Advent- Week One- HOPE
When Darkness Seems Overwhelming: Finding Hope in the Waiting
How do you feel about waiting?
It's a simple question, but one that cuts to the heart of our modern experience. Most of us aren't particularly fond of it—especially when lines are involved. We live in an age of instant gratification, where two-day shipping feels like an eternity and buffering videos test our patience to its limits.
Yet here we stand at the beginning of Advent, a season that calls us to do the very thing we resist most: wait.
The Season That Runs Counter to Culture
Advent marks the first day of the year on the church calendar—not January 1st, not the Jewish New Year in September, but this moment right now. It's a season designed to slow us down when everything around us demands we speed up. While the world rushes through December in a frenzy of shopping, parties, and obligations, the church calendar invites us to adopt a different posture entirely.
This is a season of sacred waiting—waiting as God's people once waited for the Christ child to appear, and waiting as we now anticipate Christ's return. It's a dual waiting that connects us across millennia to those who came before us.
At That Time: Understanding Darkness
Luke's Gospel begins the Christmas story with a phrase that's easy to overlook: "At that time, the Roman emperor Augustus decreed that a census should be taken throughout the Roman Empire" (Luke 2:1-3).
At that time. In those days.
These simple words carry enormous weight when we understand what they really mean. At that time, God's people were living in captivity and bondage—again. They had been an occupied nation for over 600 years. To put that in perspective, the United States hasn't even existed for 300 years. The people of Israel had endured twice that long under the thumb of various empires.
At that time, worship of the one true God was openly mocked by Rome's religious systems.
At that time, there had been no recognized prophet—no clear voice speaking on God's behalf—for 400 years. Four centuries of silence. And now, a census. Not just a bureaucratic formality, but a symbol of imperial power and control. A census meant more efficient taxation, and more efficient taxation meant more efficient oppression. Salt in an already festering wound.
These were bleak times. Dark times. Times that seemed utterly hopeless.
When Darkness Threatens to Overwhelm Us
We may not know what it's like to be an occupied nation for 600 years or to experience 400 years of prophetic silence, but we're not strangers to darkness that threatens to overwhelm.
Consider just this past year. Natural disasters have ravaged communities and claimed lives. Wars rage around the globe—Ukraine and Russia, persecution and massacres of Christians in Nigeria, conflicts that barely make headlines anymore because we've become numb to the constant stream of violence.
Another day, another shooting. Is it a school this time? A church? A shopping center? We've reached a point where we're no longer shocked—just weary.
Closer to home, relationships fracture beyond what seems repairable. Marriages crumble. Families splinter. And then there's grief—the profound, aching grief of watching loved ones fall ill and die, of empty chairs at holiday tables, of futures that will never be.
The darkness can feel overwhelming indeed.
But God Was Already at Work
Here's what we cannot forget: At that time—at that very same time when Augustus ruled and the census was decreed, when oppression seemed total and hope seemed lost—God was already at work.
At that time, John the Baptist was already on the scene, preparing the way for the Messiah as foretold. At that time, God had already spoken to Mary, announcing that she would bring the Savior into the world. The greatest moment in human history was unfolding in what appeared to be the most hopeless of times.
This is God's pattern. He does some of His best work in the most desperate situations.
Trusting, Waiting, Hoping
There's a beautiful linguistic connection in Isaiah 25 that illuminates this truth. When the people proclaimed, "This is our God; we trusted in him, and he saved us. This is the Lord, in whom we trusted. Let us rejoice in the salvation he brings," the Hebrew word translated as "trusted" can also be rendered as "waited" or "hoped."
These three concepts—trusting, waiting, and hoping—are absolutely synonymous.
We wait because we trust. And in that space of waiting, in that space of trusting, we express hope.
The Bells Still Ring
During the American Civil War, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow penned a poem that would become the beloved hymn "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day." Written in one of America's darkest hours, the poem speaks of hearing Christmas bells ring out with joy—immediately followed by the sound of cannons firing.
Hope, then despair. Joy, then violence. Bells, then guns.
But the cannons weren't the final word. The bells rang again, carrying this message:
God is not dead, nor doth he sleep. The wrong shall fail, the right prevails, With peace on earth, goodwill to men.
Our Living Hope
When darkness threatens to overwhelm us—whether through global catastrophes or personal tragedies, through violence in our streets or brokenness in our homes—we must remember this foundational truth: our hope is in the God who neither slumbers nor sleeps.
He is not absent. He is not indifferent. He is not dead.
He is working, even now, especially now, in the darkness. He is bringing about redemption and restoration in ways we cannot yet see. The story isn't over. The final chapter hasn't been written.
This Advent season, as we wait, may we not place our hope in our circumstances changing. Instead, may we place our hope in the God who can carry us in, through, and even out of our circumstances.
We are a people of hope—not because everything is fine, but because our God is faithful. Not because the darkness isn't real, but because the Light has come and will come again.
At this time, in these days, God is at work.
The bells are ringing still.
How do you feel about waiting?
It's a simple question, but one that cuts to the heart of our modern experience. Most of us aren't particularly fond of it—especially when lines are involved. We live in an age of instant gratification, where two-day shipping feels like an eternity and buffering videos test our patience to its limits.
Yet here we stand at the beginning of Advent, a season that calls us to do the very thing we resist most: wait.
The Season That Runs Counter to Culture
Advent marks the first day of the year on the church calendar—not January 1st, not the Jewish New Year in September, but this moment right now. It's a season designed to slow us down when everything around us demands we speed up. While the world rushes through December in a frenzy of shopping, parties, and obligations, the church calendar invites us to adopt a different posture entirely.
This is a season of sacred waiting—waiting as God's people once waited for the Christ child to appear, and waiting as we now anticipate Christ's return. It's a dual waiting that connects us across millennia to those who came before us.
At That Time: Understanding Darkness
Luke's Gospel begins the Christmas story with a phrase that's easy to overlook: "At that time, the Roman emperor Augustus decreed that a census should be taken throughout the Roman Empire" (Luke 2:1-3).
At that time. In those days.
These simple words carry enormous weight when we understand what they really mean. At that time, God's people were living in captivity and bondage—again. They had been an occupied nation for over 600 years. To put that in perspective, the United States hasn't even existed for 300 years. The people of Israel had endured twice that long under the thumb of various empires.
At that time, worship of the one true God was openly mocked by Rome's religious systems.
At that time, there had been no recognized prophet—no clear voice speaking on God's behalf—for 400 years. Four centuries of silence. And now, a census. Not just a bureaucratic formality, but a symbol of imperial power and control. A census meant more efficient taxation, and more efficient taxation meant more efficient oppression. Salt in an already festering wound.
These were bleak times. Dark times. Times that seemed utterly hopeless.
When Darkness Threatens to Overwhelm Us
We may not know what it's like to be an occupied nation for 600 years or to experience 400 years of prophetic silence, but we're not strangers to darkness that threatens to overwhelm.
Consider just this past year. Natural disasters have ravaged communities and claimed lives. Wars rage around the globe—Ukraine and Russia, persecution and massacres of Christians in Nigeria, conflicts that barely make headlines anymore because we've become numb to the constant stream of violence.
Another day, another shooting. Is it a school this time? A church? A shopping center? We've reached a point where we're no longer shocked—just weary.
Closer to home, relationships fracture beyond what seems repairable. Marriages crumble. Families splinter. And then there's grief—the profound, aching grief of watching loved ones fall ill and die, of empty chairs at holiday tables, of futures that will never be.
The darkness can feel overwhelming indeed.
But God Was Already at Work
Here's what we cannot forget: At that time—at that very same time when Augustus ruled and the census was decreed, when oppression seemed total and hope seemed lost—God was already at work.
At that time, John the Baptist was already on the scene, preparing the way for the Messiah as foretold. At that time, God had already spoken to Mary, announcing that she would bring the Savior into the world. The greatest moment in human history was unfolding in what appeared to be the most hopeless of times.
This is God's pattern. He does some of His best work in the most desperate situations.
Trusting, Waiting, Hoping
There's a beautiful linguistic connection in Isaiah 25 that illuminates this truth. When the people proclaimed, "This is our God; we trusted in him, and he saved us. This is the Lord, in whom we trusted. Let us rejoice in the salvation he brings," the Hebrew word translated as "trusted" can also be rendered as "waited" or "hoped."
These three concepts—trusting, waiting, and hoping—are absolutely synonymous.
We wait because we trust. And in that space of waiting, in that space of trusting, we express hope.
The Bells Still Ring
During the American Civil War, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow penned a poem that would become the beloved hymn "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day." Written in one of America's darkest hours, the poem speaks of hearing Christmas bells ring out with joy—immediately followed by the sound of cannons firing.
Hope, then despair. Joy, then violence. Bells, then guns.
But the cannons weren't the final word. The bells rang again, carrying this message:
God is not dead, nor doth he sleep. The wrong shall fail, the right prevails, With peace on earth, goodwill to men.
Our Living Hope
When darkness threatens to overwhelm us—whether through global catastrophes or personal tragedies, through violence in our streets or brokenness in our homes—we must remember this foundational truth: our hope is in the God who neither slumbers nor sleeps.
He is not absent. He is not indifferent. He is not dead.
He is working, even now, especially now, in the darkness. He is bringing about redemption and restoration in ways we cannot yet see. The story isn't over. The final chapter hasn't been written.
This Advent season, as we wait, may we not place our hope in our circumstances changing. Instead, may we place our hope in the God who can carry us in, through, and even out of our circumstances.
We are a people of hope—not because everything is fine, but because our God is faithful. Not because the darkness isn't real, but because the Light has come and will come again.
At this time, in these days, God is at work.
The bells are ringing still.
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