Lumen
Ad revelationem gentium.
Look kindly, Jesus, where we come,
New Simeons, to kindle,
Each at Your infant sacrifice his own life’s candle.
And when Your flame turns into many tongues,
See how the One is multiplied, among us, hundreds!
And goes among the humble, and consoles our sinful kindred.
It is for this we come,
And, kneeling, each receive one flame:
Ad revelationem gentium.
Our lives, like candles, spell this simple symbol:
Weep like our bodily life, sweet work of bees,
Sweeten the world, with your slow sacrifice.
That by our glad expense, our Father’s will
Burned and consumed us for a parable.
Nor burn we now with brown and smoky flames, but bright
Until our sacrifice is done,
(By which not we, but You are known)
And then, returning to our Father, one by one,
Give back our lives like wise and waxen lights.
I can’t think of a lovelier way of describing sacrifice made in faith and obedience than “our glad expense.” Sacrifice costs something—sometimes a great deal—but when it is willing, we are not inclined to count. When we act in faith, we offer what we have, gladly, to those we love, to God, to those in need whose claims on us are clear and pressing and ever-present. We offer it, with God’s help, “in gladness and singleness of heart.” Candles, as Merton beautifully shows us here, are fit symbols of living sacrifice—of life slowly turning matter to energy, time to light. In 1943, when Merton, a contemplative and a Trappist monk, wrote this poem, the many lives that were being sacrificed must have lurked in his awareness as he turned his attention, and his readers’, toward a light that shone into deepening darkness.
We burn candles a lot in our home. I have come to love the way, when a candle is lit before prayer and left burning, its burning extends the memory and intention of that prayer through its hours of quietly lighting its corner of the room. When I meet with my spiritual director, who lives three time zones away, we’re using the electronic convenience of FaceTime, but I light a candle in my room and she in hers as we begin our reflections. Even in broad daylight, it helps me to have a candle burning as I write. The simple liturgical phrase “Light of Christ” comes to me often as I glance up and see it, steady and reassuring, reminding me of the real and quiet presence of the Spirit who guides and sustains. We burn them at each meal, including breakfast. We light them in the hours before bedtime where they bring the waning energies of the day into a centering stillness—or keep their quiet reminder nearby even when we’re watching British mysteries on TV.
Candlemas is the traditional celebration of Jesus’s presentation at the temple, an ancient ritual occasion marked by two prophetic utterances. One was Simeon’s “Nunc dimittis”: “Lord, now you are letting your servant depart in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation . . . a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” Simeon follows his joyful recognition of Jesus as the promised one by a darker word to Mary: “and a sword will pierce through your own soul.” A light is held against the darkness—a marvelous light that we still live by. And though darkness has not overcome it, darkness persists.
So we come to the altar, or to whatever place we are called on this feast day and on any ordinary day, to that light, trimming our wicks and seeking to be renewed by a gift that is never diminished. Whether or not we celebrate—or even recognize—Candlemas as a feast day, it is an idea and an image that elegantly signify what we are called to do as humans who seek to live by the light of Christ: be lit, burn quietly and steadily, letting ourselves slowly, gently be turned to light, “consumed for a parable,” allowing our lives to be witnessed as examples of divine fidelity and our forgivenness and grateful transformation.
At the altar on Candlemas, the one flame “turns into many tongues,” like those that burned over the disciples in the upper room, each worshiper carrying one back to whatever community he or she calls home. “Many tongues” is also a reminder of Pentecost and of how the one Word—the child who was the “word within a word, unable to speak a word”—became many and various—shouted and unshackled from ancient law, turned to a song of grace.
Merton’s prayer begins with a petition that echoes throughout the poem: “Look kindly, Jesus, where we come. . . .” See us. Witness our efforts. Watch for us as we make our way to you. Accept our intentions. Meet us where we kneel and strike light into our darkness. Let us be radiant with your light, “by which not we, but You are known.” See us through.