A Sacred Play allegory about community, cycles, and light-sharing
Prologue: A Whisper in the Grass
One summer night, when the air was warm and the stars had softened their gaze, I lay in a field thick with wild clover and unspoken magic. The hush of dusk had settled, and the ordinary world felt suspended—like it was waiting for something ancient to stir.
That’s when the fireflies began to rise.
At first, just one—then another. A flicker here, a shimmer there. Soon, the whole field pulsed like a living constellation, their lights blinking not at random, but in rhythm. As if remembering a song older than wind.
Somewhere between sleep and wonder, I heard a whisper—not with my ears, but with something deeper.
“We are the keepers of the rhythm, the lanterns of belonging. Let us tell you the story of the light.”
And so began the Gospel of Fireflies.
The Beginning of the Glow
Long ago—before lanterns, before cities, before even the moon was worshipped for its midnight glow—there were only sparks. Tiny creatures, scattered and alone, each holding a glimmer of light they did not understand.
At first, they blinked alone.
The First Firefly blinked not out of courage, but instinct—like the way a heart beats before it’s noticed. It didn’t know anyone else could see. It didn’t know it was not alone.
But across the grass, another blink answered.
Then another.
And soon, the blinking became a language.
Not of words, but of presence.
They learned that their glow wasn’t just theirs to hoard—it was a call. A signal. A gesture that said: I am here. I see you. Let’s shine together.
Thus began the sacred rhythm of the fireflies.
The Dance of the Many
As more fireflies were born into the world, they came carrying light in their bellies—and an echo of the rhythm in their hearts.
They gathered in swarms that danced like breathing galaxies. Their pulses began to sync, not through command, but communion. No leader gave the signal. No firefly tried to outshine the rest. Instead, they listened to the dark, to each other, and to the space between the beats.
Their dance became a kind of gospel: not one of creed, but cadence.
This was their worship. Their ritual.
We humans have our own versions—drumming, humming, storytelling around fires. But the fireflies remind us that sometimes the deepest unity comes not from speaking the same words, but from blinking in time with each other. Listening with our light.
The Light Shared Is Never Lost
One night, a young firefly hid beneath a curled leaf. Its glow was faint. Dimmer than the others. “I’m not bright enough,” it thought. “I’ll only ruin the dance.”
An elder firefly found them and hovered nearby, blinking slowly.
“Do you think the stars worry about how bright they are?” the elder asked. “They shine because it’s their nature.”
“But I’m not like them,” the young one whispered. “I can barely be seen.”
“Even the smallest spark invites another,” the elder replied. “We don’t shine to impress. We shine to connect. And in connection, we grow brighter.”
The young firefly blinked—just once. Then again.
Across the grass, another answered.
Then another.
And the young one glowed.
Darkness Has Its Place
Not all nights are for shining.
Some evenings, the fireflies stay still. They rest. They go dark.
And that too is sacred.
The rhythm includes the pause. The breath between the notes. The dark between the sparks. It is not failure—it is part of the cycle.
Some days, we too go dark. We retreat. We cocoon ourselves in silence.
But even then, the rhythm holds us.
And when we are ready, we blink again.
False Light and the Lure of Loneliness
There came a time when some fireflies were drawn to a strange glow—a cold, constant brightness that did not blink. It was artificial. It did not pulse. It did not respond.
Still, many flew toward it, mistaking its brightness for warmth, its steadiness for wisdom.
But there was no rhythm there. No dance. No echo. Just exhaustion.
These fireflies forgot the sacred cycle. They tried to shine constantly, desperately. Some burned out.
Others returned, flickering dimly, ashamed.
But the swarm welcomed them back with silence and space. No judgment. Just the beat—waiting patiently for them to remember.
The Gospel Carried on Wings
Fireflies do not preach in words. Their gospel is lived.
It is carried in the way they flash in rhythm with others. The way they pause. The way they fly without needing to be seen.
Their light is not for conversion—it is for invitation.
Their mission is not to convince—but to remind.
Remind us that light is meant to be shared. That we do not need to be the brightest, only present. That we are part of a living rhythm older than memory.
The Gospel of Fireflies is not written in books.
It is written in flashes.
In silence.
In returnings.
In the courage to blink when you think no one sees—and to keep blinking anyway.
Epilogue: Becoming Fireflies Ourselves
We are not so different.
We each carry a light—soft, sacred, sometimes scared.
We pulse in our own ways: through art, through care, through truth-telling and quiet love.
We do not have to shine all the time.
We only have to join the dance.
To rest when needed. To rise when called. To blink when the rhythm stirs within us.
And in doing so, we teach each other: you belong, your light matters, and the dark is never the end.
So go out tonight.
Watch the edges of the field.
And remember:
You, too, are part of the rhythm.
You, too, are a bearer of the sacred glow.
You, too, are written into the Gospel of Fireflies.
