Known by a number of names, Candlemas, or the Presentation, remembers Mary and Joseph bringing Jesus to the Temple to be offered in service to the Lord as a first-born son. In Luke’s Gospel, the family is met by Simeon and Anna, who have both longed to see the Messiah:
“Sovereign Lord, as you have promised, you may now dismiss your servant in peace. For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all nations: a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and the glory of your people Israel.” Luke 2:29-32
In many churches, Candlemas is when all the candles set-aside for the coming year’s worship are blessed. At St James Cathedral, Seattle, this is taken seriously: hundreds upon hundreds of creamy beeswax candles are stacked around the baptismal font, enfolding worshippers in their delicious honey fragrance. My mouth waters with the memory.
But even in the midst of celebration, there is a prophecy of the coming sorrow. The church year begins to look toward Holy Week. In the scripture readings for the day, Mary is told by Simeon that “a sword will pierce her heart as well.”
Today I light my morning candles with a prayer, honoring Jesus, the Light which was foretold, birthed in the stable, held to Mary’s breast, blessed by Simeon and Anna, and presented to God in the Temple. Hope. Life. Love.
“The Word was first, the Word present to God, God present to the Word. The Word was God, in readiness for God from day one. Everything was created through him; nothing—not one thing!— came into being without him. What came into existence was Life, and the Life was Light to live by. The Life-Light blazed out of the darkness; the darkness couldn’t put it out.” John 1:1-5
One way to celebrate Candlemas is to light some candles for places and situations or people for whom God has called you to intercede. Where does the light of Hope and Love need to shine?
To paraphrase St Francis, “Where there is no light, place light, and there will be light.”
Candlemas Song by Simon Marshall
I was not there.
I did not dream my way
up prayer-worn Temple steps
as you did, Christ-Mother, that day.
I was not there.
I did not scan the gloom
or clutch a hand for courage
in the Temple waiting-room.
I was not there.
I did not hear the praise
which ancient ones sang of your child
at the midnight of their days.
I was not there.
I did not feel the sting
which bitter-sweet horizons
of your motherhood will bring.
But I am here.
And I would know a birth
to bring Divine Light’s love
into an aching, longing earth.
Yes, I am here.
And I would do my part.
O let a rising blade of Spring
strike fire into my heart.