Candles: Visible signs of Catholic joy
The Easter candle and several flowers before the altar are seen during the Easter Vigil Mass at St. Philip the Apostle Church in Flower Mound on March 30, 2024. (NTC/Juan Guajardo)
As an eight-year-old in 1918, my father spent a few weeks summering in upstate New York with his grandparents, Michael and Nettie Van Dusen. Grandpa Mike was not particularly religious, but on Sundays Grandma Nettie, good Methodist she, attended church services, her grandson in tow.
Come Sunday, Grandma Nettie attended the local Methodist church stylishly attired in lacy white dresses, with matching gloves and shoes, topped by a picture-window hat. Using it for a fashionable walking stick, a long-handled white parasol, almost as tall as her shoulders, topped by a white wooden knob, completed her ensemble.
As were most Protestant sanctuaries of the time, this one was stark. Papa described the chancel as having whitewashed walls and a deep burgundy carpet. The area was dominated by a tall dark oaken pulpit in the center from which the minister held forth. Beneath it was a small matching oak table covered by a white cloth, used for the monthly communion service.
One Sunday morning, the minister appeared in his academic gown and hood. Grandma Nettie, aware that other ministers were known to do this, said nothing.
As my father related the story, the next Sunday, a plain brass cross had been placed on the table. This addition nettled Grandma Nettie. She arched her brow but kept her peace.
The following Sunday a pair of lighted candles appeared on the cloth-covered communion table flanking the cross. Enough was enough. The situation had become much too Romish for a good Yankee lady.
With the knob of her tall white parasol, the elegantly attired Nettie Van Dusen, her eyes like flint, tapped the shoulder of a passing usher. Indicating the cross and candles with a dismissive wave of her white-gloved hand, she asked in a loud stage-whisper laced with sarcasm, “When does the priest come in?”
My Protestant great-grandmother’s reaction to candles more than a century ago mirrored that of Tertullian some 1700 years earlier. This stern Roman theologian dismissed lighting lamps in daylight hours for the Eucharistic Sacrifice as a paganistic practice. In Spain, the Synod of Elvira (315) forbade lighting lamps in cemeteries during the day (Well, of course — Elvira is mistress of the dark, right?).
It took St. Jerome in the late 300s to rightly express Catholic thinking about candles: “Lights are lit when the Gospel is read though the sun be shining … not to dispel darkness but to provide a visible sign of joy.”
Indeed, every candle is an image of Jesus the Incarnate Son of God: His body formed in the womb of the sinless Virgin is symbolized by the pure beeswax. The wick is seen as His soul; the flame His divinity: “In Him was life, and the life was the Light of men” (John 1:4).
This image recalls Simeon praising God while beholding the Babe brought to the temple, snug in Mary’s arms, calling Him “a light of revelation to the Gentiles and glory of Thy people, Israel” (Luke 2:32). This event, observed each February 2 as the Solemnity of the Presentation of the Lord, is also called Candlemas, when Holy Mother Church bids the faithful bring their candles from home for a solemn blessing.
Candles permeate Catholic celebrations. White candles are sacramentals presented to the newly baptized. Unlit candles tied together with a ribbon are used in the blessing of throats on the feast of St. Blaise.
Canon law demands a candle, popularly known as the Eternal Flame, must continuously burn in the sanctuary as a sign that the Blessed Sacrament is reserved in the tabernacle. During the Easter Vigil, in darkened churches, the Exultet, a masterpiece of chanted prayer, jubilantly greets the gloriously Risen Savior symbolized by the Paschal Candle as the congregation lights small candles from it: “A flame divided yet undimmed.”
The white Christ Candle, a recent addition not liturgically prescribed, is placed within the center of candles of the Advent wreath in churches on Christmas Eve. It represents the Holy Child laid in a manger; a scriptural sign of Our Lord’s nurturing believers by way of His Eucharistic flesh and blood.
Before the liturgical changes of the 1960s, numerous candles, at least ten, were prescribed, but more were encouraged, to be lit for the Rite of Eucharistic Benediction. For Mass, at least two candles were necessary for the celebration of Low Mass recited by the celebrant, four if celebrated by a bishop in his diocese. “At least” six candles were to be lit to demonstrate greater joy and dignity for High Mass — the Missa Cantata — or for Solemn High Mass. Seven candles were required for a bishop celebrating Pontifical High Mass in his diocese.
At these solemn celebrations, six torchbearers were called into the sanctuary for the canon of the Mass to greet the Eucharistic Lord. At all Masses, a singular candle was lit at the Sanctus of the Mass and not extinguished until after Holy Communion had been distributed and the tabernacle door shut.
Indeed, candles, the “visible sign of joy,” were considered essential to the celebration of Mass: “If the candles go out before the Consecration, and cannot again be lighted, most authors say that Mass should be discontinued” (Catholic Encyclopedia, 1907).
Candles recall the words of Jesus in John 9:5, “I am the Light of the world!” who tells His followers to reflect His joy within a dark, sinful society, providing light for those seeking the way home, the way to God: “Let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your heavenly Father” (Matthew 5:16).
So, now, all good Catholics, be visible signs of joy. Go into the world and shine!