Take this light: A reflection for Candlemas

On Sunday in the parish we celebrated The Presentation of Christ in the Temple: also known as Candlemas. We heard again the account of Jesus being brought to the temple by his young parents, to be met by Simeon and aged Anna: expectant, hopeful and looking for this baby who would be a light for all people.

As is traditional at this time of year, we brought candles and lights from home to be blessed and taken away again: a sign of the light of Christ that each of us carries out into the world. As we lit our candles and switched off the lights around the crib, I spoke about the significance of what we were doing. What follows is an adapted and developed version of what I said in that moment.


As December nights grew colder, darker
So we huddled around this place

Waiting.

Waiting for the light to glow:
Faint, at first –
Then a crescendo to full brilliance
As the promise of a saviour came to pass.

We knelt here in worship with the shepherds
And sang his praises with the Christmas angels.
We basked in Joseph’s quiet wonder
And we heard Mary’s joyous yes.

We brought gifts to mark the arrival:
Crafted woollen sheep
Whispered prayers
Tears of loss
Of joy.

We made room here for the lost and the forgotten
Shepherd rubbed shoulder with father as we placed our own people around the manger.
Always room for more.

We watched in anticipation
Long after the world ditched Christmas
Sharing a star with far away travellers
And claiming their homage to this child as our own:
A light for all people.

And now we gather here
One last time.
And we switch off the manger’s light.

Not because he is gone.
Not because it is over.
Not because we are done.

But because he is here.
Because it has begun.
Because we are called.

The light that began in this crib
Is the light we now hold in our hands
As we take its blessings back
To home and to heart.

But it doesn’t stay there.

Take it: take it in your words, your actions, your care
And shine it into the bleakest corners of this world.
Take it and illuminate your heart as you light up your home
So that you become bearers of the manger’s light
In the coldest, shadowy places of life.

Take it, and know that you are blessed
And will bless
And will grow
And will go
Onwards, down darkest paths
As people who carry this light.

God has delivered us from the dominion of darkness and has given us a place with the saints in light.
You have received the light of Christ; walk in this light all the days of your life.
Shine as a light in the world to the glory of God the Father.

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“I just want to be blessed”

My abiding memory of Christmas will be the person who said these words to me.

It was nearing midnight at the end of Christmas Eve. I was celebrating Holy Communion with a small but sincere congregation. We had just started on the Eucharistic prayer, when through the doors at the back of church, directly ahead of where I was facing, a young woman entered church with her two dogs. She wandered to the front of church, sat down in the children’s corner, and was quickly welcomed and shown where we were in the liturgy. The dogs busied themselves in giving the church a thorough ‘sniff-test’.

After the Eucharistic Prayer, I explained to the congregation that everyone was welcome around the table:

We welcome all baptised members of the Christian faith, regardless of your denomination, to come and receive the bread and the wine. If you would rather receive a prayer of blessing this evening, please come forward holding your service booklet.

Over the sound system, I played John Rutter’s Angels Carol (if you don’t know it, and even if you do, you must listen to the clip at the end of this post).

Have you heard the news…
that they bring from heaven…
to the humble shepherds…
who have waited long?
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Hear the angels sing their joyful song.

I turned to offer the bread and wine to the chalice assistants behind me, and when I turned back, she was there. Standing expectantly, hopefully, right in front of me on the other side of the altar.  She was dressed in pyjamas and slippers. She stood alone, with the congregation still sat behind her.

“What would you like?” I asked. “The bread and wine, or a prayer?”

“I just want a blessing.” She replied. “I just want to be blessed.”

I put down the bread and walked around the altar to join her. There, I stood with her, my arms on her shoulders. I asked her name, the names of her dogs, and I held her, and prayed with her for herself and for them. Then she skipped back to her seat, and chatted loudly through the rest of the service. She left at the end with a flourish of joy: “MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!” she shouted, as she held the entrance doors wide open, the dogs scampering around her feet.

I just want to be blessed.

It has stayed with me. Echoed through the days of the Christmas season. A bold, audacious, extravagant request, spoken through the vulnerability of the intoxicated girl in pyjamas. Not demanding, but confident. Not self-centred, but expectant that she would receive that which she asked for.

I just want to be blessed.

What might blessing look like, for us? For this person, it was about running to God’s table, hearing the story of divine love, receiving solid touch and whispered blessing. It was about standing before God, stripped to the simplicity of her pyjamas and slippers, and hearing her name spoken in prayer. It was about leaving in exuberance, filled with joy.

Her expectant hope and vulnerable approach seems to be the stuff of Epiphany. In Epiphany we celebrate the revelation of God’s love to all people. The magi were not Jews. They came from foreign lands, and their entrance onto the Nativity scene is a reminder of a divine love that is offered not just to an elite, select group, but to every person, regardless of their nationality, gender, sexuality or social status.

The prophet Jeremiah talks about God’s people being “gathered from the farthest parts of the earth” (Jer 31:8). Expectant hope, vulnerable approach, courageous humility: these are attitudes for the furthest corners of life. This is the stuff of Epiphany.

At my lowest, at my most distant, at my most vulnerable I hope I will remember the confident approach of my parishioner on Christmas Eve. And I hope she remembers something of it too. Perhaps her memory is hazy. Perhaps she now feels ashamed, or embarrassed. She needn’t. She modelled to all of us who were there that night what it means to run joyfully into God’s arms, stripped of everything that might otherwise keep us away. That night; however momentarily, however impulsively; she was blessed, and she came home.