The Feast of the Presentation of the Lord, Monday, February 2, 2026

Luke 2, 22–40

When the days were completed for their purification according to the law of Moses, Mary and Joseph took Jesus up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord, just as it is written in the law of the Lord, Every male that opens the womb shall be consecrated to the Lord, and to offer the sacrifice of a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons, in accordance with the dictate in the law of the Lord. Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon. This man was righteous and devout, awaiting the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he should not see death before he had seen the Christ of the Lord. He came in the Spirit into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus to perform the custom of the law in regard to him, he took him into his arms and blessed God, saying: “Now, Master, you may let your servant go in peace, according to your word, for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you prepared in sight of all the peoples: a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and glory for your people Israel.” The child’s father and mother were amazed at what was said about him; and Simeon blessed them and said to Mary his mother, “Behold, this child is destined for the fall and rise of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be contradicted —and you yourself a sword will pierce— so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.” There was also a prophetess, Anna, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was advanced in years, having lived seven years with her husband after her marriage, and then as a widow until she was eighty-four. She never left the temple, but worshiped night and day with fasting and prayer. And coming forward at that very time, she gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to all who were awaiting the redemption of Jerusalem. When they had fulfilled all the prescriptions of the law of the Lord, they returned to Galilee, to their own town of Nazareth. The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him. 

This feast is quiet, almost deceptively so. There are no angels singing, no shepherds running, no magi bearing gifts. Instead, we are given an old man, an old woman, a young mother, a working father, and a forty-day-old child carried into the Temple. Yet the Church calls this moment a manifestation — a showing forth of who Christ is. The drama here is interior, not theatrical, and that is precisely its power.

Mary and Joseph come to Jerusalem not to display the Child, but to submit — to the Law of Moses, to the rhythm of Israel’s worship, to the ordinary obedience of the people of God. This is already a revelation. The One through whom all things were made is brought as an infant to be “presented” to the Lord. He does not grasp; he is given. The first public act of Jesus’ life is not preaching or miracle, but being offered—and offered in poverty. The sacrifice of two turtledoves or pigeons tells us quietly that this family lives at the margins, not the center. God enters his Temple poor.

Into this scene steps Simeon, a man whose entire life has been shaped by waiting. He is described not by achievements but by dispositions: righteous, devout, attentive to the Spirit. He has not forced history forward; he has received it. And because of that, he recognizes what others miss. When Simeon takes the child into his arms, the long tension of Israel’s hope is released. The words he speaks are not merely personal relief—“now you may let your servant go in peace”—but cosmic proclamation. This child is salvation made visible, prepared “in the sight of all peoples.” Simeon names what Israel has scarcely dared to imagine: this Messiah is not only Israel’s glory but a light for the Gentiles. The Temple, built to mark God’s dwelling with one people, becomes the place where God announces his intention to gather all peoples.

Yet Simeon’s prophecy immediately darkens. Light always reveals, and revelation always divides. This child will be “a sign that will be contradicted.” He will not simply console; he will provoke. He will expose. And Mary, who has carried him in her body, will carry him in another way as well — through suffering. “A sword will pierce your own soul.” The Presentation is therefore not only a joyful offering; it is the first explicit prophecy of the Cross. The child is held in Simeon’s arms even as the shadow of contradiction already falls across his life.

Anna appears next, and her presence completes the picture. Where Simeon represents patient expectation, Anna embodies persevering fidelity. She remains in the Temple, not out of habit, but out of love — fasting, praying, waiting. When she sees the child, she does not withdraw into private satisfaction. She speaks. She becomes a witness. Hope, once fulfilled, demands proclamation. What was awaited in silence must now be spoken aloud.

And then, just as quietly as it began, the scene ends. Mary and Joseph return to Nazareth. No crowds follow them. No institution changes overnight. The child grows—in strength, in wisdom, in favor. God’s great turning point in history folds itself back into ordinary life. This is one of the most important lessons of the feast: salvation does not abolish normal time; it sanctifies it.

The Presentation teaches us how to recognize God’s action in our own lives. Not in noise, but in obedience. Not in spectacle, but in fidelity. Not in grasping, but in offering. Simeon and Anna see what others overlook because they have trained their hearts to wait. Mary accepts joy and sorrow together because she knows that God’s promises unfold through the Cross, not around it.

On this feast, the Church traditionally blesses candles. It is a fitting sign. A candle does not argue or compel; it simply burns. It gives light by consuming itself. Christ is that light—and to carry him, as Simeon did, is to accept both illumination and cost. The question this Gospel quietly places before us is simple and demanding: are we waiting in such a way that, when salvation comes close enough to be held, we will recognize it?