The Reception of the Lord
(Luke 2:22-38)
By Archimandrite Joel Yiannakopoulos
By Archimandrite Joel Yiannakopoulos
After the birth of Christ, the Theotokos, as a Jewess, was obliged for two reasons to go to the Temple: first, for her own sake, and second, for the sake of her firstborn Son.
Her obligation toward herself was her lawful purification, her “forty-day purification,” as we would say today. According to the Law, that is, every Jewish woman who had given birth, on the fortieth day after the birth of her male child, had to appear in the Temple in order to be purified. During this purification she was required — if she was poor — “to offer a sacrifice according to what was prescribed: a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons.” This purification was not a bodily cleansing for reasons of hygiene, but a legal one. By it there was recalled, in general, the sinfulness of humanity, and more specifically the transmission of ancestral sin through birth. This is evident from the fact that if a Jewish woman gave birth to a daughter, she was considered unclean not for forty days but for eighty, in remembrance that Eve was the first cause of the fall of the first-created humans. The sacrifice of the offered turtledoves and pigeons, which did not cleanse but merely reminded one of impurity, indicated the need for the coming of a Redeemer, Christ.
Her obligation toward her firstborn Son was as follows. According to Jewish law, the firstborn of the Israelites had escaped the tenth plague of God against Pharaoh in Egypt, and for this reason God had commanded that they be dedicated to the Temple for His service. Later, however, they were replaced by the tribe of Levi. Nevertheless, the parents of the firstborn were obliged to bring them to the Temple “to present them to the Lord,” that is, to place them near the Lord’s altar. This is stated explicitly in the Law of the Lord: “Every male that opens the womb” — that is, every firstborn male — “shall be called holy to the Lord,” that is, dedicated to the Lord. Afterwards, this firstborn was redeemed for five shekels (14.25 French francs) and was then taken back by his parents.
Both of these obligations were fulfilled by the Theotokos as a Jewess, according to the Evangelist Luke, “when the days of their purification according to the Law of Moses were completed,” that is, on the fortieth day after the birth of Christ. Obviously, these things were done not because the birth of Christ shared in ancestral sin, but because Christ was born “under the Law,” as the Apostle Paul says.
Now in Jerusalem there was a man named Symeon. This man was “righteous” before people and “devout” before God. Through his study of the Scriptures he was “waiting for the consolation of Israel,” that is, he was awaiting Christ, who was the consolation of the people of Israel. “The Holy Spirit was upon him.” He was a prophet. “It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit” that he would not see death before he had seen the Christ of the Lord. Thus this devout elder, a few hours before the arrival of the Holy Family, moved “by the Spirit,” came into the Temple — that is, into that part of the Temple where women were permitted to enter — and waited.
After a short time the Holy Family arrived. “When the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for Him according to the custom of the Law,” that is, when they brought Christ in order to fulfill the law concerning the firstborn, as mentioned above, Symeon “took Him into his arms,” received Him into his embrace, and “blessed God,” glorifying Him, and said: “Now let Your servant depart in peace, O Master, according to Your word.” Now, says the elder Simeon, I ask to be released from this present life, to which I had been bound by the promise that I would not die before seeing Christ. I will depart, I will die, he adds characteristically, “in peace,” that is, gladly, because my eyes have seen Christ, who is “Your salvation, which You have prepared before the face of all peoples” — the salvation of the entire world, both Gentile and Jewish. And specifically, this salvation is “a light for revelation to the Gentiles,” that is, a light to enlighten the pagan and unbelieving nations, and “the glory of Your people Israel,” that is, for the glory of the people of Israel, because from this people your salvation, Christ, was born. “And His father and mother marveled at the things spoken about Him.” Their amazement was not chiefly because of what Symeon said — for they had heard such wondrous things also from the shepherds — but because these things were spoken by a man unknown to them, the elder Symeon.
Symeon then turned to the parents of the Child and “blessed” them. Then the same devout elder turned specifically “to Mary His mother and said” concerning the Child: “Behold, this One is set for the fall and rising of many in Israel,” that is, He is destined to become for some an occasion of fall and for others a cause of rising and salvation, first among the people of Israel and then in the whole world. The elder Symeon continues: This One will be “a sign that is spoken against,” that is, a wondrous figure who will have fervent followers as well as deniers. Then the same elder prophesies the great pain that Mary herself would feel because of Him: “And a sword will pierce your own soul also.” The sword is the crucifixion of Christ, which would deeply grieve the Theotokos. And the result of Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross is that “the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed,” that is, the differing convictions of people concerning the person of Christ would be made manifest.
In Jerusalem there was also a woman named Anna, who was “a prophetess, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher.” She was “advanced in years.” This woman, having lived with her husband seven years from her virginity, that is, from her marriage, then remained “a widow until eighty-four years of age.” She was so devout that “she did not depart from the Temple, worshiping with fasting and prayers night and day.” That is, she often spent both day and night in the sacred precincts of the Temple, fasting and praying. Thus “at that very hour,” at the very moment when the Holy Family came into the Temple, she came forward, saw Jesus, and “gave thanks to God.” After the completion of the Holy Family’s sacrifices in the Temple, Anna “spoke about Him to all who were waiting for the redemption of Jerusalem,” that is, she spoke to all those Israelites in Jerusalem who were awaiting the Messiah as Redeemer, proclaiming that He had come and that He is the Christ. “And when they had completed everything according to the Law of the Lord, they returned to Galilee, to their own city, Nazareth.”
That is, after the forty-day purification the Holy Family returned to their homeland, Nazareth. This return to Nazareth was not for the purpose of settling there permanently. Their permanent residence in Nazareth occurred later, when they returned from Egypt, as Matthew explicitly records. Now they returned to Nazareth probably to attend to certain family matters and then go on to Bethlehem, where, as will be shown below, they intended to settle permanently, since Christ had been born there. Thus they passed through Nazareth and went again to Bethlehem, where the adoration of the Magi took place, followed by the flight into Egypt and the return to Nazareth.
From the entire account of the Reception of the Lord, more attention is given to three persons who felt this feast most deeply: the Theotokos, Symeon, and Anna. These persons showed the greatest self-denial, each in his or her own way. Let us examine the particular manner of self-denial of each person and the benefit we gain from this self-denial.
Topic: a) The Theotokos: Appearance — Depth
A. The Theotokos.
We know that in every female soul two things are rooted most deeply: modesty and pain. Modesty, which she feels as a woman, as a daughter; and pain, which she feels as a mother. The Theotokos is both daughter and mother. She feels both pains very deeply. And behold how.
She was a virgin, and Christ her Son was free from ancestral sin. Yet, despite her own purity and her Son’s divinity, she goes to the Temple for purification and appears as an ordinary woman, as one who has given birth. She has holy depth, but her outward appearance is that of a defiled woman. For a woman, the temptation of shame is great — that while she is holy, she should appear defiled. Here is the temptation of the Theotokos as a daughter: holy depth, defiled appearance.
The Theotokos also feels the second temptation as a mother. And behold how. Symeon, foretelling the suffering of her Son, presents it as a sword that will pierce her soul. The pain of the Theotokos as a mother is great for the following reasons. Symeon does not tell the Theotokos what kind of sword from her Son’s sufferings will pass through her heart. Therefore, the mind of the Theotokos could suspect many kinds of torments. She suffered, as a mother, with the remembrance of them. The remembrance of these torments began from the fortieth day of her Son’s life until the day of His crucifixion. The uncertainty of the nature of the torments and the remembrance of them for thirty years was a great temptation for the Theotokos as a mother.
Moreover, the Theotokos hears for the first time from Symeon about the sword of her heart arising from her Son’s sufferings. Until now she had heard from the Archangel Gabriel and from shepherds joyful tidings concerning her Son. She could therefore have fallen into the temptation of not reconciling the joyful announcements with Symeon’s painful message and could have said this: “How is it that my Son, so great, is about to suffer and to cause me such great sorrow?” As a weak woman, and all the more as a mother, it would have been easy for her to become a victim of such thoughts. And yet! As a mother she endured this painful message in silence, having pain in her depth and calmness on her face. In the face of such thoughts, inwardly she reflected — “she kept all these words in her heart,” as Luke expressly says — while outwardly she kept silence.
Therefore, the self-denial of the Theotokos had these three forms:
As a daughter, she had holy depth and defiled appearance.
As a mother, she had pain in her depth, yet a calm appearance.
As a woman and mother, inwardly she had conflicting reports about her Son — joyful and sorrowful — yet outwardly she had silence.
This conduct of the Theotokos is a sign of her great self-denial!
B. And what about us?
The Theotokos was holy and appeared defiled. We, however, though we are unclean, want to appear holy. Though we are insignificant, we want to appear important. The Theotokos goes to the Temple to worship, even though she herself was a living temple, for she bore God Himself in her womb. We neglect church attendance, considering it unnecessary. The Theotokos has such self-denial that, even though she carries within herself the essence of the Temple — God — she submits to the temporary form of the Mosaic Law, the ritual purification. We are ashamed to submit to the eternal evangelical law. She had the self-denial to walk from Bethlehem to Jerusalem — about a day’s journey — in order to worship according to the rule. We, however, are so negligent that we neglect our worship even though the church is near us.
The Theotokos had pain in her depth and calmness in her appearance. This is shown clearly when she saw the sword of her heart — her Son upon the Cross. At that tragic moment the Theotokos was standing before the Cross. The Evangelist tells us this explicitly, noting of the Theotokos that “she stood by the Cross.” Do you too have pain in your depth and calmness in your appearance? More specifically: perhaps you may see your son, as a mother, lying dead on the bier or hanging on a cross at the hands of antichrists. I do not say that you must be insensitive to pain, but do you have the strength of patience? The Theotokos sees her Son upon the Cross and does not faint so as to fall to the ground. Her Son is only-begotten and sinless, yet He hangs upon the Cross. And you, mother, who have other children as well — when you see one of them hanging or lying dead in the coffin, remember the Theotokos, who stood calm, and do not begin shouting, fainting, tearing your hair, and other senseless displays.
Your pain increases because your dead or hanged child was very good. His goodness, now that he lies in the coffin or on the cross, causes you pain. However good your child may have been, he never reaches the goodness of Christ. The Theotokos, though she had such a good Son on the Cross, endured.
Your pain for your hanged or dead child is even greater when that good child is also a boy. And Christ was not only most holy but also a boy for the Theotokos. Christ was most holy, a boy, and her only-begotten. The Theotokos endured, though she saw before her the crucified only Son, the sinless One. There is no sight more moving than the sight where three things are combined: pain, virtue, and patience. If one suffers pain because he is worthy of his sufferings, his patience has little value. When one is virtuous and undergoes trials but does not endure them, his virtue has no value. And when one has virtue without pain and patience, his virtue has no value at all. Therefore, what is moving is the combination of pain, virtue, and patience — that is, to be in the right, to be wronged, and to endure.
The Theotokos endured all the temptations of thoughts arising from conflicting reports, and you too must remain silent and leave to God the adversities of your life which you cannot explain.
In a theater, an actor, while playing his role in a drama, began to cough up blood. Being clever, he tried and incorporated the blood into the drama. He coughed up blood a second time and again very ingeniously incorporated it into his performance. Shortly afterward, however, he vomited blood. Now he was unable to incorporate this into the play, and, having been noticed, he withdrew from the stage. However much we too try to conceal our tear-filled depth, it will reveal itself. Let us therefore take care to correct not the surface but the depth, so that we may not merely appear good, but truly be good.
Behold the threefold form of the self-denial of the Theotokos — and of our own. Pain, virtue, patience!
Topic: b) Symeon. Christ, the Physician of Life and Death
A. The Elder Symeon.
When Symeon saw Christ and prophesied His death on the Cross, he expressed the desire to die, because life no longer attracted him, nor did death frighten him. How did this happen? Let us see the mystery of this matter.
Two things are terrible: sin while we live, and death when we die. Sin is death — that is, the separation of the soul from God. Physical death, on the other hand, is the separation of the soul from the body. Sin is worse than death, because it brought death and because it separates man from God. Although sin is worse than death, it is easy to avoid. Death is not as evil as sin, for it separates only the soul from the body. Moreover, death is the result of sin and is unavoidable; therefore, a person should take greater care to avoid sin, because it is the worst evil on the one hand, and on the other hand it is something we are able to avoid. We should fear death less, because it is a lesser evil compared to sin, and because it is unavoidable. And yet!
We are seized with dread at the face of death and indifference at the face of sin. Even more: we embrace sin in life and avoid, with dread, even the very memory of death. How great is this disease! But the corresponding punishment has also come. Sin is dear to us because we choose it. Death is terrible because it comes against our will. Since, therefore, we chose sin of our own will as our queen, death came against our will as a tyrant. This punishment is terrible but just. Behold our disease and our punishment.
Christ came as the physician of this disease through His death on the Cross. How? Behold: Christ embraces death and hates sin. As much devotion as we have for sin, so much horror Christ felt toward it. As much dread as we feel toward death, so much longing He had to die for our sake. His longing for death is shown by the calm with which He dies and by the rebuke He addressed to the Apostle Peter, calling him Satan, because Peter urged Him not to be crucified. The Lord’s great desire to die is also shown by the fact that He calls His crucifixion His glory. And how much hatred He had for sin is shown by the fact that He was sinless.
In this way, therefore — through the Lord’s hatred of sin — the sweetness of sin was taken away. And through His longing for death, the terror and dread of death were taken away. In short, through His death Christ removes the sinful sweetness of life and the dreadful appearance of death. Moreover, through His death Christ passed into the other life and is there awaiting us. Symeon desires to die after seeing Christ, because neither the sweetness of life attracts him nor the dread of death frightens him; rather, Christ draws him — Christ who, through His death on the Cross, is found in the life beyond the grave. Behold the mystery of this disease and its healing.
B. And what about us?
The same should happen to us as well. When we come to know Christ, the sin of this present life should not attract us, nor should death frighten us. Sin should not draw us, because our Leader hated it and it separates us from Him. We should not be indifferent to sin, because it is the greatest evil and yet something we are able to avoid. How responsible we are before God for being indifferent to so great an evil — sin — which we are able to avoid! We should not fear death, because it is not as great an evil as sin. Moreover, death is unavoidable. A third and most important reason why we should not fear death is that Christ embraced it. Therefore, the inevitability of death, its being embraced by Christ, and its lesser evil compared to sin should lead us to view it with calmness. For us believers, since Christ embraced it, death is no longer an end but the beginning of a new life. It is a bridge that carries us from the temporal to the eternal. It is the crossroads of the present life and the future eternity. Death is the summit of a mountain, from which we see the end of the present life and the beginning of eternity.
Not only should the sin of this present life not attract us — since Christ hated this sin — but even this present life itself should not attract us, for however beautiful it may be, it is nevertheless temporary. It is not at all reasonable for a person to be captivated by and cling to something temporary, something that slips from his hands, to tread upon a rotten plank.
Who, then, knowing Christ, would not wish to hate sin? Who, knowing Christ, would fear and tremble before death? Who, knowing Christ, would not wish to fly from the temporal to the eternal, in order to go to Christ? If Symeon left Christ here on earth and wished to go to heaven, where Christ would later go, how much more should we today desire to go to Christ, who is now in heaven. Who would wish to drag himself along here among the temporary things and not desire to fly there to the eternal?
Perhaps someone may say: But this world is also the work of God; it is the house of God. No objection. But I ask: who would wish to see the palace of a king, to live in it, yet not see the king himself? The world is the palace of God. Heaven is the place where God, the King, dwells. It follows, then, that we should desire to go where the King is.
Behold Symeon — and ourselves. Behold the dread we should have toward sin and the indifference toward death. The devout Ignatius of Loyola once learned that a sinner frequented a sinful place. He decided to save him. He went to the road by which the sinner would pass, where there was a river. Ignatius removed his clothes there, and when he saw the sinner passing by, he plunged into the river up to his neck. It was winter. When the sinner saw him, he cried out: “What are you doing? You will freeze!” Ignatius replied: “I will not come out unless you repent.” The sinner took pity on this devout priest and, realizing the gravity of his sin, repented. This example combines dread of sin with indifference toward death. Such were all the saints.
Let us, together with Symeon, take care to hate sin in life and not be frightened by death. And let us long to fly from sinful and temporary life, through death, into eternity, where Christ is — together with Symeon, the Theotokos, Anna, and so many others. Amen.
Topic: c) Anna. Voluntary Self-Restraints
The Theotokos showed her self-denial, because, as we have seen, she submitted to the law of purification and to the necessity of the sword — that is, the cruciform death of her Son. Symeon showed his self-denial, because, having seen Christ, he is no longer fascinated by life nor terrified by death. But Anna also was deemed worthy to see Christ, when she subjected herself to another kind of self-denial — namely fasting and prayer — as Luke expressly says: “She did not depart from the Temple, worshiping with fastings and supplications night and day.” That is, she had voluntary restraints. Behold the third kind of self-denial.
A. Voluntary restraints.
Man resembles a river. The most precious thing a river has is its water. And the most precious thing a human being has is his freedom. Just as the river has the flow of its water, so too man has his impulse, his freedom. The river has its banks, which restrain the force of the current. Likewise, man has involuntary legal restraints and voluntary personal restraints, which restrain the force of his will. Beyond the rivers there are fields, which are destroyed by flooding if there are no banks to contain it. Yet they are watered by the river when its water is restrained by the banks and suitably channeled through irrigation. In a similar way, human freedom, when it is not restrained by legal and personal limits, destroys its surroundings with its flood — and that surrounding environment is not trees and plants, as in a river’s flood, but people. When, on the contrary, human freedom, like the flow of a river, is restrained by certain limits and directed where it should be, its fruitfulness is greater than that of fields watered by river water, because then human works benefit not only trees and plants but people as well. A person without restraints is a beast, and the country in which he lives becomes a jungle.
Man is not only a member of a society and therefore subject to social and legal restraints. He is a distinct person. Consequently, he also needs particular personal restraints, which he himself must impose upon himself, because laws and other social restraints are often superficial and do not reach the depth of our personality. For this reason great people were not content merely to be social and law-abiding; for their greater formation they imposed upon themselves special personal restraints. We have examples in the Fathers of the Church and in the prophetess Anna. We too must have our personal restraints.
B. Our personal restraints.
Each one of us has particular restraints, which he imposes on himself according to his personal needs. There are also certain exercises which, though general in character and not legal or social restraints, nonetheless have personal value. Let us mention a few. You return home from an outing thirsty. Can you drink water only after fifteen minutes? When the food is slightly burnt, can you, at least once, eat it without saying a word? You pass in front of a pastry shop window with enough money in your wallet. Can you sometimes say no? You are tying your shoes and a lace breaks. Can you avoid getting angry? Toward people who have hurt you, can you be open-hearted, gentle, or at least magnanimous? In the morning, when it is time to get up, can you jump immediately out of bed and not turn back to it groaning, like a door turning on rusty hinges? You are looking for something you have lost. If you do not find it, can you avoid becoming irritated? When people mock you, can you refrain from replying with mockery? When a door opens, can you fight your curiosity and not look into someone else’s house? When your father brings home a folded package, can you fight your curiosity there as well? And so on. These restraints do not fall under any social or legal limitation. They are personal exercises for each one of us.
I anticipate an objection. Someone may say: these are details concerning matters of little moral weight; they are permissible things, and therefore there is no reason for us to impose restraints on them. I reply: restraints of our will in matters of small moral weight, or even in permissible things, strangely strengthen our will. These restraints are a kind of training for our will. Compromises with ourselves, on the contrary, greatly weaken it. Moreover, it is details that constitute greatness. For example, who are great musical artists? Those who pay attention to the slightest dissonances. Who are refined in manners? Those who pay attention to the details of their lives. Who are moral personalities? Those who submit themselves to sacrifices that no law commands. The small flowers of April make up the beautiful carpet of the earth. The skyscrapers of America are made of small bricks.
A king, wishing to take revenge on an adversary, ordered that his enemy be locked in a tall tower. Escape from there was impossible. His friends came and went in despair. Years passed. His hair grew long. Then he thought of the following. He pulled out some hairs, tied one hair to another, and made a very thin cord. He let it down from the top of the tower. A clever friend tied a silk thread to it, which the prisoner pulled up. Then he threw it down again, and the friend tied a thicker twine, and the third time a thick rope. With this he descended, after securing one end to the tower. So too we must correct our character, beginning with the smallest things. Details, therefore, and personal restraints constitute the greatness of a human being.
Behold the third kind of self-denial of the prophetess Anna — and our own personal restraints.
(1) Exod. 13:2.
(2) Gal. 4:5.
Source: The Life of Christ, published in 1953. Translated by John Sanidopoulos.
