Series: Advent and the Gospel
Scripture Focus: Revelation 21:4-5
The night is strangely still.
No wind.
No animal calls.
Even the fire burns with a quiet steadiness, as though it senses the weight of the story still to be told.
The old man sits near the flames, eyes distant, gaze fixed not on the fire before him, but on something far beyond it.
The children gather again, drawing their blankets tight.
They know when he goes quiet like this, his mind is walking through ages.
Finally he speaks.
“Hope,” he says softly, “is not born in comfort.
It is born in longing.”
He shifts, lifting an ember on the tip of a stick.
“And tonight we speak of hope.
Not the wishful kind.
Not the fragile kind.
But the hope that comes from the Child who will make all things new.”
The First Ember of Hope
He lets the ember fall back into the fire.
“When Adam first spoke of the Promise,” he says, “he did so with tears in his voice.”
The children lean in.
“He knew what had been lost.
He remembered the sound of God’s footsteps walking toward him in the cool of the day.
He remembered peace.
He remembered joy.
He remembered the world as it was meant to be.”
The old man’s voice cracks slightly.
“And he remembered the moment it all shattered.”
He draws a broken circle in the dirt with a stick.
“But God spoke hope into the ruins.
A Redeemer would come.
And with Him, restoration.”
He smiles gently.
“Children, the first Christmas promise was spoken over the ashes of Eden.”
Hope Moves Through the Bloodline of Kings
He traces a line across the dirt.
“From that moment, hope traveled through generations.
It passed through Noah, who survived the flood of judgment.
Through Abraham, who carried a covenant like a lantern in the dark.
Through Isaac and Jacob, who told their sons around their own firesides.
Through Judah, from whom a scepter would never depart.”
The fire brightens as though remembering.
“Through David, the shepherd-king, God promised One whose throne would endure forever.
A Child, Isaiah said, mighty enough to bear the weight of government, gentle enough to be called Prince of Peace.”
He leans back.
“And in Bethlehem, small as a whisper, that hope breathed its first earthly breath.”
He closes his eyes.
“Every prophecy, every covenant, every longing of Israel’s heart—
all of it was a thread woven toward the manger.
And beyond that manger…
to the throne.”
Hope Walked Among Us
“The Child grew,” he continues, “and hope walked dusty roads in sandals.”
He smiles at memories he never personally saw but knows deeply.
“He healed the brokenhearted.
He mended what evil had torn.
He spoke truth that set captives free.
He turned darkness into morning wherever He stepped.”
He spreads his hands.
“But hope is costly.
And the One who came to restore had to pass through death to break its power.”
A solemn hush settles in.
“On a hill outside Jerusalem,” he says, voice steady, “hope was nailed to a cross.
But on the third day, hope stood up again.
Alive. Unbreakable. Eternal.”
The children breathe out, relieved even though they knew the ending.
“And that, children,” he says, “is why the grave holds no fear for those who belong to Him.”
But the Story of Hope Does Not End With an Empty Tomb
The old man lifts a fresh log and places it carefully onto the fire.
Flames leap upward, brighter, stronger.
“That fire,” he says, pointing, “is a picture of what is coming.”
He unrolls a scroll, voice trembling with awe.
“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes,” he reads.
“And there will no longer be death.
No mourning.
No crying.
No pain.”
The flames shimmer, as though bowing to the promise.
“The One seated on the throne says, ‘Behold, I am making all things new.’”
He looks at the children.
“Do you hear that?
Not all new things—
but all things new.”
He taps his chest.
“The same world broken by sin… restored.
The same creation groaning… healed.
The same humanity stained by rebellion… redeemed.”
He spreads his arms to the heavens.
“The story ends not in ruin, but restoration.
Not in despair, but delight.
Not in ashes, but glory.”
Hope That Forms the Heart
He lowers his voice.
“Hope is not escape,” he says.
“Hope is endurance.
It is the strength that keeps the faithful planting vineyards in Babylon,
building homes in exile,
singing songs of Zion in foreign lands.”
He nods slowly.
“Hope tells us that this world is not abandoned.
Hope tells us that suffering is not wasted.
Hope tells us that the tears we shed now will become the testimonies we tell later.”
He touches the dirt gently.
“And hope tells us that the Child of Bethlehem is also the King of Revelation.”
Walk it Out: Live as Those Who Expect the Dawn
The fire has grown bright, as if the night itself is being pushed back.
The old man stands, joints crackling like the wood beneath him.
“When you walk home tonight,” he says, “lift your eyes.”
He points toward the dark horizon.
“Because the same Jesus who came once in humility will come again in glory.
The cradle was the beginning.
The cross was the victory.
The empty tomb was the trumpet blast.
And the throne is the destination.”
He smiles, soft and warm.
“Children, the world may tremble.
Nations may rage.
Darkness may gather at the edges of the age.”
He turns back to the fire.
“But the King is coming.
Hope is rising.
All things will be made new.”
His voice lowers to a reverent whisper.
“Live it out.
Share the truth.
Walk with courage.”
The fire lifts sparks into the night sky, and for a moment, they look like stars being reborn.
The children watch them rise, and hope settles into their hearts like the warmth of the flame.
