Sermon, February 2, 2003
The Feast of the Presentation
The Rev. Lowell E. Grisham
St. Paul's Episcopal Church
Fayetteville, Arkansas

Gospel -- Luke 2:22-40 The Presentation of the Child Jesus at the Temple Fayetteville, Arkansas

There were two religious obligations Mary and Joseph owed their tradition after the birth of their child Jesus. As Mary's first born child, Jesus was to be presented to the rabbi as a child Holy to the Lord. The rite had its shadowy roots deep in the ancient practices of people long ago. There was a time in folk memory when the first child was offered as a sacrifice to appease the gods and to insure the rich continued fertility of womb and field. More recently, the ancestor of this young couple, Abraham had faced the terrifying command of the Holy God to make such a sacrifice of his first born son Isaac. His incredible trust in the face of this demand had been the catalyst for the birth of a people who wrote into their corporate memory, their law, a commandment that the first born son would be Holy to the Lord. Thus, the ritual reminder of ancient sacrifice demands that these parents present this child to the rabbi, no doubt with some shudder of fear lest the primitive requirements be renewed.

They bring their offering, inexpensive birds, whose sacrificial death will redeem the child and allow his return to their arms. Little do they know that one day just a few years from now there will be no birds to redeem the self-offering of utter sacrifice as this child becomes a redemption for all born to humanity. Nor could they imagine that centuries of spiritual descendants in the name of this child Jesus would hand over their children to their priests for the ritual drowning of baptism that incorporates each child into Jesus' redeeming death.

Mary and Joseph were displaced in Bethlehem. Possibly staying with Joseph's family since he was of the clan of David in David's city, their presence in Judea allowed them the otherwise unlikely opportunity to observe the custom of the presentation in the great Jerusalem Temple. As they walked across the hills from Bethany, no doubt it took their breath away to see spread out before them their spiritual home and the heart of their people. This Temple was almost new; finished recently by the great building program of Herod, it swept across a space six city blocks long. Gleaming white under the middle eastern sun, at one point it rose 120 feet into the air, higher than any of the Gothic cathedrals that would one day become shrines in this holy city.

Imagine their excitement, their awe as they approach the centerpiece of their religion. The child Mary holds in her arms would one day challenge and question everything that spread out before their view. The Temple is the home of law, authority, ritual, tradition. It was the seat of power for those who made the all important judgments about purity and impurity, blessing or banishment. The Temple prerogatives of law, authority, ritual and tradition all intended to point toward God and to invite God's people into living relationship, but in every age and every culture those powers need the challenge of the prophet.

It is the prophet who gives voice to the context of human life here and now and offers concrete inspiration in the name of the personal God. There is always the tension and struggle between inspiration and institution, between authority and freedom, between tradition and innovation. Both forces contend with deep passion, each believing itself to be the instrument of God.

There are two hills that symbolize this struggle between law, authority, ritual, and tradition -- the values of the Temple -- and voice of inspiration, freedom, innovation, and justice that energizes the cry of the prophet. The Temple hill of Moriah is only a small valley away from the other hill of Golgotha. From this Temple will come the inevitable death of the prophet who will make possible the resurrection that transforms the Temple and all of its institutions. That is an event that is repeated as institutions of law, business and religion find forms of death and rebirth in every century.

But today the Temple is the sight of a joyful and familial scene. A young couple and their newborn child is here. A baby who attracts the smiles and attentions that are universal. Herbert O'Driscoll paints the scene in this way:

The temple was the centre for every aspect of life. Around it wandered some elderly men and women, deeply devout, dreaming the dreams of old age, accepted, understood, and respected by the passing crowds. Two of them had come, attracted as we often are in our elderly years to the beauty of infancy and young parenthood. Everyone knew them. They were part of the familiar scene of the temple.

It was only when the old man took her child and walked a little away from them that (Mary) became alarmed. It was more than the natural concern about his steadiness. The child seemed to move the old man to deep emotion. The weak voice gathered strength. Rocking the child a little, the elderly feet began to move in the shuffle of a half forgotten dance. Then the words came, and as they did a most extraordinary thing took place. This bent old man, seemingly insignificant in this place of power and wealth, seemed to grow. He began quietly, almost whispering, but then his ringing words swept out and beyond the temple, out over the city, beyond even the communities of Israel scattered across the known world. "Salvation ," he sang, "salvation before the face of all people." Lifting the child even higher the vast world of his imagination seemed revealed to him. "A light," he shouted, "a light to lighten the Gentiles, and to be the glory of thy people Israel."

Here again for Mary was the mingling of promise and threat. She had felt it in the very air the night that her child was born, heard it in the uncomprehending chatter of the shepherds. It was hinted in the angelic annunciation she had received. Always there was the implication that her child belonged not to her but to some far and vast world, a world that her mind failed to envision, and so relapsed into uncomprehending dread.

Her child was again in her arms. Joseph and she said the effusive things that sometimes suffice to extract us from situations that threaten to get out of hand. They prepared to leave, grateful that the episode was over. They were only a few paces away when they heard the old man's voice. It was low, hesitating, almost as if he was speaking against his own will. His dimming eyes were fixed on her alone. The child, Joseph -- all else seemed not to exist. His voice was very tender, almost as if he wished to mitigate the terrible words as much as possible. "You," he said to her, "you shall be pierced to the heart." As soon as he had said it, he turned quickly and moved away into the crowd which had gathered to watch and listen. (Portrait..., p. 46f)

Isn't what he said true for all of us who love. With love comes the sword that surely pierces the heart. All love lives under that shadow. The cost of loving someone is the sure certainty that one day we will lose that person. But to refuse to love is the loss of our ability to love and be loved. If we escape the sword of love, we are cut down even more terribly.

Today our country and yes, the world, mourns the death of seven heroes, brave explorers who gave their life and their lives to journey to the frontiers of human discovery. It is said of them that they loved their pursuits. Each had sacrificed greatly in order to become one who can journey beyond earth's boundaries. Their actions authenticated their commitments. They gave themselves away completely, and we honor, thank them and mourn their sacrifice.

The dark truth is this: at the core of all of life is sacrifice. The child Jesus presented at the Temple would say that to his disciples in its purest version -- "If you would save your life, you will lose it; but whoever gives away life, gains it." And then his actions authenticated his teaching.

Our lives are to be given away from birth to death as completely as was this child's life -- presented to God at infancy, offered in love throughout, and surrendered in faith at death. It was his destiny, and it was wonderful. It is our wonderful destiny as well.

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