Creation: Light from Darkness | Advent Day 1

Before there was anything, there was God. Before light or darkness, matter or energy, time or space. Before the first star burned or the first creature drew breath. God existed, complete in Himself, needing nothing. Then He spoke. Three words changed everything. "Let there be light." And light was. Not gradually, not through struggle or effort. The Creator commanded, and creation obeyed. This is where our Advent journey begins. Not in Bethlehem. Not in Nazareth. But here, at the very beginning, where God first pierced the darkness with His word. The Hebrew text opens with "Bereshit bara Elohim." In the beginning, God created. That verb "bara" appears nowhere else in Scripture except when describing divine action. Humans build. Humans form. Humans construct. But only God creates. He brings forth something from nothing, existence from non-existence. You and I reshape what already exists. God calls into being what never was. Picture the scene Moses describes. The earth lay formless and empty. The Hebrew phrase "tohu va-vohu" suggests chaos, a swirling void without purpose or pattern. Darkness covered everything. No stars. No sun. No moon. Nothing but emptiness and the brooding presence of God's Spirit over the waters. Into this darkness, God spoke light. Consider the strangeness of this. The sun does not appear until day four. How then does light exist on day one? Where does it come from? The answer points forward through all of Scripture, across thousands of years, to a stable in Bethlehem. The Apostle John opens his Gospel with the same words Moses used: "In the beginning." But John adds something. The Word was with God. The Word was God. Through Him all things were made. In Him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light of day one is not sunlight. It is the light of God's presence, the radiance of His creative word, the same glory that would one day take on flesh and dwell among us. When God said "Let there be light," He was already moving toward Christmas. Michelangelo understood something of this when he painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Pope Julius II commissioned the work in 1508. For four years, the artist lay on wooden scaffolding, paint dripping onto his face, neck cramped, eyes straining upward. He painted over 300 figures across 12,000 square feet. The Creation of Adam became the centerpiece. Look at God's outstretched arm. His finger reaches toward Adam with purpose and intention. Now look at Adam. His arm rests limp, almost casual, barely lifting toward his Creator. The gap between their fingers tells the whole story of Scripture. God moves toward humanity. We wait, passive, unable to bridge the distance ourselves. Art historians have noted that the red cloak surrounding God forms the shape of a human brain. Whether Michelangelo intended this or not, the suggestion fits. God gives Adam not only physical life but consciousness, reason, the capacity to know his Maker. The figures clustered around God include angels. Some scholars identify the woman beneath His arm as Eve, already present in God's mind, waiting to be formed. The fresco captures the moment before contact. Tension fills that small space between their fingers. We stand at the threshold where nothing becomes something, where chaos yields to order, where darkness gives way to light. This pattern of separation runs through all of Genesis 1. God divides light from darkness, waters above from waters below, sea from dry land. He names what He creates. He orders what He separates. Creation happens through distinction. Where chaos saw no difference between anything, God establishes boundaries and categories. Light belongs here. Darkness belongs there. Each thing in its place. Ancient cultures told different creation stories. The Babylonians described Marduk battling Tiamat, a chaos monster, cutting her body in half to form heaven and earth. Egyptian myths portrayed gods struggling against primordial forces. Violence and conflict marked these accounts. Genesis stands apart. No battle occurs. No struggle. No opponent worthy of the name. God speaks, and reality arranges itself according to His word. The sun and moon receive no names in the text. Surrounding nations worshipped these celestial bodies as deities. Moses reduces them to functional objects, lights hung in the sky to mark times and seasons. They serve creation. They are not worthy of worship. The early Church Fathers found in these verses the first hints of the Trinity. The Spirit hovers over the waters. God speaks the Word. Father, Son, and Spirit present together at the dawn of creation. The same God who would later send His Son into the world was already at work, already moving toward redemption before the first human sin. What does this mean for your Advent waiting? First, God creates from chaos. Whatever disorder marks your life, whatever formlessness troubles your circumstances, God's word brings order. He spoke light into darkness once. He speaks it still. The same power that commanded light to exist commands transformation in human hearts. Second, God moves toward you. Look again at Michelangelo's image. God reaches. Adam waits. This is the gospel pattern. We do not climb to God. He descends to us. The Christmas story completes what began in Genesis. The Creator enters His creation. The Word becomes flesh. Third, light comes before the sun. The presence of God precedes the instruments of God. Before the sun existed to give light, God Himself was light. Before the church exists to spread the gospel, Christ Himself is the gospel. Our witness points to a reality greater than ourselves. The darkness of December evenings mirrors that primordial dark. As you light Advent candles, remember. God spoke into darkness once and light obeyed. He speaks still. Christmas approaches. The Word made flesh draws near. Tomorrow we enter Eden, where humanity falls and the first promise of redemption emerges from the wreckage. But today, begin here. At the beginning. Where God separated light from darkness and called it good. That same God now calls to you. He speaks light into your chaos. He moves toward you across the gap. He waits for you to lift your hand, even weakly, toward His extended arm. Let there be light. And there was light. And there is light still.