "Who do you say that I am? Who do other people say that I am?" Herod, early in the Gospel, says, ‘Oh.’ He starts hearing stories. Herod starts hearing stories about Jesus and says, "Oh, I want to meet this guy and see if he can do some miracles for me, so I'll know who he is."
And it runs through the Gospel. When Jesus is arrested, Pilot sends him to Herod. This is unique to the Gospel of Luke. He sends Jesus to Herod, and Herod's excited. He says, "Oh, good. Now I get to see some signs. You can show me. You can show me who you are." It continues through the end of the Gospel of Luke after the resurrection. Again, a story unique to the Gospel is the story of the disciples leaving Jerusalem after the resurrection and going to this town called Emmaus, and they're on the road, and they meet a stranger who they don't recognize as Jesus, and then they have dinner with him and suddenly they recognize that it's him, and he vanishes from their sight.
Throughout the Gospel, throughout the Gospel of Luke. This question of recognition is at stake. If the Son of God looks like anybody else, how do you recognize him when he walks into the room? And maybe that's the point, that the Son of God is a child of God just like anybody else. And if that's true, that might carry some spiritual and moral implications, but I'll get to that in a few minutes.
Let me focus on this scene, this particular scene, of the presentation of Jesus at the temple, this encounter with Simeon and Anna. It's important to frame the scene. The holy family arrives at the temple, and they're kind of nobodies. They're from Galilee. Galilee was sort of a backwater to the more cosmopolitan center of Jerusalem. They were unimportant people from an unimportant place showing up at the temple to carry out the required rituals. They are poor. We know they are poor because the instruction from the book of Leviticus says that this family should be offering a lamb. And then there's a caveat that says, "If you can't afford a lamb, you can offer some pigeons." And Jesus' family comes with pigeons.
And you have to imagine the crowd at this temple, Jewish people from throughout the diaspora, from Galilee and beyond, women who had given birth just over a month ago, all of these folks coming to the temple for purification. It was crowded. There were crowds. They were just another poor family showing up in this crowded space to offer their sacrifice. And then Simeon recognizes him, and it's important to note that Simeon is kind of a nobody, too. He's not a temple priest; he's not a teacher of the law. It just says he's a local person who has been waiting and hoping, who has heard God's promise. And Anna, Anna is essentially homeless. We're told that her husband died decades ago. And in this culture, this patriarchal culture, a woman without a head of household would've been effectively homeless, and it says that she spends 24 hours day and night in the temple. These two people not very powerful, just very good. These people are the ones who see this Jesus and this family, and in that moment, Simeon stands up and gives us this song.
Imagine this scene outlandishly in the middle of this crowd, this poor family and one nobody walks up to one family and cries out, "You are a light to the nations. You are the glory of God's people." In that setting, they are all unimportant, but here we are 2000 years later, telling that story again, placing it in the middle of what we Christians call the most important story that's been told. These unimportant people involved in the most important thing. And in fact, I think there is a lovely logic to the idea that these unimportant people are involved in the most important thing because if we read it that way, then this lesson goes right to the heart of our faith. To say to someone who others say don't matter, to say to that person, "You matter so much," goes to the heart of our faith. To tell someone who has been erased, "You are irreplaceable," goes to the heart of who we are. To say to someone who does not feel loved, to say to them, "You are beloved. You are a child of God." That act of recognition is the first act of love.
And if God is love, then what could matter more? Even if that act of love happens in the middle of a crowd, even if no one notices, even if all the people doing it are the most insignificant people, if love is there, then it is part of the story, part of our story, part of the story of God and Jesus Christ, and it matters.
Now, I know love isn't all that matters. I taught a preaching class last term. They gave me a hard time because I come up here and talk about love every week. I know that love doesn't mean that the powerful won't still be powerful. In my defense, neither does Simeon. He says to Mary, to this family that he recognizes as holy, he says to her, "A sword will pierce your heart." And isn't that true? Because her beloved son will be crucified, and the temple they are standing in will be torn down and set alight. And the people gathering there, murdered and scattered and enslaved. Love isn't magic.
Those in power won't abandon their cruelty just because we love each other. We will need other tools for survival. We will need other means of resistance. Love isn't magic, but love matters. According to Simeon and Anna and to Jesus too, it may be that nothing matters more, and love begins, or it can begin even with this, with a simple blessed act of recognition.
It turns out that the fact that the Son of God could be any child of God says more about us than about him, more about how special each and every one of us is than about how special he is. This story, our story, this gospel, this religion, it makes a radical claim about who is important and about what's important. Who is important is everybody. And what's important is loving them. Who's important? What's important? I might sound boastful, but I think this is an important church, and I even think that this is an important pulpit. I'm grateful to have been called into it. Now, I also know that pulpits are not as important as they once were, and I have no illusions about what difference my words or our words as a church might make today, but even as the cacophony of cruelty drowns out my voice or yours, we can still recognize belovedness when we see it, we can still declare and defend what matters. We can still speak the truth and love. And for God's sake, we better.
So if you are an immigrant, let me tell you, you are a light to enlighten this nation. You are the glory of God's people. Blessed are you. If you are trans, you are a light to enlighten this nation. You are the glory of God's people. Blessed are you. If you are non-binary, you are a light to enlighten this nation. You are the glory of God's people. Blessed are you. If your gender or color or nation or faith or identity or language or status makes you in any way vulnerable to the cruelty of self-important people like despots or tyrants or presidents, let me tell you, you are a light to enlighten this nation. You are the glory of God's people. Blessed are you, you children of God. The Lord has set their servants free. May we never stop proclaiming and protecting that freedom.