The Hope of Advent

Hope is the light we are called to bring into our homes, our communities, and into the world. And so we wait in the quiet silence, with our little light shining as best as we can manage. Because some truths need quiet before they can grow brighter.

Years ago, I worked at a place in suburban D.C. called Joe’s Record Paradise. Much like today, the day after Thanksgiving was a huge day for us.

My co-worker Jeff was put in charge of opening the store that morning. He showed up early to get things in order for the line of people already gathering outside.

But when flipped on the light and stepped into the quiet familiar space something was stirring in the air. Literally. A pair of legs dangling from the ceiling, caught Jeff completely off guard.

​Those legs were attached to a would-be burglar who tried to break in through the store's AC vent and got himself stuck. Thankfully, the Montgomery County police had no trouble getting him out.

​During Advent, hope seems to drop into our lives unannounced, surprising us in ways we don’t always see coming. At the doorway of a new church year, the season begins quietly, as it always does: with an ordinary candle and a deep longing that permeates the space between promise and fulfillment.

In this holy hush, hope catches us off guard like a thief in the night.

 In the days of King Herod of Judea, there was a priest named Zechariah, who belonged to the priestly order of Abijah. His wife was descended from the daughters of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. Both of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord. But they had no children because Elizabeth was barren, and both were getting on in years. Once when he was serving as priest before God during his section’s turn of duty, he was chosen by lot, according to the custom of the priesthood, to enter the sanctuary of the Lord to offer incense. Now at the time of the incense offering, the whole assembly of the people was praying outside. Then there appeared to him an angel of the Lord, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. When Zechariah saw him, he was terrified, and fear overwhelmed him. But the angel said to him, “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John. 
                                                                                                                    - Luke 1:5–13

Luke begins his Christmas story, not with shepherds or a virgin host, but with two elderly folks named Zechariah and Elizabeth. Luke tells us they are “righteous before God.” Meaning they’re good people; faithful souls trying to hold it together while the world around them rips apart at the seams.

For decades these two have been praying for a child. And for decades God has been silent. And not just in their home. It seems God has been silent everywhere. Even the prophets have gone quiet as Rome’s voice grows louder. The people pray for help. But God seems to be missing in action. I’m sure some of us here know what that feels like.

There’s a story of a widow who prayed every day for some kind of sign that would tell her God still saw her. Yet nothing ever happened—no angels, no booming voice, just silence day-after-day.

Then one morning she opened her mailbox and found a piece of junk mail with “You are loved” scribbled in Sharpie on the front. Whether it was from God or the mail man, those three little words completely renewed a faith she had all but abandoned.

Maybe you know that feeling of praying for something for so long that you stop expecting it to ever happen. Which makes this story of Zechariah and Elizabeth a perfect launch for Advent. Where in the quiet we remember hope takes root in our dark space, long before we notice its light.

This story is also a great way to kick off our theme for the year—Woven Together by God. It reminds us that even while it seems like nothing is happening, God’s working, stitching something together beneath the surface. 

Now, Zechariah’s been carrying a heavy ache, wondering if God is even listening anymore. He takes this longing with him to work, where his job as a priest in the temple has become as routine and predictable as opening a record store each morning.

He’s not expecting anything different on this day, when he’s chosen “by lot” to enter the sanctuary to offer incense to God. To a priest, this is like winning the lottery. It’s considered to be one of the holiest of tasks. But for Zechariah, he’s probably thinking what’s the point. God’s not listening.

Maybe you know this weight, of feeling ignored, or let down by God. You’ve all but given up. As it so often is with hope, it’s in these unexpected spaces God breaks through the silence and everything changes. You might not get an angel showing up and freaking you out, but the message is still the same: “Your prayer has been heard.”

This story reminds us that we always have hope because God has already heard every prayer Zechariah ever prayed. And God hears every one of ours as well. The uncomfortable silence isn’t God ghosting us. It’s God moving in the shadows, clearing space so hope has a place to take root.

After all, before we get Jesus, we get John…a messenger who prepares the way. Likewise, before we get the bright lights and joy of Christmas we get a season of quiet darkness. This is our time to wait faithfully even though we can’t see what’s happening.

Richard Rohr teaches us that: “Hope is not a passive waiting for the future. It’s the active trust that the holiness planted in the silence will blossom in its time.” Rohr echoes something I said last week—that where we tend to see nothing more than a bag of tangled, mismatched string,
God sees the pattern. And God is quietly knitting us into it.

The way I see it, hope is the thing that holds us, and binds us, and pulls us towards one another. Hope is shared. It’s communal. It’s what keeps us connected in this season of waiting where God keeps stitching saints, doubters, and misfits into a beautiful tapestry called Anamesa.

Hope is the light that invites us to trust that God is working even when we can’t spot a single sign. Wherever you feel stuck or abandoned, Advent leans in and whispers: “It’s not over. God’s still weaving.”

Hope becomes the light that keeps us showing up. It invites us - like Zachariah in the temple - to keep doing the next faithful thing, even when nothing feels different. To paraphrase Anne Lamott, hope is that quiet, stubborn belief that from darkness, dawn will come.

The way we show up doesn’t need to be fancy or dramatic. Sometimes it’s as small as checking in on a hurting friend. Or scribbling you are loved on your neighbor’s junk mail. Small acts become quiet lights that remind the world dawn is on the way.

And lastly, hope invites us into the redemption God is already unfolding. I’m not suggesting this is a call to fix the world. But we can use our small light of hope to reveal the glory of the One who is already mending it.

That light shines brightest when we are woven together in all the ways we love God, love others, and serve both. Through our love, our showing up, God’s light shines brightly in the darkness so others can find their way home. 

Madeleine L’Engle reminds us, “We draw people to Christ not by loudly discrediting what they believe, but by showing them a light that is so lovely they want with all their hearts to know the source.”

Hope is the light we are called to bring into our homes, our communities, and into the world. And so we wait in the quiet silence, with our little light shining as best as we can manage. Because some truths need quiet before they can grow brighter.

And that’s the rhythm of Advent: Silence. Listening. Receiving. And then—when the time is right—shining brightly.

So here’s my invitation for you this week: Find one quiet moment each day. Enter it without an agenda or some eloquent prayer. Just take a few minutes where you can breathe and remember: God is listening. God is weaving. God is always preparing the way. And where God is, there is hope.

When you’re ready, ask yourself, “How can I carry hope to someone today?” A phone call? A kind word? A moment of forgiveness? Or choosing kindness when cynicism would be a much easier route.

Hope is the first candle of Advent. It’s not loud or flashy or always immediate. But it’s the small, steady, stubborn light that interrupts the dark and changes the way we see.

And as it flickers, it whispers what Teilhard de Chardin wrote long ago, “Trust in the slow work of God.”

Because hope is the quiet truth that we’re not just drifting through life—we’re being woven, thread by thread, into something beautiful.

As we begin this Advent journey, remember: Zechariah’s story isn’t just ancient history. It’s our story, too. A story of God listening in the silence, working behind the scenes, and calling us to participate in the small, unseen beginnings of redemption.

So may this first candle of Advent, that is alive and stirring weave us together. May we keep showing up like Zechariah—trusting the One who hears every sigh and every prayer.

And may we prepare the way for Jesus by letting love slip into our ordinary lives and take on flesh again, one quiet act at a time.