No candles on Candlemas?

In January and February 1548, by order of the Privy Council, at the urging of Archbishop Thomas Cranmer, the ceremonies of Candlemas candles, ashing on the first day of Lent, palms on the Sunday before Easter, and creeping to the cross on Good Friday were abolished in the realm of England. Eamon Duffy writes of this, "the entire edifice of Catholic culture and liturgy was being dismantled in England".

Many contemporary Anglicans, and not only Anglo-Catholics, agree with Duffy: the abolition of such ceremonies is to be deeply regretted, removing drama and imagery from the observance of the Christian year. Generations of Anglicans over centuries, however, would consider such a view to be distinctly odd and a rejection of the goodly order of the Book of Common Prayer. The purpose of this post is not to criticize those Anglicans who use and value such ceremonies. It is, rather, to encourage those of us for whom these ceremonies are not part of our liturgical observance and to better understand the continued relevance of the classical Prayer Book order in which such ceremonies do not appear.

Firstly, we might consider Aquinas:

We draw near to God by no corporeal steps, since He is everywhere, but by the affections of our soul (ST I.iii.1).

Now, no, this does not - of course - mean that Aquinas opposed these ceremonies. It does, however, act to remind us of the theological understanding underpinning the absence of such ceremonies from the classical Prayer Book. It is not corporeal acts which draw us to God, but the affections of the soul, unseen and interior. The same understanding is found in the words of Augustine quoted at the outset of the Homily on Common Prayer and Sacraments:

Prayer is (saith he) the devotion of the mind, that is to say, the returning to God, through a godly and humble affection, which affection is certain, willing, and sweet inclining of the mind itself towards God.

It is in "the devotion of the mind" that we return to God. Dramatic ceremonies and gestures, for some of us, too easily distract, too frequently lead us away from "the devotion of the mind". We are, therefore, grateful for the classical Prayer Book piety, remembering Cranmer's exhortation:

Christ's Gospel is not a Ceremonial Law, (as much of Moses' Law was,) but it is a Religion to serve God, not in bondage of the figure or shadow, but in the freedom of the Spirit.

Secondly, the absence of such ceremonies also points to a desire to avoid any understanding of the liturgical year as dramatic 're-enactment'. Such drama is inadequate to communicate the call of the Gospel and to proclaim the mystery of the faith. There is no candlelit procession around the parish church on Candlemas, because the light of the Gentiles is not adequately represented by candles. There are no ashes on on the forehead on Ash Wednesday because we are called to the sacrifice of a broken heart, the Gospel of the day reminding us that our countenance is not to be sad, our faces are not to be disfigured. There are no palms on the Sunday before Easter, because Christ is Crucified and Risen on that and each day: we are not reliving the entry into Jerusalem. There is no creeping to the cross on Good Friday, because the Crucified One seeks not a kiss of the lips but the faithful obedience of heart and soul. 

What is more, the Gospel is not a mystery cult, calling us into dramatic experiences of encountering the divine. It is a proclamation of saving acts fulfilled in time and place, which we are called to confess with the obedience of faith:

that Christ died for our sins according to the scriptures; And that he was buried, and that he rose again the third day according to the scriptures.

The purpose of the liturgical year is not dramatic re-enactment, but to set before us in Word and Sacrament the mighty, saving acts of God fulfilled in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, drawing us afresh in heart, mind, and soul "to render thanks for the great benefits we have received at his hands".

Finally, we live in a culture in which we are constantly bombarded by virtual images. This is the "visual noise" which Andrew Sullivan describes as being a significant contributor to our culture of distraction, what another commentator has termed "this world of torrential distraction". In such a cultural context, the sober liturgical piety of the Prayer Book, in which, for example, the lights of a candlelit procession are not encountered on Candlemas, can have value, a means of stilling heart, mind, and soul before the One who is grace and truth, light and life. To again quote Sullivan:

If the churches came to understand that the greatest threat to faith today is not hedonism but distraction, perhaps they might begin to appeal anew to a frazzled digital generation. Christian leaders seem to think that they need more distraction to counter the distraction. Their services have degenerated into emotional spasms, their spaces drowned with light and noise.

By contrast, the classical Prayer Book offers what Richard Mant termed "simplicity, decency, and suitableness". So, on Candlemas, there is no candlelit procession. There is no dramatic re-enactment. There is no visual noise. Rather, stilled in heart, mind, and soul we pray the collect of the Purification of Saint Mary the Virgin, that "we may be presented unto thee with pure and clean hearts". We hear the Gospel of the day, and, following the example of the Blessed Virgin and Saint Joseph, treasuring it in our hearts that, in the words of Jeremy Taylor, it might become "matter of devotion and mental prayer, or meditation". And at Evensong we say or sing Nunc Dimittis, rejoicing in heart, mind, and soul in the One who is the light of the Gentiles and the glory of Israel.

To repeat, this post is not a criticism of those Anglicans who employ and value the ceremonies of candle-lit procession and ashing, palm leaves and creeping to the cross. It is, however, to seek to examine and, at least to some extent, explain why the absence of these ceremonies in the classical Prayer Book can have positive theological and liturgical significance. 

What is more, even where contemporary Anglican liturgies provide for such ceremonies, they are almost always optional.  In other words, there is space in such contemporary liturgies for the classical Prayer Book approach, ensuring that its "simplicity, decency, and suitableness" can still be part of Anglican worship and witness. This is neither an attempt to hinder liturgical revision nor an exercise in reactionary 'retvrn' (see my response to such calls for counter-revolution). It is a call to recognise the theological meaning and significance of classical Prayer Book piety, and how it can have a continued resonance in our cultural context. 

May those of us who will not be encountering candle-lit processions on this feast of the Presentation, who will be observing the sober rites of the Prayer Book, know the abiding joy in heart, mind, and soul of the light of the only-Begotten.

In Spiritual Worship, there is Communion with God: for the Mind, when it understands, does, in a sense, become the thing that it doth understand: and in Worship, the mind receives the Form of the Object it worshippeth - from the Aphorisms of the Cambridge Platonist Benjamin Whichcote, no.474.