Text: Luke 2.22-30
Later in our Candlemass service, we will gather in the soft glow of candlelight, a gentle flame flickering against the winter darkness. The official name of this day is ‘the Presentation of Christ in the Temple’ which took place forty days after his birth; a common practice at the time, similar to ‘christening’ today.
Candlemass is a folk name – recalling a time when parishioners would bring their year’s supply of candles to church on this day, to ask for a blessing on them. The blessing reminded everyone of the symbol of Christ’s light in dark homes. Perhaps it was also in the hope of staving off accidents leading to fires in thatched homes from the same candles!
Candlemass, or the Presentation, is a feast of light, a beacon of hope shining amidst the long winter nights. And within this narrative, we encounter Simeon, an old man, righteous and devout, waiting patiently for the consolation of Israel. He sees the infant Jesus, held in the arms of Mary and Joseph, and his spirit leaps within him. “Lord,” he proclaims, “now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word; for mine eyes have seen thy salvation which thou hast prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light to the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel.” A light to the Gentiles. What profound words! What could Simeon, gazing upon this tiny babe, have possibly meant?
Think for a moment of the world into which Jesus was born. A world fractured by division, oppressed by Roman rule, steeped in religious and political turmoil (rather like our world today). The Jewish people, God’s chosen, yearned for a Messiah, a deliverer who would restore the fortunes of Israel and establish their vision of God’s kingdom on earth. But Simeon’s words transcend these narrow, nationalistic expectations. This child, he declares, is not just for Israel, but a light to the Gentiles, to all nations! A light to those considered outside the covenant, those who dwelt in darkness and the shadow of death. This is a radical, inclusive vision, a promise of salvation that extends beyond all boundaries, embracing all of humanity in its radiant glow. It speaks of a love that is boundless, a grace that is freely offered to all who will receive it.
And this light, this transformative message, has echoed down the centuries, carried by those who have dedicated their lives to sharing the Gospel. We have, in recent times, witnessed individuals, leaders within our church, striving to bring this light to the nations. They have sought to interpret the scriptures, to guide the faithful, to offer solace and hope in a world often devoid of both. No-one, in recent times, has done this more heroically than Bishop Marian Budde of the Washington Cathedral, into the very ears of President Trump.
Yet, not least in the Diocese of Liverpool this week, we have also seen how easily the flame can flicker, how human failings can cast a shadow over the purest intentions. Recent events have reminded us that even those in positions of authority, those entrusted with the sacred duty of shepherding Christ’s flock, are not immune to error, to temptation, to the darkness that can creep into the human heart. These failings, these betrayals of trust, wound the Church deeply and shake the faith of many. They serve as a stark reminder that the light of Christ shines not through the perfection of individuals; but through the grace that sustains us all, despite our imperfections.
Let us turn our gaze now to another figure in the Temple, Anna, a prophetess, a woman of great age and wisdom. She had spent her life in prayer and fasting, waiting for the redemption of Jerusalem. And when she sees Jesus, she too recognizes him, not just as a baby, but as the Messiah, the one who will bring salvation. And what does she do? She, an elderly woman, goes out and tells everyone! Imagine the scene: this frail, aged woman, her voice perhaps trembling, yet filled with unwavering conviction, sharing the joyous news with all who will listen. Her age does not diminish her zeal, her physical limitations do not hinder her witness. She becomes a beacon of hope, a messenger of joy, proclaiming the arrival of the long-awaited Savior.
And what of us, brothers and sisters? We who have also seen the light, who have encountered Christ in our own lives, what is our response? Are we content to keep this light to ourselves, to bask in its warmth without sharing it with others? Or are we inspired by Anna’s example, compelled to go out and tell the world what we have seen and heard? To be a light to the nations is not the preserve of bishops or ministers. It is the calling of every Christian, every follower of Christ. It is not about grand pronouncements or theological debates, but about the simple, everyday acts of love and compassion that reflect the light of Christ.
What does it mean, practically, to carry this light into the world? It might mean offering a listening ear to someone who is struggling, extending a hand of friendship to someone who is lonely, speaking a word of comfort to someone who is grieving. It might mean standing up for justice and speaking out against injustice, even when it is difficult or unpopular. It might mean volunteering our time and talents to serve those in need, both within our church and in the wider community. (In this week’s Fortnightly News, there are a few requests for volunteers – do give them your attention.) It might mean simply living our lives with integrity and kindness, reflecting the love of Christ in all that we do.
The world is still shrouded in darkness, longing for the light of hope, just as it was in the time of Jesus. Let us, like Simeon and Anna, recognize the presence of Christ in our midst. Let us, like them, be witnesses to his love, sharing his light with all the world. Let the candles we will light this day, be a symbol of our commitment to carry the flame of Christ’s love into the darkest corners of our world, until the day when his light shines in all its fullness, and every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. Amen.
