01/27/2026
The ice is dragging trees to the ground and snow blankets the earth. Across much of North America, we are held in the fiery grip of winter cold. For our ancestors, this was the most dangerous time of year. The ground remains so frozen that burying the dead must be timed with the planting of the first seeds of spring. Winter fires provide the only heat; for even in the blinding light of day, the warmth of the sun has been consumed by the frost. Days are now measured simply by the winter supplies remaining.
But long before the traditions of St. Brigid, and well before the Gaelic people honored a goddess by that name, our oldest ancestors honored this time of year in their own profound way.
On a hilltop in Ireland, they constructed a mound of stone and earth. No longer needing to wait until spring to honor their lineage, these ancient people entombed their dead in an artificial womb with a single entrance. Throughout the year, this entrance remained open to the world, the passage of time reflected in the slow crawl of shadows across the back wall.
Those shadows would diminish, degree by degree, with each sunrise. Then, on the day halfway between the start of winter and the beginning of spring, the rising sun shines directly into that "womb." This single beam of light pierces the deep interior, marking the exact moment winter loses its grip and life begins its journey toward the surface.
On this day, the embers of the old cooking hearths were swept away and a new fire was lit. In the warmth of that new flame, the home was cleaned. The dust of the past was swept out the door and into the light of new life.
Long after those builders left the land, leaving only the bones of their past resting in the earth, others arrived. They, too, recognized this Mid-Winter Light as the herald of spring. They gave the day a name and a protector: Imbolc, in honor of Brigid. Eventually, that fire was carried into the stone sanctuaries of the early Church, where the flame of the Saint continued to keep the darkness at bay.
The interpretations changed, but the heartbeat remained: Purification. Preparation. The Return of the Light.
Today, that evolution comes full circle at The Old Church with The Purple Door.
We stand as the modern stewards of this ancient timeline. Our walls may be younger than the stones of Tara, but they are built from the same human need for sanctuary. We are a place where the "dust of the past" is still swept away to make room for new beginnings—whether those are the vows of a wedding, the start of a new venture, or a quiet moment of reflection in the mid-winter chill.
This Imbolc, we honor every layer of this history. We honor the Neolithic astronomers, the Gaelic poets, and the community that gathers here today. We recognize that even when the ice weighs heavy on the trees, the light has already found its way back inside.
The season is turning. The hearth is ready. Our door is open.
