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A weekly sermon podcast from Ojai, California. Grounded in scripture and open to the world, these reflections invite you to listen, wonder, and live the story.
Every year around this time, something subtle but astonishing happens.
Just as the world begins tilting into its darkest weeks, the Church whispers:
Begin again.
We start not with trumpets or fanfare,
nor even with the blaze of Christmas lights, but with a single candle --
one small flame against so much night.
Advent always begins with that strange combination of longing and hope,
a yearning that aches a little,
a hope that glows just enough to guide us.
It’s the Church’s way of speaking a truth:
Light doesn’t come because we have mastered darkness.
Light comes because God steps into the darkness.
Isaiah begins our new year by lifting our eyes:
“The mountain of the Lord’s house shall be
as the highest of the mountains…
and all nations shall stream to it.”
It’s an outrageous picture of hope –
swords reshaped into plowshares,
weapons recast as tools of cultivation,
nations learning peace instead of perfecting war.
It is a vision large enough to make the heart protest:
How? When? Where could such a world come from?
And Isaiah simply answers:
“Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.”
Not: solve the darkness.
Not: dominate the darkness.
But: walk in the divine light.
Faith in Advent is a kind of nighttime journey.
There is light, but it’s not high noon.
It’s just enough light to make one step possible, then the next.
The prophets teach us to keep moving toward God’s promised future
even when we cannot yet see the shape of the road.
Our Psalm today carries that same tenderness of longing –
that prayer for Jerusalem, for peace within its walls,
for kin to live in safety and neighbors to dwell in harmony.
It’s the quiet prayer we say for our cities and our families.
It is what we pray for the trembling places of our world.
“For the sake of my relatives and friends,” the psalmist says, “
I will say, ‘Peace be within you.’”
It is a small song placed inside the large darkness of history,
and yet –- how those small songs matter.
Paul, writing to the Romans, picks up that same thread:
“You know what time it is.”
He means that the world is still groaning, still restless,
still marked by conflict and confusion.
But he also means something more:
the night is far gone, the day is near.
Christ has come, and Christ will come again.
History is not a loop of repetition -- it is a story bending toward redemption.
So Paul invites us to do something brave at the edge of dawn:
“Put on the Lord Jesus Christ.”
Put on mercy.
Put on clarity.
Put on the armor of light.
This is the very language our collect gives voice to this morning.
It’s beautiful language, but also demanding.
"The armor of light" isn’t a costume; it’s a way of living awake.
To wear light means becoming transparent to the grace of God --
living as though Christ might knock at the door at any moment,
and we would be found ready,
not because we’ve performed perfection,
but because our hearts are turned toward Him.
Then Jesus, in Matthew’s Gospel,
tells us something both unsettling and comforting:
“About that day and hour no one knows.”
The Son of Man comes like a thief in the night –
quiet, unanticipated, slipping into the ordinary moments of our days.
The text resists calendars and countdowns,
resists every attempt at prediction or control.
Instead, Jesus says, “Keep awake.”
Keep awake -- not anxious, but attentive.
Not fearful, but expectant.
Not scanning the horizon for disaster,
but living as though God’s presence
might bloom right here, right now,
in the most unsuspecting corner of your life.
Advent is God’s reminder that the world is soaked with possibility.
It’s not naïve to hope; it’s faithful.
It’s not foolish to long; it’s honest.
Every frail hope you carry,
every small act of love,
every step you take toward reconciliation –
these are the fragile beginnings
of the kingdom the prophets dared to imagine.
And yet… we begin this year in the dark.
We begin when the daylight is shortest,
when shadows stretch long,
when the nights are cold and deep.
Advent speaks into a season
when many hearts are tired
and many spirits feel stretched thin.
Maybe that’s why Advent resonates so powerfully:
it’s for people who know their need.
We long for peace precisely because the world is unsettled.
We long for light because the shadows feel too thick.
We long for Christ because we know how deeply we need
a grace larger than our own strength.
But that longing is not despair.
Longing is the seed of hope.
Hope, as the Church understands it,
is not optimism.
It’s not sentimentality.
It’s the quiet certainty that the divine work continues and
the divine light still shines.
It’s the trust that the same Christ who came
in great humility will come again in glory –
with the majesty not of domination but of healing and reconciliation.
Advent teaches us to prepare
without pretending to know the timing.
Advent invites us to lean toward a light we cannot yet fully see.
Advent asks us to wake up -- not to crisis, but to grace.
And maybe that’s how this new year begins:
with a simple invitation to pay attention.
To notice the way God shows up in the small mercies of your days.
To carve out a little space for prayer.
To listen for the quiet nudge of generosity or forgiveness.
To speak peace where conflict has rooted itself.
To practice courage in the face of uncertainty.
These small acts -- these tiny, ember-like practices –
are how Christians keep vigil at the edge of dawn.
This season will carry us, step by step,
toward the brightness of Christmas,
toward the God who makes a home among us,
toward the Christ whose presence is not distant but near.
But for now, we stand in the soft darkness,
watching for first light.
We begin in longing so that our hope will be honest.
We begin in the night so that the light,
when it comes, will feel like gift.
We begin with a single candle,
so we will know how precious this illumination truly is.
And so, beloved:
Walk in the light of the Lord,
even if the path ahead is dim.
Put on the armor of light,
even if your heart feels small.
Stay awake,
not with fear, but with expectation.
And dare – this Advent –
to hope for the world Isaiah saw,
the peace the psalmist sings,
the dawn Paul proclaims,
and the Christ who comes quietly,
tenderly, gloriously into the world.
Blessed be our God,
who teaches us to begin again in hope.
To step into that one small light
and trust that – even in the dark of the year –
it is growing all around us.
Amen.