Passover — The Hill of the Skull
Calvary stands stripped and colorless— a hill scraped bare like an exposed bone beneath a sky already paling toward ash.
Iron meets flesh.
The first nail is driven through His wrist, and though no one sees it, light erupts— a violent, piercing beam tearing upward through the heavens, as though the sky itself has been wounded.
“They pierced my hands and my feet.” — Psalm 22:16
The second nail falls. Another column of light surges skyward, splitting unseen realms, forcing back shadows that recoil but do not flee.
The third nail pins His feet to the wood— and a final beam ascends, completing a terrible trinity of light.
Yet on earth, no one notices.
The cross is hoisted upright, dropped into its socket with a jolt of contempt. The hill shakes. Dust rises. Blood runs downward.
Above Him, the day betrays its purpose.
“Now from the sixth hour darkness fell upon all the land until the ninth hour.”
— Matthew 27:45
The sun retreats as though ashamed. Darkness thickens, pressing down like a suffocating veil.
And yet— the hill glows.
The barren ground drinks the light spilling invisibly from the crucified One. The hill of death becomes the last place light still dares to remain.
Then—slowly— even that light fades.
His head falls.
The Light of the world is extinguished.
“Again therefore Jesus spoke to them, saying, ‘I am the Light of the world; he who follows Me will not walk in the darkness, but will have the Light of life.’” — John 8:12
The world exhales. Darkness smiles.
The Tomb — Between Passover and Firstfruits
The tomb is cut deep into the rock— a mouth sealed shut, unwilling to speak hope.
A full moon hangs above it, cold and distant, longing to shine upon something living.
The stone is only barely visible, its silhouette swallowed by blackness.
Soldiers stand watch— human outlines stiff with fear, unaware of darker shapes curling behind them.
Unclean shadows press close to the earth, rejoicing silently.
This is what victory looks like to them.
But then—a star appears.
Just one.
And with it, a faint glow leaks from the seam where stone meets stone.
The guards do not notice at first.
But the darkness begins to tremble.
The light grows— not flickering, not fragile— but deliberate.
The stone shudders.
It rolls—not pushed, not forced— but yielding, as if creation itself remembers its Master.
Then—
light explodes outward, a torrent rushing from the grave into the night.
The darkness tears away.
A figure, outshining the radiance, steps through the brilliance.
And the light does not remain on earth.
It ascends— sharp, unrestrained— ripping open the heavens once more.
“He is not here, for He has risen, just as He said.” — Matthew 28:6
Death has lost its grip. The shadows scatter.
Sukkot — The Manger Cave
Years earlier—before the cross, before the tomb— light had already entered the darkness unnoticed.
A cave beneath a Bethlehem home breathes shallow shadows. A single oil lamp flickers weakly against stone walls.
A woman cries out.
Life presses through pain.
Then—
light fills the cave.
Not blinding—but holy.
The newborn lies cradled in straw, His face unreadable, His silence heavier than thunder.
Mary and the midwives are silhouetted in the glow, their eyes fixed on what they can see—
—but others stand present.
Unseen.
Angelic forms fill the darkness behind them, their outlines blazing white against the black of night.
The light rises from the child— ascends to heaven— then bends sharply back toward a nearby field.
Shepherds freeze as the sky tears open.
“And the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.’” — Luke 2:10–11
The Feast of Booths had proclaimed God dwelling among His people—In this year's feast, He had.
Flesh swaddled in light.
Hanukkah — The Feast of Dedication — The Feast of Lights
Weeks later, Jerusalem glimmers.
Gigantic menorahs blaze in the Temple courts, their flames visible across the hills—even toward Galilee.
This is Hanukkah. The Feast of Dedication. The remembrance of light defying desecration—oil that should have failed, yet burned beyond reason.
Families gather around nine-branched lampstands. The center candle stands elevated.
The shamash—the servant.
It is lit first. It gives its flame to all the others.
This year, it burns brighter.
No one knows why. No one realizes that just miles away,
In lowly Bethlehem, the true Light lies in His manger.
Thirty years pass.
The Light stands in the courtyard of the Temple,
bathed in the rays of the same four fifty-foot-tall golden oil-fed lamps.
“Now it was [again] the Feast of the Dedication at Jerusalem; it was winter, and Jesus was walking in the temple.” — John 10:22–23
The lights anticipate Him—but the darkness does not recognize what has already come.
“The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.” — John 1:5
Winter wraps the Temple stones in cold shadow.
In Solomon’s Portico, beneath towering columns darkened by age and smoke, a man walks—quiet, unadorned, His face illuminated by reflected firelight.
The crowds press in.
“How long will You keep us in suspense? If You are the Messiah, tell us plainly.” — John 10:24
The flames flicker. The question hangs heavier than the smoke.
He answers—not with uncertainty, but with light sharpened into truth.
“I told you, and you do not believe; the works that I do in My Father’s name, these testify of Me.” — John 10:25
Unseen to those listening, light gathers around Him— not from the menorahs, but from within.
“My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me; and I give eternal life to them, and they will never perish; and no one will snatch them out of My hand.” — John 10:27–28
The servant candle burns steadily behind Him, casting a long shadow forward.
Then He speaks the words the darkness cannot endure.
“I and the Father are one.” — John 10:30
The air fractures.
Hands reach for stones.
“For blasphemy; and because You, being a man, make Yourself out to be God.” — John 10:33
Yet the Light does not retreat.
“If I do not do the works of My Father, do not believe Me; but if I do them, though you do not believe Me, believe the works, so that you may know and understand that the Father is in Me, and I in the Father.” — John 10:37–38
The flames tremble.
Some recoil. Others hesitate.
“Many believed in Him there.” — John 10:42
The Shamash continues to burn— unconsumed.
The servant gives light. The Light reveals the Father.
And though the darkness still resists, it has already been exposed.
The Feast of Dedication remembers a purified Temple.
But the true Dedication stands among them—the long-awaited Messiah, One with the Father, the Light the darkness cannot seize.
Epilogue — The Unbroken Pattern
Passover. Sukkot. Hanukkah.
The cross. The cave. The lamp.
Each time, darkness believes it has won.
Each time, light arrives quietly— then shatters the night.
And though unseen by the world, the heavens remember.
The Light is never extinguished.
It is only hidden—waiting for the moment when darkness overreaches and is undone forever.
