The Lion's Song in the Darkness

In C.S. Lewis's The Magician's Nephew, there is a moment that has quietly shaped how generations of readers understand courage. The children Digory and Polly stand in absolute nothingness — a void so complete that even the darkness feels heavy. Then Aslan begins to sing. And as He sings, stars appear. Grass pushes up from nothing. Trees stretch toward a sky that didn't exist moments before. A whole world is sung into being.

But here is what we often miss: before the song, there was only darkness. The courage in that scene doesn't belong to a warrior charging into battle. It belongs to a voice willing to break open the silence when there is no guarantee anyone is listening.

That is the courage Scripture calls us to again and again. When Elijah stood on Mount Carmel, surrounded by four hundred and fifty prophets of Baal, he didn't draw a sword. He prayed. He opened his mouth and trusted that the God of Abraham would answer. And fire fell.

Most of us will never face a battlefield. But every one of us will face a darkness that feels total — a diagnosis, a betrayal, a grief so heavy we forget what light looked like. Courage in those moments is not the absence of fear. It is the willingness to open our mouths and sing anyway, trusting that the Almighty who spoke creation into existence is still listening, still creating, still making all things new.