Series: Advent and the Gospel
Scripture Focus: John 8:12
The night is darker tonight.
The fire burns steady, but the shadows feel thicker around the circle, as if the world itself is holding its breath. The old man sits quietly for a long moment, staring into the flames. The children wait. They have learned that when his silence lingers, the story he carries is heavy.
At last he speaks.
“Not all darkness is of the night,” he murmurs.
“Some darkness is older. Deeper. Thicker than shadow.
Tonight, children… tonight we speak of the Light who stepped into that darkness.”
The fire crackles, as though eager for the tale.
Before the Light, There Was a Wound in the World
The old man’s voice drops low.
“You remember Eden,” he says, his eyes reflecting flame.
“How the serpent whispered and the heart of creation bent under the weight of rebellion.”
The children nod.
“When Adam told his sons of that day,” the old man continues, “he said the world seemed to dim.
Like a great lantern being turned low.
The harmony of creation faltered.
Creatures hid.
Shadows lengthened.”
He draws a dark line in the dirt with a stick.
“Sin did not just break rules.
It broke the world.
And from that moment, humanity walked with lamps that could barely pierce the night.”
He looks up.
“Children, listen: the darkness was not simply absence.
It was presence.
A power.
A rebellion.”
The wind moans across the treetops.
“And yet,” he smiles faintly, “God whispered a promise into that darkness.
A Seed would come.
A Son who would crush the serpent and raise the sun.”
The Dragon at the Manger
The old man’s voice sharpens.
“Some storytellers soften the tale.
But truth is truth, even when it shivers the bones.”
He leans closer to the fire.
“The night Jesus was born, yes, angels sang. Shepherds rejoiced. A star blazed.
But do not forget what Revelation shows us.”
His finger taps the open scroll.
“The dragon stood waiting,” he whispers.
“Red. Terrible. Hungry for the Child.
Ready to devour Him the moment He drew His first breath.”
The children gasp.
“For the birth of Jesus was not merely a birth,” he says.
“It was an invasion.
The King stepped into enemy territory, and the forces of darkness stirred.”
He lets the silence settle like snow.
“But heaven was faster.
A woman cried out in labor.
A Child was born.
And the dragon failed.”
The old man’s eyes blaze like embers.
“Children, the manger was a battlefield long before it was a symbol of peace.”
When Light Walked Into the Night
He lifts a burning stick, letting it glow bright against the dark.
“This,” he says, “is what the prophet meant when he said:
‘The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.’”
He thrusts the ember toward the sky.
“When Jesus stepped into the world, the night recoiled.
Demons shrieked.
Sickness fled.
Lies trembled in the air.
For the Light had come.”
He lowers the stick and draws a circle in the dirt.
“Rome’s shadow stretched across the earth.
Israel mourned under centuries of silence.
The world was weary.
But God…
oh, children… God split the night with a beam of glory.”
The fire pops like a star being born.
“A star guided foreigners to a manger.
Angels lit up the sky for shepherds.
And in Bethlehem, wrapped in cloths, lay the Light of the World.
Fragile in appearance.
Unstoppable in truth.”
Light Does Two Things: It Reveals and It Restores
The old man lifts his hand.
“When Jesus spoke, darkness was unmasked.
False shepherds scattered.
Hypocrisy became ash before His words.”
He clenches his fist gently.
“Light reveals.”
Then he opens it.
“Light restores.”
His voice softens.
“To the blind, He gave sight.
To the broken, He gave healing.
To the ashamed, He gave dignity.
To the lost, He became a lamp for their feet.”
He sighs, but not sadly.
“Children, the world has always feared the light because it reveals what shadows hide.
But it also warms.
And mends.
And gathers those who are cold and alone.”
Our Age Knows This Darkness Too
The old man gestures toward the edges of the firelight.
“Darkness has changed its clothing, but not its nature.
In your day, it whispers through screens.
It dresses itself as freedom.
It paints confusion as compassion.
It hides truth beneath noise.”
He shakes his head.
“People stumble not because the light has faded, but because they look elsewhere.”
Then he smiles gently at his young listeners.
“But the Light of the World has not dimmed.
Not one flicker.”
Walk it Out: Carry the Light You Have Seen
The fire is glowing low, but it burns with a steady confidence.
The old man rises, joints cracking like old wood.
“You do not curse the darkness,” he tells the children.
“You carry the light.”
He points to the embers at their feet.
“Remember this fire when the world feels cold.
Remember the Child who chased away night.
Remember the King who still shines, untouched by shadow.”
His voice drops to a reverent whisper.
“He said, ‘I am the Light of the World.’
So walk as children of the dawn.”
He nods toward the path leading home.
“Live it out.
Share the truth.
Walk with courage.”
The fire sighs one last time, and the shadows retreat as the children stand, their faces warmed by the light that will never be overcome.
