It's flacnizomide, God's gut -level mercy. Learn
it. Welcome back, friend. You tuned in to The
Semi -Seminarian, where Scripture meets the static
and grace finds its way through whatever noise
you carried in with you. Today we're stepping
into Advent week one on hope. And we're beginning
with a question most of us have been too tired
to name. What if hope isn't something you muster,
something that arrives uninvited? Isaiah 9 and
Luke 1 are going to guide us into that kind of
hope. The kind that breaks in, not the kind you
have to build. And as you listen today, I want
you to feel where you are. You're joining our
tiny little church here in Oklahoma, modest sanctuary,
soft hum of the heater kicking on, Bibles fluttering
open across the pews. Folks are shuffling in
from the cold, shaking off that early winter
wind. A couple of kids leaning into their parents,
whispering questions about the Advent candles.
You may be listening miles away, but you know
what? You're here, in the room with us right
now. So take a breath, the season's begun, the
light is on the way, and I'll see you on the
other side. So as I begin here a new series this
morning, let me go ahead very briefly, church,
and start at the top of the mountain looking
down on the road that we're going to take over
these next four weeks. and set the scene just
a little bit overall, and then we'll talk about
hope here in just a second. But I'd mentioned
this earlier in the candle lighting, and if you
have been tracking with us for a while, if you
actually think about it, we've done some sermons
here recently on purpose to lead us to this point.
And let me, if you've been with us, let me just
recall a few things that... You might remember.
Maybe you remember that we spent a series where
we looked at what happened in the Bible between
the banishment from the Garden of Eden and the
flood. You guys remember talking about that?
And the thing that we noticed at the end of those
three series was that through all of that, through
the banishment, through the flood, what was the
first thing Noah did? Built an altar. The covenant
of God, even through rupture, remained. Then
we spent another three weeks looking at another
rupture in the relationship between God and God's
people. That, if you recall, the temple is destroyed
by the Babylonians. They're in exile for 70 years.
And they come back. And if you've been with us,
you may recall, they gather back, they're discouraged,
but then the priests open the word. And I don't
know if you remember what scripture says that
they did, but when they heard the word again,
they wept. And they rebuilt the temple. And prayer
in the house of the Lord, the covenant resumed.
God continues to push forward in our lives even
when we keep screwing it up. We keep breaking
it. God keeps making it. And here we find ourselves
again. God pursuing after us. Only this time,
it's not about another altar. It's not about
building a new temple. It's about God saying,
I love you too much to leave you the way that
you are. So I am going to come to you. And by
coming to us, it actually, removes all of the
barriers that we have always had between us and
perfect reconciliation with God. No matter how
hard we have tried, there has always been a sin
that separates us from God. And we looked at
last week the prophecy of Malachi and the idea
of refining metal. And remember we talked about
how the refiner would sit there looking at that
metal as it's being refined until what? Until
he could see his own reflection. God's that refiner.
God loves you too much to let the parts of you
that aren't him stay. So he comes to us so that
those barriers can finally be removed, that we
can truly have. reconciliation with God. And
when we think about it, that should be, as Christians,
the most important thing we desire. Because without
the possibility of true reconciliation with God,
my friends, while you might be happy in this
world, you won't find real hope, nor peace, nor
love, nor joy. It's only the incoming of the
incarnate God that actually makes these things
possible. That is why we stop for four weeks
and don't rush through them. Because every one
of these things are things that the world will
promise to you as a counterfeit. But only the
coming of God can provide them. And that should
matter to us. So let's look at the first one,
hope. The world says hope is something you build.
Scripture says hope is something that breaks
in. And that distinction right there this morning,
friends, is going to be all the difference in
the world. Because we live in a culture that
has turned hope into a self -improvement project.
Hope is something we're supposed to manufacture.
Something that you generate through the sheer
force of your will. We have vision boards and
five -year plans. We have a grinded -out culture,
the bootstrap mentality. We've got influencers
who tell us to just manifest it. Speak it into
existence. Stay positive. No matter the fact
that the house is burning down around us. Hope,
according to the world, is that thing you do
when you grit your teeth and try to produce even
on the dark days. But there is a wound under
that bandage that nobody wants to talk about.
If I have to achieve hope, then hope is only
as strong as I am. And I'm tired. And maybe you
felt that settle in your chest just now. Because
you know what it's like to wake up and have to
convince yourself that somehow the coming day
matters. You know what it's like to have to paste
a smile on your face because everyone expects
you to be fine. You know what it's like to scroll
past people who seem to have their lives completely
together while you're just trying to make it
to Thursday. The world's version of hope is exhausting.
It never lets you rest. It never lets you be
weak. It never lets you admit the tank is empty.
And here we are on this first Sunday of Advent.
This church has been lighting candles for hope
since before every single one of you has ever
been born. This one. But maybe this year, before
we start taking the lighting of the candles for
granted, maybe we need to be honest about what
we're actually hoping for. Are we hoping for
strength to keep the performance going? Or are
we hoping for something that arrives without
our permission? Something that doesn't require
us to hold it up. Isaiah chapter 9 wasn't written
for optimistic people. It was written by a nation
who tried everything. They had made political
alliances that had collapsed. They courted the
nation of Assyria for protection and got devoured
by them instead. The trusted kings who promised
reform and couldn't deliver. Ahaz, the one who
was supposed to steady the ship, ended up sacrificing
his own son to foreign gods. They had watched
generation after generation pray for dawn and
get more nighttime. These weren't unmotivated
people. They weren't sitting around waiting for
someone else to fix things. They had tried. Lord,
how they had tried. They tried diplomacy. They
tried military strength. They tried religious
reform. They tried everything that the ancient
world said you were supposed to try to do when
your nation was falling down around you. And
that is the ache. Underneath our text this morning,
exhaustion. Exhaustion of a people told again
and again, if they just worked harder, if they
just believed more, prayed harder, trusted deeper,
then maybe the darkness would finally lift. But
it didn't. The people didn't stumble because
they were weak. They stumbled because they were
asked to scale a mountain only God could move.
And I wonder, I wonder if some of us are standing
perhaps at the foot of a mountain just like that
this morning. You've done the work. You've read
the books. You've gone to counseling. You've
said the prayers. You tried to stay grateful,
stay faithful, stay hopeful. You've climbed and
you've climbed and you've climbed and you've
climbed and you are still in the dark. Friends,
Isaiah is writing to you. He's not writing to
people who gave up too easily. He's writing to
a people who gave everything. They gave everything
they had. still could manufacture light. And
here's what he tells them. People who walked
in darkness have seen a great light. Those who
dwelt in a land of deep shadow, on them light
has shone. Hear those verbs. Seen, not made.
Shone, not generated. This text isn't about human
accomplishment. This text is about divine arrival.
The light didn't come because the people had
finally got it together. The light came because
that's what God does when the darkness has been
speaking far too long. Friends, a reading of
Holy Scripture this morning from the prophet
Isaiah ben Amoz, chapter 9, verse 1 through 7.
But there will be no gloom for her who is in
anguish. In the former time he brought into contempt
the land of Zebulun, the land of Naphtali. But
in the latter time he has made glorious the way
of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee
of the nations. People who walked in darkness
have seen a great light. Those who dwelt in a
land of deep shadow, on them light has shone.
You have multiplied the nation. You have increased
its joy. They rejoice before you as a joy with
harvest, as they are glad when they divide the
spoil. For the yoke of his burden and the staff
for his shoulder, the rod of his oppressor, you
have broken as on the day of Midian. For every
boot of the trampling warrior. In battle, tumult,
and every garment rolled in blood will be burned
as fuel for fire. For to us, child is born. To
us, a son is given. And the government shall
be upon his shoulder. And his name shall be called
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting
Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his
government and of peace, there will be no end.
on the throne of David and over his kingdom to
establish it and to uphold it with justice and
with righteousness from his time forth and evermore.
The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this. Friends,
reading of the word. Did you catch that last
line? The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.
Not your zeal. Not your determination, not your
positive thinking or your discipline or your
refusal to quit. The zeal of the Lord. God's
passion. God's initiative. God's unrelenting
commitment to break into the darkness whether
we are ready for it or not. That Hebrew word
for zeal, kinah. It's the same word used for
jealousy, for burning passion, for a love that
is so fierce it refuses to let go. God isn't
casually interested in your liberation. God is
consumed with it. And centuries later, Zechariah,
standing in a temple with a tongue just loosened
after nine months of silence, Says almost the
same thing. By the tender mercy of our God, the
dawn from on high shall break upon us to give
light to those who sit in darkness and in the
shadow of death to guide our feet into the way
of peace. Break upon us. That's the word. The
dawn doesn't rise from within us. It breaks upon
us from outside and above, from beyond the horizon
we can see. That is Advent hope. Not the hope
you climb toward. The hope that descends. So
let me ask you something this morning. When you
hear the word hope, What do you feel? Do you
feel expectation or pressure? Because for a lot
of us, hope has become another thing we're supposed
to produce. Another performance we're supposed
to maintain. Another mask we're supposed to wear
so people don't worry about us. Have you ever
been told to stay hopeful when everything in
you is screaming you can't hold it together anymore?
Have you ever felt guilty for not feeling more
optimistic? Like somehow your darkness was a
failure of your faith? Have you ever smiled at
church when you wanted to weep? Hopeful people
aren't supposed to fall apart in public. Have
you ever laid in bed awake at night, exhausted
from the work of believing things would get better
and wondering how long you're supposed to keep
this up? World has turned hope into a personality
trait. Spiritual caffeine you're supposed to
drink each morning so you can keep functioning.
And if you can't muster it, if you can't fake
it, if you can't perform it, well, maybe you
just don't have enough faith. But that's not
biblical hope. That's not Isaiah's hope. That,
friends, most assuredly is not Advent hope. That's
counterfeit. And it has been abusing us for a
long time. Here's what. counterfeit looks like.
Hope is something you can muster. Hope is something
you maintain. Hope is something you can fake
it until you make it. Hope is something you earn
through positive thinking and relentless effort.
Hope is something you post so folks think you're
doing fine. Hope as performance. Hope as spiritual
help. Hope as good vibes only. And sweetheart,
that version of hope will eat you alive. Because
it demands of you to keep going until you have
nothing left. It demands you keep smiling when
your heart is shattered. It demands you keep
believing even when everything in you is collapsing.
And if you can't do it, If you stumble, if you
admit you're drowning, then somehow that's your
fault because you didn't hope hard enough. That's
not the good news. That's a yoke. That's a burden.
That's the very thing Jesus said he was coming
to lift off your shoulders. Counterfeit hope
always puts a burden on you. Real hope always
puts the burden on God. Counterfeit hope says
if you just try harder, the light will come.
Real hope says the light is coming whether you're
ready or not. Counterfeit hope is a ladder you
climb. Real hope is a dawn that breaks over you.
And the difference between those two? will determine
whether you survive this season or whether you
just try and white knuckle your way through December
pretending everything's fine. That's what we're
facing. So, hoping not to choose that option,
what does real hope look like? It looks like
Bethlehem. It looks like a baby. Isaiah. Could
have prophesied a warrior, a revolutionary, a
system, a breakthrough. Instead, he prophesied
a child. For to us, a child is born, a son is
given. Why a child? Because nobody looks at a
baby and thinks, look what I've accomplished.
A baby is received, not achieved. A baby arrives
helpless, dependent, vulnerable. And that's the
point. God wanted to make sure nobody would ever
confuse receiving hope with producing it. Hope
of the world came in swaddling clothes, laid
in a feeding trough, completely incapable of
doing anything for himself. And that weakness,
my dear friends, is the message. You don't have
to be strong enough. Hope isn't waiting for you
to get your act together. Hope showed up unable
to even hold its own head up. And that was on
purpose. Not in Rome. Not in Jerusalem. In Bethlehem.
A town so small it barely made maps. To peasants,
to a teenage girl and a carpenter who couldn't
even get room at the inn. And look at what Isaiah
says, the light will shine. Zebulon and Naphtali,
Galilee of the nations, the northern territories,
the forgotten places of the land of God, the
parts of Israel that got conquered first, that
everybody else had just written off by this time.
That, that's where God said light would dawn.
World's version of hope says plan better, work
harder, be stronger, position yourself for success.
Advent says look at the least likely place because
that's where the dawn breaks. Good news, if you're
feeling overlooked this morning, if you feel
like God couldn't possibly be paying attention
to your little corner of darkness, Bethlehem
says otherwise. Galilee says otherwise. God specializes
in the forgotten places. And Isaiah's people
weren't ready. They were still scattered, still
broken, still waiting. Mary wasn't asking for
a Messiah. She was asking, how could this possibly
be? Zechariah wasn't praying for a second chance
at fatherhood. He'd given up on that dream decades
ago. The man literally couldn't believe it when
the angel told him. That's why he got his mouth
shut for nine months. And the child still came.
Hope didn't wait for an invitation. Hope didn't
wait for us to deserve it or to prepare for it
or believe hard enough to earn it. Hope showed
up in the middle of our mess because that's what
hope does. You didn't have to be ready. You just
needed to be there when the crying started. And
this is the part that wrecks me every single
time. The hope of the world arrived as something
that could be killed, something that needed protection.
Something that cried and needed feeding and couldn't
lift his own head. Herod tried to destroy this
hope before it could even walk. And hope survived,
not by fighting back, but by fleeing to Egypt
in the arms of a carpenter. Most powerful thing
in the universe carried across the border as
a refugee. And that vulnerability is the hope.
Because it tells us the weight isn't on us. We're
not holding hope up. Hope is holding us up. And
if hope can survive in Bethlehem, if hope can
survive Herod and exile and a cross, then hope
can survive whatever you've been walking through.
Emmanuel, God with us. Not God giving us advice
from a distance. Not God handing us a strategy
and wishing us luck. Not God stirring up a feeling
in us that dissolves by Tuesday. No. Presence
in the dark. In the ache. In the confusion. And
in the ordinary. That's what the Christ child
means. That is what Advent announces. God didn't
send down to us a self -help book. God sent himself,
wrapped in skin, breathing our air, crying our
tears. The word John uses in his gospel, tabernacled.
God pitched a tent in human flesh. God moved
into the neighborhood, not to fix everything
from a distance, but to be with us in the middle
of everything that's broken. Hope isn't a concept.
It is a heartbeat. So here's the invitation this
morning. Stop trying to manufacture hope. You
can't do it. You were never supposed to do it.
The exhaustion you feel is not a sign you're
failing. It's a sign you've been carrying a weight
that was never yours to carry in the first place.
Hope is not a ladder that finds you. Hope is
a light that finds you. You don't have to hold
hope up. It folds you up. Advent is the season
of holy receiving. It is the art of unclenching
your fists long enough to accept what God is
handing you. And I know that's hard. I know a
lot of us have been clenching our fists for so
long, you've forgotten what open hands feel like.
I know some of us have been performing hope for
so long, we don't know. How to just receive it.
And maybe you learned early nobody's going to
take care of you but yourself and it's on you.
Maybe you've been disappointed so many times
that receiving feels dangerous. Maybe, maybe
you've been told your whole life that needing
something is weakness. But the manger says otherwise.
The manger says God entrusted the hope of the
world to people who had nothing to offer but
open hands. Shepherds who could not afford a
proper sacrifice. The mage who got lost had to
ask for directions. A young mother didn't have
a nursery ready. Carpenter who had no backup
plan. None of them produced hope. All of them
received it. That's exactly what this table right
here is for. That's exactly what this season
is for. That's exactly what a baby in a manger
is for. To remind you that the most important
thing in the universe arrived without your help.
So as you leave this place, hear this blessing.
May you walk this week with a hope you didn't
make and a hope you didn't have to defend. Hope
that sits by you like a newborn in the night,
fragile in appearance, infinite in power. May
you stop climbing long enough to notice the light
has already come. May you lay down the exhausting
work, producing what only God can actually give
you. And instead, Instead, receive the gift of
a God who refuses to leave you in the dark. May
the dawn from on high break upon your darkness
before you ever even lift your head to see it.
Church, is that the word of God? Amen? Amen.
Friend, thank you for tuning in to the first
Sunday of Advent. Today we walk through the heart
of real hope, not the kind you strain to manufacture,
not the kind you paste on like a smile for company,
but the kind Isaiah promised and Zechariah named,
the kind that breaks in when you've run out of
your own strength. We've sat with the truth that
hope isn't a ladder you climb, but a dawn that
finds you. We remembered that God didn't send
us the strategy. He sent us a child, weak, unexpected,
unasked for, vulnerable, gloriously present.
And if that light could find Bethlehem, it can
find whatever darkness you've been sitting in.
But before you go, hear me gently. Don't go back
to trying to earn what God's already gave. Don't
clinch up again. Don't pick the weight back up.
Advent is a season of holy receiving. Let the
light come to you. Let the dawn break upon you.
Let hope be the gift it truly is. And if this
little moment of church has steadied you, this
little tiny digital sanctuary in the red dirt
has felt like a place to breathe, go ahead, throw
your like in the offering plate. It lets us know
you're here. And if you want to keep walking
with us through the season of Advent, tithe that
subscribe. That way, you'll know exactly when
we're lighting the next candle. Until then, friend,
be blessed.