Hope Breaks In

Lamentations 3:55-57, Luke 1:5-13

When we think of Advent, we usually think of candles and carols, warm light in the darkness, and hopeful anticipation. Fear is probably not the first word that comes to mind. But fear runs all through the Advent scriptures.
Every time God’s messengers appear to Zechariah, to Mary, to Joseph, to the shepherds the first words are always the same: “Do not be afraid.” Why? Because Christ was born into a fearful warld. Luke begins the story with a single weighted phrase: “In the time of Herod…”

Herod the Great was a man of astonishing achievements and equally astonishing cruelty. He rebuilt the Second Temple in magnificent fashion and filled Judea with marvels palaces extending into the Mediterranean, the desert stronghold of Masada with its aqueduct-fed water system, and the massive walls surrounding the burial place of the patriarchs and matriarchs Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca, and Jacob and Leah. But beneath those wonders was a ruler driven by insecurity and fear. A client of the Roman Empire, Idumean by birth, he came to power through his father’s connections with the Roman Senate and with the help of Mark Antony. And he preserved his throne through violence, executing his wife, several sons, and countless others. And as Matthew’s Gospel remembers, he even ordered the slaughter of infant boys in Bethlehem.

This is the world Luke points to with that simple phrase: “In the time of Herod…” A fearful, unstable, anxious world. The very world into which Christ chose to come. We may not live under Herod, but we live under the weight of similar fears. Recent studies confirm what many of us feel every day.

A 2025 Chapman University Survey reports that nearly 70% of Americans fear corrupt government officials. Fear of a loved one becoming seriously ill ranks second. Economic collapse has surged to third. Pew Research finds Americans overwhelmingly pessimistic about the future. The Edelman Trust Barometer reports eroding trust and deepening polarization. And surveys of teenagers reveal historic lows in well-being and optimism, with stress about the future affecting mood, sleep, motivation, and mental health. Add to this the daily anxieties close to home. Violence in our own community, divisions in our country, climate threats, rapid technological change, and the personal fears we carry for the people we love. Fear has become the background noise of our lives.

So, this Advent, we begin with a question: What do you fear? Not to shame fear, and not to amplify it, but because God speaks directly into it. “Do not be afraid” is not a dismissal; it’s an invitation. It is God’s way of saying: Your fear is real, but it is not the whole story. Christ comes into fear, into an occupied land, into a vulnerable family, into a fragile and uncertain world, to show the depth of God’s compassion and the persistence of God’s hope.

Before the angels ever spoke to Mary, before Joseph wrestled with doubt, before shepherds heard “Glory to God,” the Advent story begins with someone whose life looks far more like ours someone quietly trying to be faithful in a fearful world. It begins with Zechariah. Zechariah wasn’t a king or a prophet or a revolutionary. He was an ordinary priest in an occupied land. He had watched his nation lose independence. He longed for the Messiah. He longed for a child. He served in the Temple his whole life and perhaps no longer expected God to show up in any dramatic way.

When Luke tells us that it was his “turn by lot” to offer incense, we might wonder: Was this his lucky day? Was he excited or exhausted? Or was it just another day, another faithful act without much expectation that anything would change?

Many of us enter Advent the same way. With faith, yes. But also, with a quiet acceptance that certain hopes are past their expiration date. So, when the angel appears in the holy place, Zechariah does what most of us would do: He flinches. He is troubled. He pulls back. He recoils in fear.

The Greek word used is tarassó, to be agitated, shaken to the core. Because when hope shows up after a long silence, it can feel more frightening than comforting. Fear becomes so normal that grace feels foreign. And the first words he hears are the ones spoken throughout Advent: “Do not be afraid.” Not a dismissal, a reorientation. Your fear is real, but it is not the only truth. Your prayer has been heard. God begins not with a miracle, but with recognition of our fear.

Long after Zechariah regains his voice, long after John is born, Jesus repeats the same message to his disciples. Jesus says in John 14:27, “Let not your hearts be troubled… do not be afraid.” Because our fear tends to linger. Fear that stays. Fear can form us. Fear becomes embedded in our bodies, our relationships, our politics, our media, our families. Fear we’ve learned to live with. Fear we forget to question. But Advent tells the truth: God enters the silence, the ache, the barrenness, right where fear has taken root.

Advent begins in darkness. Advent isn’t about pretending we’re not afraid. It’s about bringing fear into the light with honesty and gentleness. Advent invites us to ask: How does fear live in me? What voices has it amplified? What longings has it silenced? Fear can actually teach us something. It signals that something matters. Something is at stake. It reveals vulnerability, not failure.

So, this Advent we ask: What are we afraid to hope for? What have we stopped praying for? Where have we shrunk back? Our scriptures this morning hold both macro and micro fears together. Lamentations cries out from national trauma. Zechariah trembles in personal disappointment. We know both. We live with political and economic anxieties and our fear for the future of our planet, while also living with the tender, private fears we barely speak aloud. Naming those fears, naming those longings, can be deeply healing. Advent gives us room to pray: “Here is where I am afraid. Here is where I still long for God.”

Zechariah’s fear does not disqualify him. It becomes the starting point of transformation. Even in silence, he participates in God’s unfolding story. Even without words, his life bears witness to a God who hears, who disrupts, who enters fearful places with grace. So, the deeper Advent question is not: How do we get rid of fear? But rather: Can we name our fear honestly and still believe God is near?

This is not just Zechariah’s story. This is our story. Where does fear shape our life together? Personal fears. Community fears. Cultural and economic anxieties. Fears about the future of the church. Fears of being disappointed again by our leaders, our friends, our family, or maybe even our church. And what longings do we bring to God this Advent? Longing for healing. Longing for reconciliation. Longing for peace. Longing for justice. Longing for restored faith. Longing for new beginnings. So here is a simple practice for the week: Name one fear, whether large or small, something that you’ve shared or something that you dare not mention. And name one longing, whether personal, communal, or global. Nothing is too big or too small. Offer both to God in prayer. And listen for the whisper spoken first to Zechariah: “Your prayer has been heard.”

Advent begins in fear, but it does not end there. Into the time of Herod, hope breaks in. Into our fear, God draws near. Into our silence, God speaks recognition before restoration. The question is not whether we can eliminate fear. The question is whether we can trust that God meets us right there and that hope is already breaking in, into our lives, into our community, and into the world.