Neither fish nor flesh nor good red herring!

On Tuesday morning of this week, I went to daily Mass at our local Catholic school in honor of the Feast of the Presentation. It’s one of those interesting feasts where objects are involved. I was hoping to see some candles blessed (hence the medieval name for the day, “Candlemas”), but the Mass planners for our parish schoolchildren opted for a table display instead (I dimly remember hearing of a past “incident” with children and candles…). The little table, situated at the foot of the altar, held an assortment of ornately dressed baby Jesus dolls, each one seated on his own throne. During the homily, our presider picked up one of the dolls and, lifting it high, explained how Jesus was “presented” at the Temple forty days after his birth. I’d love to know what the children were thinking about this impressive visual. My own mind wandered to Simeon, grasping the infant Jesus at the steps of the Temple, explaining to the children of Israel who Jesus was: “a light of revelation for the Gentiles, and glory for [the] people Israel” (Luke 2: 32).

Jesus is clearly the center of the action in the Gospel, and was certainly captivating as a centerpiece for the children (and me) to focus on during morning Mass. The readings for the “Presentation of the Lord” (Malachi 3: 1-4, Psalm 24: 7-10; Hebrews 2:14-18; and Luke 2:22-40) clearly emphasize Jesus, who is the King of Glory, the one who will come to the Temple, the messenger, and the incarnation of the covenant promised to the People of God. Certainly, Christians have long-identified this moment in Luke’s gospel as a time to celebrate. As early as the 4^th century, a woman named Egeria, who made a pilgrimage to the holy city of Jerusalem, recounted her experience of a special liturgical celebration taking place forty days after Jesus’ birth.

On the sidelines of the presentation of the baby Jesus, though, are the presenters of Jesus, Joseph and Mary, who approach the Temple in an attitude of thanksgiving for their child, after “the days were completed for their purification” (Luke 2:22). Mary and Joseph were the first children to whom the Christ child was explained; the first people who watched in wonder as a baby was held aloft at the foot of the Temple.

While we rightly might focus on the “presentation” of Jesus, equally at play is the “thanksgiving” of his parents, and the ritual of “purification” referenced in the text. While Luke delicately notes that the couple waited for “their” purification, it was Mary who, following Levitical law, needed to refrain from approaching the Temple area for a certain number of days following the birth of a child. Even Mary, chosen from among women and without sin, goes through this ritual, showing her absolute fidelity to God’s law.

Remembering this particular Biblical event shapes Christian ritual practice in at least two significant ways. First, as noted before, I was hoping for candles. Lamps, lights, and, eventually, candles, all hold powerful symbolic valence for God and Christ, the light of the world. As for liturgical usage, the appearance of candles accompanying the Presentation first appears clearly in texts from the 9^th century. Sermons reflecting on this text from Luke explain the symbol of the candle as a metaphor for Jesus and Mary in several ways. For example, the wax candle (Jesus) was brought forth by the bee (Holy Spirit) and the flower (Mary). Alternatively, both wick and wax make up a candle; both humanity and divinity “make up” Christ. And, of course, Christ is “the light of the world” (John 8:12). The custom of bringing candles to accompany this liturgy led to customs of blessing candles in general on this day—for use in the Church and at home.

But, aside from Candlemas itself, a second significant ritual event unfolds from this incident in Luke. What Mary does becomes a ritual pattern for Christian women.  Mary waited for an appropriate time post-partum to return to her community’s sacred space. Known as the “Churching of Women,” Christian women were eventually encouraged to model Mary, and to refrain from entering a church for a period of time after a child’s birth. The details of the custom (and the explanations as to why it should be done in the first place) vary widely from place to place. The ritual is described by some in penitential tones, as a necessary purification; other sources describe the churching with joyful notes, as a moment of thanksgiving for the life of the child (and of the mother). Processions to church, accompaniment with candles, water and incense, reciting psalms, and the woman being led through the doorway of the church by her pastor were all elements that, at one time or another, were involved in the ritual.

Though the ritual sounds like something women were made to do, by the beginning of the 16^th century, the “Churching of Women,” is also described by women as a social event focused on women and women’s social groups. Before the ritual at the church itself, a woman’s churching afforded her and her female friends an occasion for festivity, food, dressing up, and spending time celebrating together.

Nonetheless, by the time of the Reformation on the Continent and in England, this multi-valent ritual had become a lightening rod for Christian reformers: it was either evidence of gross and papist superstitions, or a prayerful and important ritual of return for faithful women. Divisions in opinion were not along “Catholic” and “Protestant” lines, either. While rubrics for the churching of women remained through numerous editions of the Church of England’s Book of Common Prayer, a late 16^th-century Puritan tract described the rite as “neither fish nor flesh nor good red herring!”

Confusion surrounding the meaning of the ritual of churching may explain its gradual disappearance from practice. Still, women’s churching was common through the twentieth century. My maternal grandmother did not attend her children’s baptisms (c. 1943-1950); her children were baptized before the “appropriate time” had been observed before my grandmother could return to church. In the present, vestiges of the rite appear in other locations. Baptismal rites, such as that for Roman Catholics, include a blessing for the mother (and the father) in the context of baptism—reflecting the element of thanksgiving which was a component of the churching ritual.

At the end of the day, even though I didn’t witness my candle-blessing at the children’s Mass, I’m still grateful for the reflection caused by this moment in the liturgical year. Liturgy calls us to learn about the life of Christ, and to remember the witness of those first faithful children. Continually, liturgy and liturgical ritual invite us to respond to God in every moment—be it childbirth or daily Mass—with gladness and thanksgiving.