Homily for the Presentation of the Lord (C)
Simeon and Anna appear so briefly in the Gospel that we might almost miss them. They are a part of the story of the life of Jesus for just a few minutes, yet the few words that Luke writes about them reveal two remarkable lives. It is especially moving, I think, to reflect on those lives in this Jubilee year because in Simeon and Anna we feel the challenge of hope.
Neither Simeon nor Anna, it seems, lived an easy life. There is a tiredness in Simeon’s words after he takes the baby Jesus in his arms: “Now, Master, you may let your servant go in peace.” Simeon had received a special revelation that he would not see death before he had seen the Messiah, and his words hint that it might not have been easy to hang on until that moment. Perhaps you know of friends or relatives who have held on to life to see one special event—a wedding or a graduation or the birth of a child—and then let go soon after. I think of a dear friend whose grandfather passed away minutes after watching his ordination, and I think there is something of that letting go—with gratitude for one last precious gift—in Simeon’s words.
But Simeon, too, still has something to give in that moment. Today his words form part of the Church’s Night Prayer, and his prophecy to Mary would stay with her in the decades ahead. To the blessing he received, Simeon responded with a blessing.
There is something moving, too, about what just a glance of God’s glory means for Simeon. After all, he sees the Messiah only as a baby. He will never hear the Sermon on the Mount, see Jesus cure the sick or raise Lazarus; he will never receive the sacraments; and, though his words to Mary allude to the crucifixion, he himself will not be there. His eyes do see the salvation God has prepared in the sight of all the peoples—because salvation is Jesus Christ—but only just barely. And that’s enough. Jesus, before he can speak, before he can walk—but present—is enough. Simeon has lived his life in hope for the moment that we see in the Gospel, and yet that hope fulfilled is itself a promise of more to come. He is led from hope into hope, I suppose, much as our celebration of the Eucharist leads us to hope for the banquet promised us in heaven.
Anna is no less remarkable than Simeon. Though she is called a prophetess, we don’t hear any of her words. This should not surprise us because in the story of Israel prophets speak both through their words and through their actions, and Anna’s actions speak. We can infer that she has suffered much, and she has suffered patiently. We are told that she lived with her husband a mere seven years and then as a widow until eighty-four, which means more than half a century of widowhood. We don’t know if she had children, who in any case would already be grown, perhaps even deceased, but either way—suffering childlessness with her husband or raising children on her own as a widow—Anna would not have had it easy. We don’t know the turns her spiritual journey may have taken, whether and how long she may have had to struggle to overcome the bitterness of loss, but we do know that somehow she was able to turn her suffering into worship. Her life itself became worship. “She never left the temple,” we are told, “but worshiped night and day with fasting and prayer.”
When Jesus arrives, she recognizes him as the one who would bring “the redemption of Jerusalem” and comes forward. And that brief encounter—a few minutes out of eighty-four years—changes her life, and she becomes an agent of hope for others. “She gave thanks to God,” Luke says, “and spoke about the child to all who were awaiting the redemption of Jerusalem.” Her gift, too, leads her to give; her hope fulfilled becomes a hope that is contagious.
This story, the Presentation of the Lord in the Temple, the fleeting appearance of Simeon and of Anna, is, I will admit, one I’ve only come to appreciate with time, perhaps because so much of its meaning is below the surface. We see human life at its fragile extremes—at the beginning and near the end—and we see that the presence of God can transform those frail limits into moments of transcendence that give everything before and after meaning.
In Simeon and Anna, we see an implicit hope, a hope before the fullness of God’s plan has been revealed, but not a hope that is generic or half-hearted. Simeon and Anna are faithful to the traditions of their people Israel, devoted to the worship of God in his Temple as he himself has commanded. They trust that he will fulfill his promises, the promise we heard from the prophet Malachi in today’s first reading: “And suddenly there will come to the temple, the Lord whom you seek.” Simeon and Anna may not know exactly what God is planning, but they know enough to recognize him when he arrives—which, as we see later in the Gospel, is better than most. There is something stubborn in their hope, a toughness to it. There had to be to survive all those years. And there’s a realism, too. Simeon acknowledges the opposition Jesus will face, the pain that Mary will undergo: “You yourself a sword will pierce.” And yet none of that adversity—past or future—diminishes the wonder of the gift; the wonder of a child, a baby in whom redemption is made present; the promise of a new life to come. For Simeon and Anna—faithful, devout, and above all hopeful—nothing—not the fleetingness of that moment, not the long aching years of waiting—nothing diminishes their wonder or gratitude or joy at a hope fulfilled and a new hope revealed.
Readings: Malachi 3:1-4; Hebrews 2:14-18; Luke 2:22-40
February 2, 2025
Oratorio San Francesco Saverio del Caravita
Rome
Tony Lusvardi, S.J. 