Simeon, Anna and Us

In early February, the Gospel reading at Mass came from Luke 2, which recounts the presentation of Jesus at the Temple. There Joseph and Mary met, and we meet, Simeon and Anna. Of Simeon it is said that he was righteous and devout, and to him it had been promised that “he would not see death until he had seen the Lord’s Christ” (Lk 2:26). With the infant Jesus in his arms, Simeon says aloud,

Sovereign Lord, as You have promised,

You now dismiss Your servant in peace.

For my eyes have seen Your salvation,

which You have prepared in the sight of all people,

a light for revelation to the Gentiles,

and for glory to Your people Israel (Lk 2:29-30).

Of Anna, we are told that she had been widowed after only seven years of marriage and was now eighty-four years old. Like Simeon, she immediately recognized the infant as the one for whom those who desired redemption had been waiting. Anna never left the temple, spending her days and nights in prayer and fasting.

This is not only a story of vision and prophecy. If we step back only slightly from the literal meaning of the story, we have little difficulty recognizing in Simeon and Anna figures of a faith that grounds an entire life of devotion. We do not need to cross the ocean or undo the centuries in order to join them in the practice of openness to Jesus. The true temple is of course our very lives, where Jesus has always already arrived and where have only to learn to see him. Origen’s interpretation of Luke 2 embraces this great scope. “If you come ‘to the temple in the Spirit,’” he preaches, “you will find the child Jesus.” What would it mean to come in the Spirit? From Simeon and Anna, we learn that this may require considerable work and no little amount of patience. From there it is no stretch at all to the thought that the work is undertaken in hope, with our eyes set on what is promised, contrary to the claims of a world that is full of reasons to live more practically, and indeed in greater comfort.

And so, as the Lenten season approaches, they may prove especially helpful companions. The coming season is, after all, one of a prolonged waiting, of fasting and prayer, that we may see more clearly what is truly good and lasting. With which eyes, which seeing, would this happen? The gospels return to this time and again. It is obviously not a matter of the same eyes and the same vision that attend to the physical world, as if eventually we would stumble upon Jesus among the candles and altars of our church. As we make progress in our life with Jesus, we see the same world differently—or better—because we no longer see only the surfaces and their simple contours. The world given by God and saved by the Son is a world imbued with love. During the Lenten season, we renew our commitment to the conversion of seeing that this requires. Augustine sometimes refers to a “seeing of the heart.” It makes sense to think that Simeon and Anna were able to recognize Jesus in the Temple because their hearts were prepared to know him. There is no drama in this, even if there is something wondrous about it. For most of us, the heart turns slowly from what is evident and ordinary toward the extraordinary gift of the Resurrection. Happily, the good news of what is promised in faith is already known to us, and in the season ahead we have every opportunity to prepare a place of welcome for everything that it may mean.