Ruth Greenaway-Robbins

“Come and enlighten those who dwell in darkness”

O Morning Star,
splendour of light eternal and sun of righteousness:
Come and enlighten those who dwell in darkness
and the shadow of death.

On this day, the light turns.

Today, the 21st of December, marks the winter solstice – the longest night, the deepest dark. From here, almost imperceptibly at first, the days begin to lengthen. The change is subtle, easily missed. And yet it is real. Something has shifted.

It is no accident that the Church places O Oriens here.

Oriens means dawn, rising, the east. It names the moment when light first appears – not in fullness, but as promise. A pale glow on the horizon. Enough to say: the night will not have the final word.

This antiphon draws together powerful images: Morning Star, splendour of light eternal, sun of righteousness. These are not decorative titles. They speak of light that does more than illuminate, instead it reminds us of light that heals, restores, and re-orders what has been bent out of shape.

Malachi’s promise of the sun of righteousness rising with healing in its wings is not about brightness alone. It is about justice. About warmth returning to cold places. About life stirring where numbness has set in. Reminds me always of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe as the spring returns when Aslan frees them from perpetual winter.

And still, the prayer of Malachi is honest: “those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.”

Again, not passing through, but dwelling. Living there. Learning how to survive with limited vision. Darkness here is not failure; it is a condition. And Advent refuses to shame that reality. Instead, it names it – and prays light into it.

There is something deeply gentle about O Oriens.

Unlike the previous antiphons that cry out for rescue and release, this one asks simply to be enlightened. To see. To be warmed. To have the shadows loosen their grip. Sometimes what we need most is not for everything to change at once, but for enough light to take the next faithful step – to see some hope returning.

In the Christian story, Christ is not only the light that exposes; he is the light that accompanies. He does not blind us with sudden brilliance. He comes as dawn.

This matters pastorally, spiritually, and personally.

Many of us live with long shadows, grief that lingers, uncertainty about the future, weariness that sleep does not fix. We carry the weight of the world’s pain alongside our own. And yet Advent insists that even here, light is already at work. Not yet noon. Not yet complete. But real.

To pray O Oriens is to trust that God’s coming does not depend on our readiness. The sun rises whether or not the world is prepared. Light breaks in because that is its nature.

And the Church, standing in this in-between space – after the longest night, 3 days until we welcome the coming eve of Christmas – dares to say: look east. Watch the horizon. Pay attention to small signs of change. A softened heart. A renewed courage. A moment of clarity. A glimmer of hope.

Christ comes not only to banish darkness, but to dwell within it – until it is transformed from the inside out.

So today, we wait not with clenched fists, but with lifted eyes. The dawn is nearer than it was and that is the start of the journey.

Today’s musical expressions of O Oriens are plentiful. I love O Radiant Dawn by Sir James MacMillan, one of my favourite composers; his rendering is mesmerising. However, in light of what I have written, it is the beautiful and ethereal setting by Cecilia McDowall that, for me, truly holds the space of those who dwell in darkness. There is dissonance within the hopefulness of the music; the expansiveness itself is unsettled. This feels true to the experience of those who live in dark places – not without hope, but watching and waiting for the horizon to brighten.

O Morning Star,
light that rises even after the longest night,
shine upon all who live in shadow.
Warm what has grown cold within us,
heal what is weary or wounded,
and lead us into your gentle day.
We wait for you, light of the world.
Amen.