The Light That Grows in Darkness: A Celtic Journey Through Advent
- Fiach OBroin-Molloy
- 5 days ago
- 4 min read
In the old Celtic lands, winter was never simply a season to survive. It was a teacher. A companion.A quiet, steady presence that invited people to slow down, breathe deeply, and trust that even in the longest nights, something sacred was taking shape.
Advent belongs to that same world.
It is the soft hush before dawn, the place where longing becomes prayer, and where even the smallest flame is enough to remind us that darkness is never the whole story. In Ireland and Scotland, this truth was woven into daily life. Monks and mothers, shepherds and scholars, all understood that the world turns slowly toward the light—and that God often comes in the gentlest of ways.
The Celtic Christians saw light not as something sudden or overwhelming, but as something that grows. In their stone cells and wind-swept chapels, a single candle might burn long before sunrise. Its glow was humble, barely enough to brighten the room, yet it carried a profound promise:the dawn is coming.
The flame did not chase the darkness away all at once. Instead, it kept company with it, holding a space for hope. Advent invites us into that same companionship. We do not leap from shadow to brilliance. We walk there slowly, carrying whatever light we have, trusting that God will meet us in the dim places and guide us toward morning.
Waiting, in the Celtic imagination, was never an obstacle to overcome. It was a holy practice.The island monks understood this deeply. On Iona, the tides dictated everything — prayer times, travel, work, silence. They learned to wait with patience, not with frustration but with an expectant heart. Winter became a kind of sanctuary, a time when the world’s frantic pace softened and the soul could finally hear the whispers of grace.
This is the heart of Advent:the willingness to be still long enough to notice God drawing near.
Modern life, especially in December, rarely gives us such stillness. Yet the Celtic tradition offers a gentle remedy. We do not need hours of silence or perfect conditions. We need only a few breaths, a moment at the edge of morning, or a small prayer spoken on the way home. Even holding a rosary or lighting a candle can become a “thin place”—a moment when heaven seems closer than usual, and the heart remembers what it has forgotten.
Christ comes to us in the quiet.Not with noise, not with fanfare, but with a warmth that grows gently over time.
This is why the Celtic saints blessed everything—the hearth, the doorways, the hands of the worker, the path of the traveller. They believed God met people in the ordinary places long before they reached the holy ones. Advent echoes that truth. Christ is not waiting for our lives to become peaceful, organised, or perfect. He comes into the midst of real homes, real families, real weariness, real longing.
The Incarnation is not an idea. It is God choosing to dwell with us —in kitchens, in living rooms, in hospital corridors, in late-night worries, in whispered prayers over tired children, in the small hopes we dare to hold.And so the invitation of Advent is simple:notice the light you already have, and carry it faithfully until Christmas dawns.
The Celtic cross, that ancient symbol carved across Ireland and Scotland, beautifully embodies this. Its circle represents God’s eternal presence — light without end, love without interruption — while its arms reach outward into the world, reminding us that Christ enters every direction of life, every landscape of the human heart. You can almost imagine the early monks touching those carvings in the winter dark, tracing the circle and whispering a prayer for the light to grow within them.
In that way, we too become keepers of the flame.Not in grand or dramatic gestures, but in small acts of courage and kindness:
a word of forgiveness offered,
a moment of stillness created,
a prayer spoken for someone who needs strength,
a candle lit for a weary soul,
a piece of beauty chosen as a gift for someone we love.
These are the lights that grow in darkness. And Advent is full of them.
Perhaps that is why this season always feels a little tender. It holds both ache and hope, both night and dawning day. It teaches us to wait without giving up, to trust without seeing the full path ahead, and to believe—as the Celts did—that no darkness is ever final. Light may come slowly, but it always comes. It grows in quiet places, in hidden corners, and in the hearts of those who dare to hope.
As we move through these winter weeks, may you feel that gentle growth within you.May you sense the nearness of God in the ordinary moments.May the Celtic saints—Brigid with her flame, Patrick with his steadfast courage, Columba with his peace—walk with you.And may the Christ who comes at Christmas kindle in you a light that cannot be extinguished.
The night is long.But the light is growing.And He is coming.
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