I would like to begin my remarks this morning by relating a brief story. The story concerns an event that took place late last year in the Chapel here at St John's. (I am conscious that some of you may have actually witnessed this event, and that others may have heard the story by now. Nevertheless, I would ask for your patient indulgence.)

The event in the Chapel was a celebration of the Eucharist. I was presiding at the celebration, as I have presided at hundreds of similar liturgies. During the Eucharistic prayer - as is my practice - I held the priest's host [the "big" host] aloft at two points in the liturgy: at the time of consecration and, again, near the end of the Eucharistic prayer. I think you have seen me do this on many occasions.

As you know, following the Eucharistic prayer, the priest breaks the priest's host and thereafter administers communion. However, on this particular evening, I discovered that the priest's host was by no means amenable to "breaking." I thought that it might be old, or stale. (Perhaps it had been "on sale," like bread at Loblaws.) In any event, I kept trying. But this bread simply would not break. Finally, I just gave up. I slipped the "big" host under all the "little" hosts, and continued with the liturgy. And no one seemed to notice.

After the service, I discovered what the problem was: the priest's host was not really a priest's host at all. (Indeed, the priest's host was something each of you has had in their hand this morning.) The priest's host was a "candle drip catcher" - a "candle drip catcher" that was mistakenly misfiled in the sacristy.

I wanted to share this story with you to illustrate two, well-known axioms. The first is that our eyes can deceive us. The second is that things are not always what they appear to be. A third (less well-known) principal is that often it is difficult to tell the difference between bread and cardboard - between what is sacred and life giving and what, quite simply, is not. Frequently, it seems to me, the two appear identical.

Today, we are celebrating the feast of the Presentation of the Lord. In our gospel text - from Luke - Mary and Joseph bring the child Jesus to the temple in Jerusalem. Their stated purpose is twofold: the child's circumcision and Mary's purification. The witnesses to these rituals were Simeon and Anna.

Luke's two-fold aim in recounting this story seems clear. The first is to portray Jesus and his parents as devout Jews, Jews who faithfully fulfilled the requirements of the Law. The second object is to portray Jesus as the Messiah. To this end, Simeon saw and proclaimed that Jesus was God's "salvation." Anna - the prophetess - also recognized that this little boy was the One for whom Israel longed.

The language and imagery of this text is exceedingly rich. Simeon's canticle - the Nunc Dimitis - is one of the most beautiful in scripture. For me, the entire story exudes a particular opulence, an opulence that conveys a surplus of meaning beyond the two themes I have mentioned.

As I read the passage this week, it was against the backdrop of my previously described "Eucharistic mishap." That case of "mistaken identity" prompted me to observe that Simeon and Anna seemed to have no difficulty whatsoever in discerning what was real, sacred, and life giving. Their tired, old eyes "saw" with crystalline clarity, and with no hint of deception.

At this point, one must ask: why did Simeon and Anna recognize the Christ-child when no one else did? Even Mary and Joseph "were amazed at what was being said about [Jesus]." (Luke 2:33) Simeon and Anna were in the Temple in Jerusalem, the focus of Jewish devotion - for them the most sacred setting on the face of the earth. In that magnificent setting, they caught sight of a poor and dusty Jewish couple, with a poor and dusty Jewish baby, and recognized something of immeasurable import. Why could they "see," when others could not?

The answer to these questions, of course, may be gleaned - at least in part - from the text itself.

We are told, for example, that Simeon "was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him." (Luke 2:26) Simeon then was a man of deep faith - a person who was touched by the Spirit of God, and guided by the Spirit as he lived each day.

We are told also that both Anna and Simeon were advanced in years. They were possessed with the wisdom - and spiritual insight - that comes only with length of days. I believe that Luke is enjoining us to honor such wisdom, and to attend to such voices - that Luke is suggesting that the eyes of a faithful heart may become clearer and keener with the passage of time.

Simeon and Anna were probably both quite frail. No doubt, they were poor as well. We know that Anna was a widow - and that, in antiquity, widowhood was synonymous with poverty. There was no rung on society's ladder lower than that to which Anna clung. Perhaps the humility engendered by this "view from below" also enhanced this couple's capacity to "see."

Paul Tillich wrote:

"The presence of the Messiah is a mystery; it cannot be said to everybody, it cannot be seen by everybody, but only those like Simeon [and Anna] who are driven by the Spirit. There is something surprising, unexpected about the appearance of salvation, something which contradicts pious opinions and intellectual demands."

Let us pray then today to be "surprised" by salvation.

Let us pray for grace to live good lives.

Let us pray to be filled with the Holy Spirit, and to follow the promptings of the Spirit in thought, and word, and deed.

Let us pray to grow each day in wisdom, in humility and, especially, in love.

Let us ask these things so that we might have "eyes" to see - to see the difference between bread and cardboard - between what is real, and sacred, and life-giving, and what - quite simply, is not. Amen.