Wednesday, cold and early and the Conversion of St Paul to be celebrated at Widemouth Bay. Through a misted kitchen window, during the West Country news-babble and morning tea kettle-bubble, I watch the night give way to dawn. Over little St Anne’s a raging gold begins to thrust through the darkness giving a brazen backdrop to the dark profiles of horse-chestnut and oak in The Glebe. But, as the light begins, I feel a sudden regret; the Collect for the coming Fourth Sunday of Epiphany praises a God, “who in the beginning commanded the light to shine out the darkness,” but now, at 7a.m, the arrival of the daylight makes me realise that natural darkness is at a premium these days! Ironically, the coming Sunday, the last in the month of January, is of itself an ancient celebration of an extinguishing of the light.

   The Presentation of Christ in the Temple or, as it has become more commonly known, Candlemas, has in recent years been side-lined by the more popular celebration of Christmas. And yet it is not meant to be some optional extra. Rather, in the Christian calendar it is recognised as one of the principal feast days of the church, because it is a turning point in the Christian year. Forty Days after Christmas, and as a climax of the Epiphany season, it recalls the child Jesus being greeted in the Temple by the priest and priestess, Simeon and Anna. They recognised, with much rejoicing, his true identity as the Son of God. However, during their conversation, Simeon also gave a sombre prediction of Jesus’ eventual crucifixion.

   And so Candlemas becomes a kind of pivot upon which worshippers can turn to say, “One last look back at Christmas and then we turn towards Lent!” That is why it marks a change in the liturgical colour used for the priest’s vestments from the white of celebration to the purple of penitence. In recognition of this, during the Candlemas service, the priest changes from a white stole into a purple one and leads a procession of lighted candles from the front of the church to the back singing the famous ‘Song of Simeon’ the The Nunc Dimittis. Once at the door of the church, the candles are extinguished and all return home to begin the quiet time of prayer and reflection which lead up to Easter.

   Most religions generally view darkness as a symbol of all that is unwholesome and threatening. But I have always loved it, especially that old night of the countryside with all its shades from light-enough-to-read-by to a pitch-black which gradually hushes the day-time clamour of sheep and cattle and in the case of owls and foxes gives them the all clear. How often in approaching one of our night-time churches do I gratefully turn my back upon the sodium glare of the street and enter the velvet darkness of the porch unseeing and unseen.

   Nature’s darkness has its own security. Humankind’s deeds of darkness are, of course, quite another matter!

Revd Rob