An artist once drew a picture of a winter twilight — the trees heavily laden with snow and a dreary dark house, lonely and desolate, in the midst of the storm. It was a sad picture. Then with a quick stroke of yellow paint, he put a light in one window. The effect was magical. The entire scene was transformed into a vision of comfort and cheer. The birth of Christ was just such a light in a dark world.

How long the years of waiting must have seemed. The prophets had said that He would come. “He will be born of a virgin and will be the Prince of Peace,” declared Isaiah. “The place of His birth will be Bethlehem,” insisted Micah. And all the other inspired spokesmen added their voices until the birth and mission of the Saviour became the hope of the ages. Still, century rolled into century and Christ did not come.

Finally even the prophetic voices were stilled and inspired writing ceased. The voice of God was silent except as it was heard through the words already written. Darkness descended. Israel was ruled by Rome’s iron hand. Hope was nearly gone.

Then, suddenly, all was changed. Angels were dispatched with urgent messages. The forerunner of Christ would be born. A virgin would give birth to One who would be called the “Son of the Highest.” The Roman Empire became part of the miracle and taxed its citizens, sending Joseph and Mary to Bethlehem to fulfill the prophet’s word. The heavenly host raised voices of highest praise. The hour the world had waited for had come. Christ was born.

The light that began shining that night dispels the darkness in every trusting heart. And yet some choose the night.