NeuroDivine

This morning, before Mass begins and before anyone has taken their place in the pews, I’ll sit at the organ bench and let the church settle around me. There’s something about these early minutes—the hush, the steady glow of candles, the way the light slowly gathers—that makes today’s antiphon feel especially close.

O Oriens.
O Rising Sun.
Come and enlighten those who dwell in darkness.

This prayer has always spoken to me in a particular way. Not because it is dramatic, but because it is precise. It names the moment when night begins to loosen its grip. It notices the first thin line of brightness and treats it as something worth trusting. That kind of attention feels familiar: the comfort of patterns, the clarity of small details, the way light shifts almost imperceptibly yet changes everything.

Today, as I play, I’ll be holding that image of dawn. The antiphon arrives just as the year reaches its darkest point, and yet it sings about radiance. It doesn’t rush the light or pretend the shadows aren’t real. It simply asks for illumination—steady, gentle, enough to guide the next step.

Serving here, in a community that isn’t technically my own, has its own kind of brightness. There’s a quiet joy in offering music that helps others pray, in weaving sound into a liturgy that has welcomed me with warmth and trust. It feels like standing at the threshold of morning: familiar, different, and full of promise.

So today, as the first notes rise and the church breathes into the day, I’ll be praying this antiphon not just with words, but with the way I listen, the way I play, the way I notice the light returning.

May the Dawn find us attentive.
May the Light find us ready.
May the Rising Sun meet us exactly where we are.