The light of Candlemas 

At Epiphany we were reflected on light. About revelation. About Christ made known to the nations. About a star that draws people in from the edges, from far away, from places we don’t expect.

Today, at Candlemas, the Church is still talking about light. And that might sound repetitive. Especially coming from someone who is only thirty-two and already appears to be very invested in elderly prophets.

I promise this is not a sign of premature middle age. But the reason the Church gives us Simeon and Anna today is not because they are old. It is because they have learned how to wait.

Which is awkward, because Advent asked us to wait as well. At this point, it can feel as though the Church’s primary spiritual discipline is standing still and being patient about it.

Epiphany asks us to rejoice that the light has appeared.

Candlemas asks us what happens when that light stays.

Because light does different things depending on how close you stand to it.

From a distance, light is beautiful. It guides. It comforts. It promises direction. Up close, light reveals. It exposes. It shows us things we might rather not see.

Candlemas is where the joy of Christmas and Epiphany meets the cost of discipleship for the first time. This is the moment where the story quietly turns, before we even realise it has done so.

Mary and Joseph bring Jesus to the Temple, as the law requires.

They do nothing extraordinary. There are no angels. No stars. No crowds. Just ordinary faithfulness. A young couple, a baby, a routine act of obedience.

And the Temple, for all its holiness, doesn’t notice.

The sacrifices are made. The prayers are said. The system works exactly as it is meant to. And yet God is present in the flesh, and the institution carries on as normal.

It is not the Temple that recognises Christ. It is two people who have learned how to wait.

Simeon and Anna do not have authority. They do not have power. They are not in charge of anything. What they have is time. Long years of prayer. Long years of hope. Long years of faithfulness that has never quite paid off in the way they might have expected.

Simeon is often described as old, and that matters — but not because age itself is virtuous. It matters because waiting changes you. Waiting teaches you how to notice. How not to rush past God when he arrives quietly.

And because of that, they see what others miss.

Simeon takes the child in his arms. This is a strange detail if you stop and think about it. The one who will one day carry the weight of the world is, for now, carried. The one who will speak words of life does not speak at all. He is silent. Passive. Dependent.

Before Jesus saves anyone, he allows himself to be held.

There is something deeply unsettling about that, if we are honest. We like a God who acts. A God who intervenes. A God who fixes. Candlemas gives us a God who submits. A God who enters the world through vulnerability and dependence, and who allows other people to speak over him.

And Simeon does speak. He praises God. He recognises what he has been waiting for all his life. And then, almost immediately, the tone shifts.

Now let your servant depart in peace.

This is not a triumphant ending. Simeon does not say, “Now I can see what comes next.” He does not say, “Now I can enjoy the future.” He says, in effect, “Now I can let go.”

Simeon’s faith is not about holding on. It is about release.

He has waited his whole life for this moment, and when it arrives, he does not cling to it. He does not demand more. He trusts God enough to step aside.

There is a kind of holiness in knowing when your task is complete. In knowing when to loosen your grip. In trusting that God’s work does not depend on your continued presence.

That is a hard word in a culture that tells us our value lies in productivity, relevance, and control. Simeon shows us a different way. Faithfulness does not always mean doing more.

Sometimes it means letting go well.
And then he says the words that stop this being a cosy story. This child is destined for the falling and rising of many in Israel,and to be a sign that will be opposed.

Light, Simeon tells us, does not just illuminate. It divides.

We often speak about light as if it is always gentle, always comforting. But light is not neutral. Light reveals where things are crooked. Light exposes what has been hidden. Light makes it impossible to pretend that everything is fine.

But this matters: the light does not expose in order to shame. It exposes in order to heal.

We live in a world where exposure is often cruel. Where being seen means being judged, dismissed, or punished. The light of Christ is different. It reveals truth not to humiliate us, but to free us from the exhausting work of concealment.

Christ is not interested in perfect appearances. He is interested in honest hearts.

And that is why Simeon can speak of falling and rising in the same breath. Falling is not failure here. Falling is what happens when false supports give way. Rising is what becomes possible once we stop pretending we are standing on our own.

Christ is not presented in the Temple as a symbol of vague hope or general goodness. He is presented as a disruption. As someone who will force decisions. As someone who will bring about both falling and rising.

And then Simeon turns to Mary. And a sword will pierce your own soul too.

This is the first time in Luke’s Gospel that anyone speaks plainly about the cost of loving Jesus.

Before this, Mary has sung of joy. Angels have spoken of peace.

Shepherds have rejoiced. Wise men have worshipped. All of that is true. None of it is taken away. But Candlemas insists that love and loss will walk together.

Mary is not warned because she has done something wrong.

She is warned because love makes us vulnerable. Because to love deeply is to accept the possibility of pain. Because to say yes to God is not to be protected from suffering, but to be held within it.

This is not a threat. It is honesty.

At Epiphany, the light draws people in. At Candlemas, the light shines on us.

The question shifts from who Christ is to what this Christ will ask of us.

Light reveals not only God, but ourselves.

It shows us where our loyalties lie. It shows us what we are attached to. It shows us the places where we benefit from darkness, from ambiguity, from not looking too closely.

And this can be uncomfortable. Because sometimes what the light reveals is not dramatic sin, but quiet compromise. Not great wickedness, but small evasions. The habits we have formed to avoid being changed.

Christ is light for the nations, yes. But he is also light that exposes the thoughts of many hearts.

Anna stands nearby. Luke tells us almost nothing about her words, which is striking. She is old. She has known loss. She has lived decades in prayer and fasting, worshipping day and night. And then she recognises the child.

But unlike Simeon, she does not depart. There is no neat conclusion to her story. She speaks to others, and then she keeps going. Faithfulness continues, unresolved.

Not every faithful life ends with clarity or closure. Not every prayer is answered in a way we can point to. Anna shows us that a life of devotion does not require a dramatic ending to be meaningful.

Some people are called to wait. Some are called to witness quietly. Some are called simply to remain faithful without resolution. And the Church needs that kind of faith as much as it needs visionaries and leaders. The kind of faith that does not need to be finished to be faithful.

The Temple, meanwhile, carries on. God does not oppose institutions because they are institutions.

But institutions are not, by themselves, perceptive. They can be holy and still miss what God is doing if they rely on process rather than attentiveness.

Candlemas reminds us that God often entrusts revelation not to the powerful, but to the faithful. Not to those who are busiest managing religion, but to those who have learned how to wait in hope.

Christ is presented today not as a sentimental figure, but as one who will reorder lives, expose hearts, and call us into a deeper, braver faith. A faith that can rejoice when light appears. And a faith that can remain when that light reveals more than we expected.

May we have the courage to step into that light. May we have the patience to wait when others rush past. And may we trust that even when the light reveals difficult truths, it does so not to condemn us, but to heal us.