All the readings today are marked by a single, quiet movement: from darkness into light.

Isaiah speaks of a people who walked in darkness and have seen a great light. This is not the sudden light of spectacle, but the dawning light that comes when God chooses to dwell in forgotten places—Zebulun, Naphtali, Galilee of the nations. God’s glory does not begin in the centre of power, but on the margins. This is deeply Carmelite: God reveals Himself where nothing seems impressive, where the land is poor, shadowed, and humble.

The Psalm allows us to hear the inner echo of that prophecy: “The Lord is my light and my help.” For Carmel, light is not primarily intellectual clarity but an interior assurance. The psalmist does not ask for many things—only one: to live in the house of the Lord, to behold His beauty. This is the Carmelite desire par excellence: not to do much, not to possess much, but to remain, to gaze, to dwell in God’s presence until His light reshapes the heart.

Saint Paul, in the second reading, reveals what happens when we lose this inner unity. Divisions arise when Christ is no longer the centre, when identity is built on belonging, labels, or personal preferences. Carmel teaches that unity begins inside, in a heart simplified and recollected. A divided heart inevitably produces a divided community. Paul’s call is therefore contemplative before it is moral: return to the one Christ who was crucified, the only source of true communion.

In the Gospel, this light finally takes flesh. Jesus settles in Galilee, fulfilling Isaiah’s prophecy. He does not begin with miracles but with a simple invitation: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is close at hand.” Repentance here is not fear-driven; it is a change of direction, a turning of the heart toward the light that is already near.

When Jesus calls the fishermen, He interrupts ordinary life. Nets, boats, even family are left behind—not because they are evil, but because the light has revealed a greater belonging. In Carmelite terms, this is detachment: not rejection, but freedom. They follow at once, because the call resonates with something already stirring within them.

Finally, Jesus goes through Galilee teaching, proclaiming, and healing. Contemplation does not close us in on ourselves; it sends us out quietly transformed. The one who has seen the light becomes, almost without realizing it, a bearer of light for others.

Today’s Word invites us to ask, very simply:

  • Where am I still walking in darkness?

  • What nets am I holding that keep my hands full and my heart divided?

  • Do I desire, like the psalmist, one thing only: to behold the beauty of the Lord?

In the silence of Carmel, we learn that light is not seized—it is received. And once received, it gently teaches us how to walk, how to follow, and how to love.