Our Advent discipline was to turn off anything electrical or
electronic that gave light (no computers or cell phones especially) at 8 in the evening
and spend the remaining hour before bed by the light of candles and oil
lamps. Four weeks, give or take, living
as our ancestors did has given me a new appreciation of candles—so you can
imagine my delight at hearing the Basilica parish will have a Candlemas
procession this year.
I first encountered Candlemas as a celebration while
visiting Holy Family parish in Glendale (I make my Southern California business
trips in winter, thank you very much; summer is too hot). I was at the early morning mass when the
lector brought out a huge box and placed it to the side of the altar. I looked around and noticed that many of the
people in the parish had lugged candles with them, large and small. I suppose I was vaguely aware of the term
Candlemas, but not of its reality, not having experienced it even in my high
Anglican past.
At the end of mass, the box—now revealed to be full of
candles—was brought forward, the contents (and the candles in the pews)
blessed, and the priest handed the long, thin tapers to the faithful in
attendance. As I was leaving, a little
Filipino woman smiled and told me, “Candlemas candles are special. You save
that for some time you are praying for something really hard. It helps.”
I burned that candle more than a year later. By that time it had warped from the heat and
cracked in a couple of places, but still stood upright in a jar of sand. I lit it when I prayed for a friend in
anguish over her daughter and let it burn like the candles in church until it
consumed itself in its own fire.
That’s the image of candles: using its very self for fuel,
it burns until it is consumed. It’s a
metaphor for the Christian life and one reason I so dislike the oil candles we
now use in our churches. They may
provide the requisite flame and the oil is consumed, but the image is lost—the
candle never changes. If fire is a both
metaphor and reality for the Christian life, an unchanging candle is an incomplete image…the burning bush of God's presence notwithstanding. We are meant to spend and consume ourselves, in the words of a favorite prayer of mine, as fellow laborers with Christ and we do it with the fire of faith and love.
Living with candles made me realize how deep and rich that
image is. Our candles were of various
shapes and sizes, scattered strategically around the rooms. Because of size and composition, they burned
at different rates and we were always having to attend to the business of
trimming wicks and replacing them as they burned down. Perhaps light that does not require our attention and concern is not light at all but illusion.
One candle in particular was my favorite, a taper lodged in a
barley-twist candlestick on the mantelpiece.
When it was first lit, it illuminated the entire room because it was so
tall. But as it burned, its light
shifted and it was interesting to watch the illumination and shadows change as it
burned down. The flame never changed,
but by the end, the light was focused in the area right around the candle because it had grown so small. So it is with our fervor, I think, changing
over time, illuminating first this, then that, ultimately focused on those
closest to us who watch it until the flame dies out.
With so many candles it, it was quite light, but the light
was different, softer, warmer, more conducive to cuddling on the couch than
being active and so we did. Winter is a
time for settling in and for reflection.
Night used to signal the end of the day’s activities; we moderns have
turned our lives into an endless, artificial day, full of light that lacks
warmth and imposes demands, keeping us from stopping to recollect ourselves and
find peace.
This morning, iced in by an unexpected snow, I lingered in
our little oratory before heading to the upstairs study to start work on a book
project whose deadline looms. Hoping
against hope that we could get out, my groom and I had arisen at our customary 5
AM, only to find the roads impassible, so it was still dark as I walked down
the hall. Instead of turning on the
lights, I brought with me a tiny sandalwood votive, to carry my prayers for inspiration
as I write.
I was surprised at how much light it gave off when held at the
level of my outstretched hand. There was
more than enough light to make my way to my destination with enough left over
to have some sense of that was around me.
Candlemas, candles, the Christian life. More than enough to show the way with enough
left over to illumine the rest of the world, show our light to others and others to us, even with a small candle, even in the pitch-dark. Especially in the pitch-dark.
By the way, that Canldemas candle and those prayers? Answered in a way I could never have expected
in the usual convolutions of God working in a broken world. But then, aren’t prayers always answered that
way? Perhaps the candle just provided the light for me to see it all, however
dimly, warm and in peace.
Happy Candlemas.
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