Readings

Isaiah 7.10–16 – Again the Lord spoke to Ahaz, saying, Ask a sign of the Lord your God; let it be deep as Sheol or high as heaven. But Ahaz said, I will not ask, and I will not put the Lord to the test. Then Isaiah said: ‘Hear then, O house of David! Is it too little for you to weary mortals, that you weary my God also? Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.He shall eat curds and honey by the time he knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good. For before the child knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good, the land before whose two kings you are in dread will be deserted.

Matthew 1.18–end – Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, ‘Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.’ All this took place to fulfil what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet: ‘Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel’, which means, ‘God is with us.’ When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus.

Sermon

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Advent is a season of waiting, but it is not a passive waiting. It is a season charged with expectation, uncertainty, and hope. We wait not because nothing is happening, but because something is happening—often quietly, often hidden, often in ways we do not yet understand.

Our readings this morning place us in two moments of deep uncertainty.

In Isaiah, we meet King Ahaz of Judah, a ruler under immense pressure. His kingdom is threatened by powerful enemies; his future feels fragile; fear hangs thick in the air. God speaks to him through the prophet Isaiah and offers him reassurance. “Ask the Lord your God for a sign,” Isaiah says—any sign, “as deep as Sheol or as high as heaven.”

But Ahaz refuses. “I will not ask,” he says. “I will not put the Lord to the test.”

At first glance, this sounds pious. It sounds faithful. But Isaiah knows better. Ahaz’s refusal is not humility; it is fear. He has already decided where his trust will lie—not in God, but in political alliances and human power. He does not want a sign, because a sign would demand faith, obedience, and courage.

So God gives a sign anyway.

“Look,” Isaiah says, “the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.”

God with us.

Not a military victory. Not instant safety. But a child. A promise wrapped in vulnerability. A sign that God is present within the mess, not magically removing it.

Fast forward several centuries, and once again we find ourselves in a moment of fear and uncertainty—this time with Joseph.

Joseph is not a king. He has no throne to protect, no army to command. He is an ordinary man, quietly living a righteous life. And then his world begins to unravel.

Mary, to whom he is engaged, is found to be pregnant. Matthew tells us simply that Joseph is “a righteous man.” He does not want to expose Mary to public disgrace, but neither can he see a way forward. So he resolves to dismiss her quietly.

It is a deeply human moment. Joseph stands at the edge of a future he did not choose and does not understand. His plans—good, faithful plans—are collapsing. He is caught between compassion and obedience, love and law.

And it is here, in Joseph’s confusion and sorrow, that God speaks.

An angel appears to him in a dream and says, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid.”

Do not be afraid.

How often those words echo through Scripture. To frightened shepherds. To trembling prophets. To bewildered disciples. And here, to a man whose life has taken an unexpected turn.

“Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife,” the angel says, “for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

And Matthew adds that all this took place to fulfil what the Lord had spoken through the prophet: “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel”—which means, God with us.

This is not a new idea suddenly appearing in the New Testament. It is the fulfilment of a promise spoken centuries earlier into a fearful political crisis. The sign given to Ahaz becomes the salvation offered to the world.

But notice something important: in both Isaiah and Matthew, God’s promise does not remove uncertainty—it enters into it.

Ahaz’s kingdom will still face hardship. Joseph’s life will still be complicated. Mary will still face misunderstanding. The child Jesus will still be born into poverty, flee as a refugee, and grow up under occupation.

God with us does not mean a trouble-free life. It means a transformed life.

For Joseph, obedience requires courage. Matthew tells us that when Joseph wakes from sleep, he does exactly as the angel commanded. He takes Mary as his wife. Together they name the child Jesus. In doing so, both Joseph and Mary accept roles they did not expect and a future they did not plan.

Joseph says nothing in this Gospel. Not a single recorded word. His faith is shown not through speech, but through action—through quiet, steadfast obedience.

Advent invites us into that same posture.

We are a people who wait. We wait for Christ’s coming at Christmas. We wait for his coming again in glory. And many of us wait in very personal ways—for healing, for clarity, for reconciliation, for peace.

Like Ahaz, we may be tempted to rely on our own strategies, our own control. Like Joseph, we may feel caught in circumstances we did not choose. And into those places, God speaks not first with explanations, but with presence.

God with us.

Not God above us, distant and untouched. Not God instead of us, removing all difficulty. But God with us—in uncertainty, in vulnerability, in flesh and blood.

This is the heart of the Incarnation. The eternal God chooses not to remain remote, but to be born of a woman, entrusted to human care, dependent on love.

And this changes how we wait.

Advent waiting is not empty. It is attentive. It listens for God’s voice in dreams and in Scripture, in silence and in surprising places. It asks not only, “What will happen?” but “How is God with me here?”

As we move closer to Christmas, we do so knowing that the story does not rush to resolution. The promise unfolds slowly. The child grows. The cross looms in the distance even as the cradle waits.

But the name endures.

Jesus. Emmanuel.

God saves.
God is with us.

This Advent, may we have the courage of Joseph—to trust when we do not fully understand, to obey when the cost is real, and to believe that God is present even when the way forward feels uncertain.

And may we learn again that the greatest sign God gives us is not power, but presence.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Readings

Isaiah 35:1-10 – The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing. The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it, the majesty of Carmel and Sharon. They shall see the glory of the LORD, the majesty of our God. Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Say to those who are of a fearful heart, ‘Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God. He will come with vengeance, with terrible recompense. He will come and save you.’ Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy. For waters shall break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water; the haunt of jackals shall become a swamp, the grass shall become reeds and rushes. A highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Holy Way; the unclean shall not travel on it, but it shall be for God’s people; no traveller, not even fools, shall go astray. No lion shall be there, nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it; they shall not be found there, but the redeemed shall walk there. And the ransomed of the LORD shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

Matthew 11:2-11 – When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to Jesus, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?’ Jesus answered them, ‘Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offence at me.’ As they went away, Jesus began to speak to the crowds about John: ‘What did you go out into the wilderness to look at? A reed shaken by the wind? What then did you go out to see? Someone dressed in soft robes? Look, those who wear soft robes are in royal palaces. What then did you go out to see? A prophet? Yes, I tell you, and more than a prophet. This is the one about whom it is written, “See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way before you.” Truly I tell you, among those born of women no one has arisen greater than John the Baptist; yet the least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.’

Sermon

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

In my sermon last week as we considered the beginning of John the Baptist’s public ministry, I commented that Advent is a season that invites us to sit in the tension of two things that are seemingly opposed to one another. Because Advent is a season of waiting, but not the passive waiting of killing time that the word might suggest. Rather it is an active waiting of hope — waiting with eyes open, with hearts alert, with lives turned towards God’s future. And today’s readings place us right in the middle of that tension: between promise and fulfilment, between longing and uncertainty, between faith and doubt.

Our Gospel reading opens in a place we might not expect during Advent. Not in Bethlehem, not with angels or shepherds, but in a prison. John the Baptist — the fiery prophet, the desert preacher, the one who proclaimed with such certainty that the Messiah was at hand — now sits behind bars. And from that place, John sends a question to Jesus that is as simple as it is unsettling:

“Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

This is not the voice of a casual enquirer. This is the voice of someone who has staked his whole life on the answer. John had proclaimed judgement and fire, the axe laid to the root of the trees, the coming wrath of God. And now he hears reports of Jesus — healing the sick, eating with sinners, showing mercy — and it does not quite match what he expected.

Advent allows space for this question. It gives us permission to ask it ourselves. Are you really the one, Lord? Are you really at work in this world? Are you really coming to set things right?

Jesus does not answer John with a simple yes or no. Instead, he points to what is happening:

“Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.”

In other words, look — look at the signs of God’s kingdom breaking in.

And as we hear those words, we are taken straight back to our reading from Isaiah. The prophet speaks to a people who are weary, displaced, uncertain of their future. And into that situation comes a vision of astonishing hope:

“The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom.”

This is not just about individual healing, but about the renewal of all creation. The landscape itself is transformed. Water breaks forth in the wilderness. Streams flow in the desert. What was lifeless becomes abundant with life.

Isaiah’s vision is not sentimental optimism. It is hope spoken into devastation. It is God saying that barrenness is not the final word, that exile will not last forever, that joy will come where sorrow has settled in.

And crucially, Isaiah speaks of a highway — “the Holy Way” — a path on which the redeemed will walk. A way home. A way forward. A way that leads to singing, to joy, to the end of sighing and sorrow.

When Jesus points to the signs of healing and restoration, he is saying: this vision is beginning to be fulfilled. Not in the way people expected. Not all at once. But truly, deeply, and unmistakably.

And yet, even as the signs are present, John remains in prison. The kingdom comes, but the chains are not immediately broken. The desert blooms, but there are still dry places. The blind see, but the world is not yet whole.

This is an Advent truth.

We live between promise and fulfilment. We know the Messiah has come, and yet we still pray, “Come, Lord Jesus.” We glimpse God’s kingdom, and yet we feel its absence keenly. We hear good news, and yet we also know grief, injustice, and fear.

Jesus ends his message to John with a gentle but searching line: “Blessed is anyone who takes no offence at me.”

Blessed is the one who does not stumble when God’s ways do not match their expectations. Blessed is the one who trusts even when the story unfolds differently than hoped.

Then Jesus turns to the crowd and speaks about John himself. He honours him, not despite his question, but alongside it. John is not diminished by his doubt. He is praised as a prophet — more than a prophet — the one who prepared the way.

This is important. Doubt does not disqualify faith. Questioning does not cancel calling. John’s question is not a failure; it is a sign of faith seeking understanding.

Advent faith is not about having everything neatly resolved. It is about holding on to hope even when the answer is not yet clear.

For us, in this season, these readings ask us where we are looking for God’s coming. Are we expecting spectacle, or are we paying attention to signs of quiet transformation? Are we looking only for dramatic rescue, or can we see God at work in small acts of healing, mercy, and justice? Is a big London rally claiming to put Christ back into Christmas necessary? Or has Christ been faithfully, quietly at work in our communities all this time?

Isaiah speaks of strengthening weak hands and firming feeble knees. Of saying to those who are fearful, “Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God.” That is a word not only for ancient Israel, but for us. For a world anxious about the future. For communities feeling stretched and weary. For individuals carrying silent burdens into church this morning.

Advent does not deny the reality of fear, but it insists that fear does not have the final word.

The good news brought to the poor — which Jesus highlights — is not just material, but spiritual. It is the announcement that God sees, God knows, and God has come near. That the kingdom is not reserved for the powerful or the confident, but given to those who are open enough to receive it.

And that brings us back to the image of the highway in Isaiah. The Holy Way is not a path for the perfect, but for the redeemed. It is a way marked not by our strength, but by God’s faithfulness.

As we continue our Advent journey, we walk that road together. We carry questions, like John. We carry hopes, like Isaiah’s people. We carry longing — for peace, for healing, for justice, for joy.

And we do so trusting that the one who has come, and who will come again, is already at work among us. In small signs and great ones. In deserts beginning to bloom. In lives quietly being restored. In a Saviour who meets doubt not with condemnation, but with invitation.

So may this Advent be a season in which our eyes are opened to what God is doing. May our hands be strengthened to serve. May our hearts be steady in hope. And may we be among those who are blessed — not because we have no questions, but because we trust the one who comes to meet us on the way.

Amen.

Readings

Isaiah 11.1–10 – A shoot shall come out from the stock of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord. His delight shall be in the fear of the Lord. He shall not judge by what his eyes see, or decide by what his ears hear; but with righteousness he shall judge the poor, and decide with equity for the meek of the earth; he shall strike the earth with the rod of his mouth, and with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked. Righteousness shall be the belt around his waist, and faithfulness the belt around his loins. The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den. They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain; for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea. On that day the root of Jesse shall stand as a signal to the peoples; the nations shall inquire of him, and his dwelling shall be glorious.

Matthew 3.1–12 – In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.’ This is the one of whom the prophet Isaiah spoke when he said, ‘The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: “Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.” ’Now John wore clothing of camel’s hair with a leather belt around his waist, and his food was locusts and wild honey. Then the people of Jerusalem and all Judea were going out to him, and all the region along the Jordan, and they were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. But when he saw many Pharisees and Sadducees coming for baptism, he said to them, ‘You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruit worthy of repentance. Do not presume to say to yourselves, “We have Abraham as our ancestor”; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the axe is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. ‘I baptize you with water for repentance, but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing-fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing-floor and will gather his wheat into the granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.’

Sermon

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I’ve often thought that a key indicator of a mature Christian faith is being able to hold two seemingly opposing ideas in tension with one another and being okay with that. And in many ways, this is embodied in this season of Advent. Because Advent is a season that invites us to stand in two places at once: looking back and looking forward; remembering and hoping while also longing and preparing. It is the season that teaches us how to wait— not passively as the word suggests, but with expectation, with purpose, with hearts awake to what God is doing.

Our readings this morning hold these Advent tensions together beautifully. Isaiah gives us a deeply cherished vision: “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse.” Matthew, meanwhile, confronts us with the unsettling figure of John the Baptist—wild, urgent, uncompromising—crying out in the wilderness, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near!”

Isaiah speaks of a future that is tender, surprising, and full of hope. John the Baptist speaks of a present moment that is sharp, demanding, and impossible to ignore. And between them, we discover the Advent truth: God’s hope arrives both as comfort and as challenge.

The Stump and the Shoot: God’s Hope in Unexpected Places

Isaiah begins with an image of devastation. A stump is what remains after a tree has been felled—lifeless, cut down, apparently finished. For Isaiah’s first hearers, that stump represented the collapse of the monarchy, the failure of leadership, the disappointment of what had once seemed full of promise.

And yet, out of that dead stump, Isaiah sees a green shoot—a sign of new life where no life was expected.

This is one of Advent’s most important messages:
God’s hope does not grow out of our strength but often from our very places of loss.
Where we see an ending, God sees a beginning. Where we see failure, God plants redemption. Where we see a stump, God brings forth a shoot.

And the shoot Isaiah describes is no ordinary sprout. It is the Messiah—the one filled with the Spirit of wisdom, understanding, counsel, and might. The one who judges not by appearances but with righteousness and equity. The one who brings peace so deep and so strange that natural enemies dwell together: wolves and lambs, leopards and goats, lions eating straw, and a little child leading them.

Isaiah dares to imagine a world reordered by the peace of God. Not a peace that papers over conflict, but a deep healing of creation itself.

John the Baptist: Preparing the Way

If Isaiah’s vision feels like a dream of what could be, John the Baptist drags us into the urgent present. Matthew tells us he appears in the wilderness proclaiming, with no smoothing of the edges, “Repent!”

We might be tempted to hear that word as a scolding. But repentance in Scripture is much more than guilt or regret. It means turning around, reorienting, realigning ourselves with the way of God.

John is not shaming the crowds; he is inviting them.

Inviting them—inviting us—to live in such a way that we can actually recognise the One who is coming.

Because here is another Advent truth:
Hope requires preparation.
If Isaiah shows us God’s promise, John shows us our response.

We prepare the way of the Lord not by frantic activity, but by clearing the clutter of our hearts. We make straight the paths of the Lord by attending to what in our lives has become crooked, hardened, or tangled.

John’s warning to the Pharisees and Sadducees is sharp: “Do not presume.” Advent is not a season for presumption. We do not presume that heritage, habit, or tradition alone prepare us for Christ. We prepare by turning—freshly, willingly—toward the light.

Advent Hope: Consolation and Challenge

If we allow Isaiah and John to speak together, something profound emerges.

Isaiah says:
God is bringing new life, new peace, a new world.
John says:
So live as if that world is truly coming.

Isaiah reveals the hope.
John summons the response.
And Jesus—the One whom both point toward—embodies the promise and fulfils it.

Advent hope is not vague optimism. It is the conviction that God is already at work renewing creation—sometimes quietly, like a shoot from a stump; sometimes dramatically, like a prophet in the wilderness.

The question for us is not whether God is at work, but whether we are ready to receive what God is doing.

What Might This Look Like for Us Today?

First, it might mean allowing God to speak into places that feel like stumps—places where hope seems cut down.
• In our world, that may be conflict, injustice, or division.
• In our communities, it might be weariness or uncertainty.
• In our own lives, it may be disappointment, grief, or fear.

Advent invites us to look again and see that God can bring life from what seems lifeless.

Second, it might mean taking John’s call to repentance seriously. Not as a burden, but as liberation.
Repentance is God’s gift to help us travel light—to let go of what hinders love, justice, and joy.

Third, it might mean committing ourselves to the peace Isaiah describes. The peace of the Messiah is not sentimental; it is courageous. It calls us to seek reconciliation where there has been conflict, to act justly where there has been inequity, to embody gentleness in a world that often rewards harshness.

This is not easy work. But it is the work of those who follow Jesus, the Prince of Peace.

The Table: Where Hope and Repentance Meet

In a moment, we will come to the Lord’s Table. And there, the message of Advent becomes visible and tangible.

At this table, Christ meets us not because we have perfectly prepared ourselves, but because we are hungry.
Here, the shoot from the stump of Jesse nourishes us with grace.
Here, our repentance is met with mercy.
Here, the future hope of God touches the present moment.

And as we receive the bread and wine, we are invited to become, in God’s hands, signs of the same hope Isaiah saw—small shoots of God’s kingdom growing in the world.

Conclusion

So, this Advent:
May Isaiah open our eyes to God’s surprising hope.
May John the Baptist open our hearts to God’s transforming call.
And may Christ, whose coming we await, make us ready—ready to receive him, ready to follow him, ready to bear his light into the world.

Amen.