Ruth Greenaway-Robbins

Candlemas holds a very precious place in my heart. It is one of my favourite feasts of the Church year. I love it because it is real. I love it because it is full of joy and hope, and because it refuses to turn away from the pain woven through the story of our salvation. I love it because Candlemas holds together what so often feels impossible to hold: old and new, promise and cost, delight and sorrow. It celebrates the meeting of generations, in people, in theology, and in the life of God with us.

Candlemas is precious to me beyond imagining.

We also have our own Simeon (and, for that matter, an Anna too – though in her case her full name is Anastasia, and her feast waits until Easter). Both our children have a foothold in this feast. The funny thing is that our Simeon was never meant to be a Simeon at all. He was meant to be a Theodore. And yet, when he arrived and was placed in our arms, something settled. Like Jesus being held by the aged Simeon in the temple, we simply knew: this child had revealed his own name. He was Simeon.

So many of us have stories of people – often older than us, often seasoned by long years of faith – who see in us something we cannot yet see for ourselves. They glimpse who we are in the sight of God, and sometimes even dare to name it aloud. For many of us, our sense of vocation is complex and still unfolding. God so often prompts and guides us through the faithful attentiveness of others.

Here in my community, as I begin to know people and hear their stories, I am struck again and again by how many came to faith through aunties, parents, and but often through grandparents. Often it was grandparents who raised them while parents came ahead to the UK in the Windrush years, later reuniting families. These elders walked the path of life with steady faith: praying, bringing children to church week after week, showing through their own lives what it means to be shaped and transformed by Jesus Christ. This is Candlemas faith: faith handed on, faith embodied, faith lived.

In the temple, when Simeon and Anna greet the holy family, they do more than rejoice. They recognise and proclaim who Jesus is, for all people. They speak his vocation into being. And they do not soften the truth. Simeon names the pain that will come, especially for Mary. Joy and sorrow sit side by side. In that moment Mary and Joseph see faith in action: wisdom, courage, honesty, and hope held together without denial.

Candlemas marks the end of the Incarnation cycle – the close of Christmas and Epiphany. The child who was adored, revealed, and rejoiced over is now recognised as one who will change everything. Candlemas points us towards the cross, even as it assures us of salvation. They knew him. They truly saw him. In their arms was God’s love made flesh.

And perhaps this is why Candlemas has always resonated so deeply with other seasonal rhythms too. Around this time comes Imbolc, the ancient festival that marks the first stirrings of spring. The land is still cold, the nights still long, and yet something has shifted. Lambs are born. Snowdrops push through frozen soil. The light is returning, almost imperceptibly, but undeniably. Candlemas sits beautifully here: not yet the fullness of resurrection, but enough light to trust that life is on the way.

This week our not-so-baby, now adult Simeon is coming to visit. It is the week we remember and celebrate his baptismal anniversary and his name day (a small practical recommendation: if you put your child’s name day and baptism day together, you spend less on cake!!!). We will give thanks for who Christ has called Simeon to be, and for who he is still becoming.

But Candlemas invites something broader of all of us. It is a time to give thanks for the older, wiser people who have shaped our stories – some now firmly held in the mercy of God, others remembered through Scripture, theologians of old, mystics, prophets, and saints. The wise sages of our lives deserve our gratitude.

And Candlemas also gently asks us to consider: where are we becoming those wise ones ourselves? The Simeons and Annas. The Elizabeths and Sarahs. What and who in our lives do we need to attend to more carefully? How do we pray for others? How do we learn to see, name, and nurture the gifts in those in our lives?

The light is returning. The days are lengthening. We have not yet l even quite arrived at the start of Lent (although we will all too soon) but the gentle light of incarnation is enough to illumine the path. Candlemas reminds us that this small, faithful light is sufficient as we begin, once again, to walk the way that leads through the cross and into resurrection.

And let us attend to those words of Simeon is our lives in the words of the Nunc Dimittis-

Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace : according to thy word.

For mine eyes have seen : thy salvation;

Which thou hast prepared : before the face of all people;

To be a light to lighten the Gentiles : and to be the glory of thy people Israel

Luke 2.29-32

On the Feast of the Baptism of Christ, the Church invites us to linger at the riverbank.

This moment – quiet, ordinary, almost easily overlooked – stands at the heart of who Jesus is, and therefore at the heart of who we are called to be.

Jesus comes to the Jordan and steps into the water. Not because he needs repentance. Not because he has anything to prove. He comes because he chooses to stand with humanity—in the muddy, ordinary waters of real life. He joins the crowd. He waits his turn. He receives what others are receiving.

And that choice matters.

Jesus drawing close in Baptism

Jesus’ baptism is another sign of Jesus drawing close to us in his humanity.

Because this is who God is.

Jesus is baptised not to distance himself from us, but to draw near. Not to mark himself out as different, but to place himself firmly among us. He enters the water to sanctify it, to show that there is no part of human life God refuses to inhabit.

This is a God who does not save from a safe distance, but from the inside.

And as Jesus comes up from the water, something extraordinary happens. The heavens are opened. The Spirit descends. And a voice speaks:

“This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

Before Jesus has healed anyone.
Before he has preached a sermon.
Before he has gone to the cross.

God’s delight comes before Jesus’ doing.

That ordering is everything.

Beloved, before we do anything at all

This is why the Baptism of Christ is not just about Jesus. It is about us.

Baptism is not a badge of achievement. It is not a reward for goodness or certainty or perfect belief. It is not something we earn.

Baptism is first and foremost God’s act of love.

In baptism, we are named and claimed. We belong before we understand. We are held before we can articulate what we believe. We are loved before we do anything useful or impressive or faithful.

I was baptised as a baby, in March 1980, at St Mary le Wigford in Lincoln. I don’t remember the day – apparently I protested loudly at the cold water – but I do remember the baptisms of my own children. And I am deeply grateful that those who loved me chose baptism for me before I could choose it for myself.

In our family, we mark our baptism days each year. We have cake. We give thanks. It’s simple – and deeply meaningful.

Our children were baptised on their name days. Simeon at Candlemas. Anastasia (whose name means resurrection) at Easter. These double celebrations matter to us, because baptism is something to celebrate. It marks a life as precious. Claimed. Held within God’s promise. Well, and of course, the cake helps!!!

However, and whenever baptism happens – whether as a child or as an adult, whether clearly remembered or quietly received – it is a holy moment in a human life.

So holy.
So vital.
That Jesus himself chose it.

We are beloved … even if we cannot comprehend it

There is another reason this feast matters so deeply to me.

The Baptism of Christ marks an anniversary in my own life from a time when I had fallen a long way from believing myself beloved. Thirteen years ago, I could not have imagined where and how I am today – truly knowing and trusting that I am loved by God. If the woman I was then could see me now, believing this not just in theory but in my bones, she would be amazed. Quite frankly, she would be amazed at a great many things.

I share this because allowing ourselves to be truly beloved of God can be surprisingly hard. Life has a way of chipping away at that truth. Experiences of loss, failure, disappointment, or hurt can quietly convince us that we are not enough – that God’s love must surely be conditional, fragile, or withdrawn.

And so, we drift towards self-doubt.
Towards self-criticism.
Towards the belief that everyone else is more faithful, more worthy, more lovable than we are.

But the voice at the Jordan speaks directly into that fear.

God’s deepest desire for us is not that we prove ourselves, but that we know ourselves – first and always – as loved. Beloved. Held. Chosen. Not because we have earned it, but because that is who God is.

To live as a baptised person is, again and again, to return to that truth. To let God name us when we have forgotten how to name ourselves. To believe that belovedness is not something we grow out of, fall away from, or lose – but something we are continually invited to receive.

“You are my beloved”

The voice from heaven does not only belong to Jesus’ story. It echoes into ours.

What God says to Jesus, God longs for us to hear too:

You are my beloved child.
With you, I am well pleased.

Not because you are perfect.
Not because you never doubt.
Not because you always get it right.

But because you are God’s.

This week, I invite you to let that truth settle somewhere deep. Perhaps even to pray it slowly:

I am (your name),
a beloved child of God,
in whom God is well pleased.

Let that be the place from which we pray.
The place from which we love.
The place from which we live.

Because the Christian life does not begin with doing more.
It begins with receiving love.

And everything else flows from there.

“As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.” Matthew 3: 16-17

The image that accompanies this post, is from a prayer walk I took on the feast of the Baptism of Christ in 2020. I was praying the words “you are my beloved child” and at that moment the sun broke through the clouds. What a beautiful sign it was.

It is no accident that Christians gather at night to begin our celebration of Christmas.

For Christmas does not begin in the full light of day, but in the quiet hours when most of the world is asleep. In scripture, night is never simply the absence of light. Night is where things happen. Night is where God so often chooses to draw close.

The prophet Isaiah said:

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light”

Not people who briefly passed through the shadows.
But people who walked there.
Who knew it.
Who lived in it.

Night can be beautiful. It can also be lonely. It can feel strange, unsettling, or heavy. Those who work the night shift often speak of this, how the night has its own texture, its own intensity. Things surface at night that daytime can keep hidden.

One of the places I have known this most deeply is in the nights of early parenthood. Anyone who has lived closely with a newborn knows this kind of night. The house is quiet. Time stretches. Sleep feels optional. The work is simple and exhausting: feeding, soothing, holding.

And yet, some of the most extraordinary moments happen then.

I remember sitting in the soft glow of a lamp, holding one of our children, and feeling them lock eyes with us. Not demanding anything. Not smiling particularly. Just looking. Awake. Attentive. Calm in a way that only seemed to come at night.

In those moments, something profound was happening. A quiet meeting. A recognition. As though, in the stillness, their personhood was beginning to emerge, and we were being invited simply to behold it.

There is a word sometimes used for this kind of moment: reverie. It names a deep, gentle attentiveness being fully present to another, without judgement or demand. Simply holding them in love.

I wonder if something like this helps us glimpse our relationship with God.

Because at Christmas, God does not come first as teacher or judge or ruler. God comes as a child. God comes to be looked at. To be held. To be fed through the night. Mary and Joseph behold not only the vulnerability of a baby, but the vulnerability of God.

And in Jesus Christ, Emmanuel, God with us, we discover this:
We are always already beheld.

Known.
Cherished.
Held in love, dignity, and divine joy – simply because we are.

For love came down at Christmas.

The Christmas story is full of night people. Like shepherds, keeping watch over their flocks by night – not romantic figures, but working people. Outdoors. Cold. Tired. Faithful in the unglamorous hours.

And it is to them – not to the powerful, not to those asleep behind closed doors – that the angels appear.

And this season we might think, too, of all those who are awake while others sleep: nurses moving quietly along hospital corridors, midwives receiving new life, care workers, drivers, and emergency crews. Christmas happens among them, too. God chooses the night shift.

And God chooses to arrive as a baby.

Not as a blazing light that overwhelms the darkness, but as something fragile. Something that cries. Something that depends on the steady presence of others to survive the night.

Isaiah speaks of a child born for us – ‘Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Prince of Peace’. And then Saint Luke tells us where that promise lands: not in a palace, but in a feeding trough. Not in certainty, but in vulnerability. Not in daylight, but in darkness.

The light that comes does not erase the night.
It enters it.

This matters, because for many people, night is not particularly beautiful – instead it is heavy. For night can amplify grief. At night loneliness speaks louder. Anxiety finds more room in the night hours. Pain is harder to distract from as darkness falls.

There are people here tonight, or people who we know, for whom Christmas is not cosy, but instead it is complicated.

And into that – not around it, not instead of it – God is born.

The shepherds are afraid. Of course they are. Night, angels, sudden glory – fear is a perfectly human response. But the first words they hear are not explanation or instruction, but reassurance:

“Do not be afraid”

Fear does not disqualify them from receiving the good news. Fear is simply where the good news meets them.

And the sign they are given is not power, but tenderness: a baby, wrapped in cloths, lying in a manger. A sign that God has chosen to stay. To be held. To be present through the night.

Tonight, we are not invited to solve the mystery, but to sit with it. To let the quiet do its work. To allow the darkness to be what it is – while trusting that light has entered it, and will not leave it unchanged.

Because the miracle of Christmas is not that night disappears.
It is that God stays.

God stays with the sleepless parent.
With the anxious heart.
With the lonely, the watchful, the weary.

God comes for hope to be born – small, fragile, and real.

And like the shepherds, we are invited to go and see.
To draw near.
To treasure these things and ponder them in our hearts.

So tonight, before anything else is asked of us, this is what we are given: God comes near. God comes not to stand over us, but to draw close – to behold us, and to allow himself to be beheld. In the child laid in the manger, God looks upon us with love that is attentive, patient, and unafraid of our fragility. We do not need to explain ourselves, or prove ourselves, or have everything sorted out. We are known already. Seen already. Held already – in love, dignity, and divine joy.

For in the sight of God we are welcomed by one who knows vulnerability from the inside. A child who must be held to survive the night. A God who chooses dependence, closeness, and trust. We can come as we are – weary, hopeful, uncertain, grateful, afraid – and we will find ourselves met by a love gentle enough to hold us, and brave enough to stay. For we are cherished. We are not alone. And God is nearer than we dare to imagine.

Amen

The image in this post is of one of the wall paintings in the church where I am a priest, St. Andrews N16. They are deeply unique, and the photo does not do them justice.

Wishing you a blessed and peaceful Christmas, where I pray you feel known and loved by God.