Epiphany V & Candlemas

 

Shortly after Sophia was born, against our better judgment, we got on a plane—all three of us—and went to Seattle, Washington. Lorrin was speaking at a conference, and because neither of us had ever been, we decided to make a family trip of it. And we certainly did. We rambled around that beautiful city, taking in the sights. We had our obligatory cup of coffee at the world’s first Starbucks, visited the famous Pike Place Market, and enjoyed wonderful—and surprisingly inexpensive—seafood at the waterfront restaurant Ivar’s Acres of Clams.

But the one thing that excited me most eluded us every single day we were there. Since childhood, I have been fascinated by the snow-capped peak of Mount Rainier. There is something uniquely captivating about a mountain of such conspicuous prominence rising seemingly out of nowhere, so close to a major metropolitan area. It is astounding, really. Yet the entire time we were in Seattle, that beautiful mountain remained hidden behind a veil of clouds. Each morning I woke hoping to catch a glimpse, only to be disappointed. By the end of the trip, I had resigned myself to not seeing it at all.

But on the final day, after packing our rental car, we decided to take a walk along the beach, despite the fact that it was the dead of winter. And as we drove back toward the airport from that Puget Sound shoreline, we finally saw it: the clouds lifting from Mount Rainier, revealing its snowy white peak against an azure sky. It was glorious.

The aged Simeon, who serves as an archetype for the whole people of Israel, spent his entire life waiting for the arrival of the Messiah—the chosen one who would redeem Israel from captivity and usher in a new age of peace. “The Lord,” he was promised, “will suddenly come into his Temple.” Simeon had been assured by the Holy Spirit that before his death he would see this Messiah. He was promised that he would witness the culmination of Israel’s history, the fulfillment of the world’s deepest hopes and expectations. That, of course, is a tall promise—but it is the promise he was given. And so he waited.

And then the Virgin Mary, her husband Joseph, and their young child appeared at the Temple. They came to perform the customary rituals required by Jewish law: the purification of the mother after childbirth and the presentation of the firstborn child to the Lord, which required the offering of a sacrifice. “The Lord came into his Temple,” not with pomp or fanfare, but under the same ordinary pretexts by which any faithful Jew would enter—to fulfill the commandments of the Law.

And like that long-awaited vision of Mount Rainier rising out of the mist, the Lord was revealed to Simeon. And Simeon proclaimed, as we do every time we pray Evening Prayer:

“Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word;

for my eyes have seen your salvation,

which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples,

a light for revelation to the Gentiles

and for glory to your people Israel.”

Although this revelation had been promised, it came in an unexpected form: a small child from a poor family, able to offer only the most modest sacrifice of two turtledoves. Yet it was precisely through this humble scene that the Lord came into his Temple, just as he had promised Simeon—and the prophet Malachi before him.

Through Jesus, God has broken into the world. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. The Word became flesh and now dwells among us.

And Jesus tells us that this light does not end with him alone. “You are the light of the world,” he says—a light meant to be seen, not hidden. In him, the Law is not abolished but fulfilled, and its true meaning is revealed: that God’s light, once kindled, is meant to illumine the whole world.

This is what the aged Simeon was made witness to—and what we, as Christians, are made witness to every day of our lives. Each time we see a new baptism, or remember our own, we see Jesus entering his Temple. Each time we receive Holy Communion, Christ enters the temple of our souls and bodies.

Indeed, every time we perform a work of mercy—or receive one—the Lord comes into his Temple. The Christian faith is incarnational. That is what we celebrate at Christmas, throughout Epiphany, and today on Candlemas. We believe that the transcendent and invisible God became tangible and visible in the person of Jesus of Nazareth. And we believe that we, as Christians, are called to make the love of God concrete and visible in the world. That is precisely why we serve one another and the community around us.

St. Augustine writes in the opening chapter of his Confessions that our hearts are restless until they find their rest in God, and that all our hopes find their fulfillment in Christ. The Lord has come into his Temple, and like Simeon, we must receive him into our hearts—with faith and with thanksgiving.

We need not watch and wait in anxiety. The Lord is here. Restless hearts may find their rest. And though we live in uncertain times, we can be certain of this: God loves us, and he has made that love known in Jesus Christ. In the midst of the world’s turmoil, let us lean on him. He is our Lord. The sacrifice offered by Jesus, our great high priest, upon the altar of the Cross, is sufficient for us. We need not be afraid. Receive the gift of God’s very self, as he has revealed himself to us—the fulfillment of all our hope and longing.

I close this morning with a poem by the Anglican priest and poet Malcolm Guite:

Candlemas

They came, as called, according to the Law.

Though they were poor and had to keep things simple,

They moved in grace, in quietness, in awe,

For God was coming with them to his temple.

Amidst the outer court’s commercial bustle

They’d waited hours, enduring shouts and shoves,

Buyers and sellers sensing one more hustle

Had made a killing on the two young doves.

They come at last with us to Candlemas

And keep the day the prophecies came true.

We glimpse with them, amidst our busyness,

The peace that Simeon and Anna knew.

For Candlemas still keeps his kindled light;

Against the dark, our Saviour’s face is bright