Thursday, February 1, 2024
Candlemas
The Rev. Aaron B. Jenkyn
Candlemas in the snow.
The full text of the homily preached at Thursday’s Healing Eucharist:
In the Episcopal liturgical calendar there are three celebrations of light during this darkest time of year. The Nativity, Epiphany and Candlemas, which we celebrate today (note that Candlemas is actually on February 2, but for liturgical purposes we are celebrating at our Thursday Eucharist). When you add in Advent, this season stretches from the end of November to the beginning of February, which coincides with the ten darkest weeks of the year here in the northern hemisphere. Which means, as we celebrate Candlemas today, we have made it through those darkest days - thanks be to God!
As we think back, we recall the ways that the darkness sets in during those early days of winter and the ways the season of Advent calls us into stillness, as we watch and we wait with patient hope for salvation to come. Then as the winter solstice and the longest night passes we celebrate the glorious Feast of the Nativity, the birth of Emmanuel, God with us. As we move into Epiphanytide the celebration continues with the revelation that Jesus is the son of God, the salvation we have been waiting for, and we look for new revelations, signs of God, with us in the here and now. The stars glimmer overhead and the moon glows in the cold night air as we watch in wonder. And as this season comes to end, with the Presentation of Jesus at the temple, we bless and light candles, to carry us forward into a new season, to remember that Jesus is the light of the world.
You see, Candlemas is also a turning point in the church year. Even as we celebrate the light of Christ in the world, we start to look ahead to the darkness of Lent, Good Friday and the cross. Even as Simeon held the infant Jesus in his arms, he foresaw that his way would be difficult and painful. But the candles we light remind us that darkness does not triumph – the light cannot be put out.
More than a decade ago, I became a mom during the season of Advent. The stillness and rest of the season, and then the celebration of the Nativity and light that followed carried me through those early days of parenthood, surrounded by family and friends, and immeasurable amounts of love. But as I think most new parents can relate too, there was a moment in which I realized that this child of mine, this being that I grew and carried and loved more than anything, would one day have to go out into the real world, which suddenly looked very different to me as a new mom, than it had just a season before.
I can only imagine what Mary and Joseph were holding in their hearts when they heard Simeon’s song, knowing what was ahead for Jesus.
"This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed-- and a sword will pierce your own soul too.”
This life that Mary and Joseph were called to would be filled with both joy and sorrow, hope and pain. This life we are called too, is filled with both joy and sorrow, hope and pain. And when we give birth, when we become parents, when we love someone, the hope and pain, joy and sorrow is magnified exponentially.
It was during those first months of parenthood, after the Christmas decorations came down, and our visitors had left, and my maternity leave was coming to an end, that the world began to feel so dark and I didn’t want to let my newborn go into it. And in that strange way that God works, I happened upon the story of Anna and Simeon, Mary and Joseph, and in the turning of the pages, and the turning of the season, I began to realize that I was not alone. That Mary and Joseph walked this path before me, and because of that, my son would never be alone. And so on a cold winter night in February, I slipped out into the dark and lit a candle on my snow covered porch as a reminder of the great light of God’s love for us, made incarnate in Christ.
With every Advent, with every birthday, with every Candlemas, I remember that feeling I had as a new mom and I find myself ever more grateful for this tradition that calls us to bless and light candles to carry forward into a new season, remembering that Christ is the light of the world.
I still light candles outdoors each February, and as my kids have gotten older, our celebration and creations have become ever more elaborate. We light candles in the darkness, and bless the ones we will use at the table each night, we read the story of Simeon and Anna, and we offer thanks for the traditions of our church, for the work of the bees, and farmers and those that care for the land and for those who have made the candles. And we pray that the light of the world would break through the darkness and reveal to us the continuation of God’s promise. Let that be our prayer today as well. Amen.