Malachi 3. 1 – 5
Luke 2. 22 – 40
Fr Alex
Down with the rosemary, and so
Down with the bays and mistletoe;
Down with the holly, ivy, all
Wherewith ye dressed the Christmas hall.
That’s the poet Robert Herrick, writing in the 17th Century. It sounds like a poem for Twelfth Night, doesn’t it? But it’s actually called ‘Ceremony upon Candlemas Eve.’
Back in the day, our ancestors kept Christmas for 40 days – something that the modern Church calendar has tried to restore.
In some parts of England, they would take down their Christmas decorations on Candlemas – invariably real green things – and burn them on great bonfires, a last blaze of light to light up the darkness in honour of Christ, the Light of the world.
Herrick goes on to warn us that we should take all our Christmas greenery down:
So that the superstitious find
Not one least branch there left behind:
For look, how many leaves there be
Neglected there, maids, trust to me,
So many goblins you shall see.
So I hope you’ve taken everything down, or I’ll have no end of little goblins to exorcise from all your homes!
In the middle ages there were great processions on this day with elaborate ceremonies of blessing the tapers and all the candles of the church. This was the last day that tapers were lit at vespers and litanies, as the days grew longer. They were only brought back again much later in the year at All Hallows’ Eve, the Eve of All Saints’ Day, when the days grew shorter again.
It gave rise to the old English proverb, “On Candlemas-day throw candle and candlestick away.”
Indeed, the two days – Candlemas and the Eve of All Hallows – are called cross-quarter days; they’re the half way points between the solstice and the equinox, the darkest and brightest parts of the year.
They’re times of crossing over, times of intersection; marking the passing of one season to another.
Times like these have always been held as sacred in some way, even in pre-Christian times; Romans lit candles to banish evil spirits as the days grew longer. The pagan festival of Imbolc, which ends this evening, celebrated the buried life stirring in the womb. The death of winter giving way to the new life of spring.
Candlemas Day can even foretell the changing of the weather. Another old English proverb from this day goes like this:
If Candlemas-day be fair and bright
Winter will have another flight;
But if Candlemas-day be clouds and rain,
Winter is gone, and will not come again.
So it’s good news, judging by today’s miserable greyness!
The Americans have their own version of this, and call today Groundhog Day. If the little groundhog emerges from its winter burrow and it’s sunny, it will be frightened by the sight of its own shadow and rush back into its burrow; and winter will go on for six more weeks. That’s cute, but I think our Candlemas-day is a little more civilised…
But the point of all this, is that this is a special day; it’s a day that marks the end of one thing, and the beginning of another. It is an intersection; a gateway day.
And our Gospel reading is rich with these themes. God makes himself present at the intersection of things; Simeon and Anna, both of a great age; the infant Jesus, a newborn. Life’s dawn meets life’s evening; and life’s evening meets life’s dawn.
You heard me talk on Sunday about Simeon’s praise in the Nunc Dimittis, of the “light to lighten the gentiles,” turning abruptly to something much more dark and doubtful; “a sword will pierce your own soul, too.” Light meets darkness, and darkness meets light, as we turn from the Incarnation, to the Passion.
And so on this gateway day we bring to an end our Christmas celebrations, and look towards Lent and the Passion. Our liturgy brings this to life for us as well.
Tonight we will end by making our own last blaze of light like our ancestors did, as we each light our candles; then we will literally turn away from the crib, the Incarnation; and move to the font, which is the symbol of Christ’s tomb. In the font, at our baptism, we die to one way of life, drowned in the waters; and we rise, born again to a new way of life; baptised into Christ’s death, and into his resurrection.
And in what almost feels like a sacrilegious act, we will then extinguish the light of our candles, the light of the infant Jesus.
Yet this movement from light to darkness is just as important as the more comfortable journey from darkness to light. It is a truth of our humanity, as we each struggle to let the light in on our own darknesses; our pains, and our sufferings.
It is a truth of the humanity of Jesus, who came as the light to lighten the nations; yet passed through the darkness of death.
We know that the light of Christmas hasn’t suddenly made the world better again. The pandemic lingers on. War looms. Hunger and poverty are the norm for millions. Creation groans under the strains we lay on her.
But we do not look into the darkness without hope. Because we look towards the darkness of the Passion, as people who already live in the light of Easter. We know, truly, that the darkness cannot overcome the light; because Christ the Light has already triumphed over that darkness.
The signs of the promise of Easter will be all around us, even as we journey through Lent; the days will continue to get longer, the weather will become warmer, the flowers will bud and flourish, the birds will take up their songs and animals will nurture their newborns. And even after the pain and anguish of Good Friday, when all seems lost: Christ will rise. Amen.