Luke places the birth of Jesus squarely in the politics and scarcity of empire, showing that God chooses vulnerability over power and arrives in a world with no room at the inn; this ground-level entrance reminds the reader that hope comes not by seizing control but by God showing up in the midst of ordinary suffering and displacement [38:13]
Luke 2:1-7 (ESV)
In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration when Quirinius was governor of Syria. And all went to be registered, each to his own town. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child. And while they were there, the time came for her to give birth. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.
Reflection: Today, identify one place in your life where scarcity or "no room" shows up (a strained relationship, a worry, a lack). What small, tangible step can you take to invite God's presence into that crowded place (a call, a prayer, a meal for someone) before nightfall?
Lamentation's voice refuses to gloss over devastation and grief but simultaneously practices the discipline of remembering God's steadfast love; this posture shows that honest lament and faithful remembering are not contradictory but complementary ways of keeping hope alive in dark seasons [37:39]
Lamentations 3:19-24 (ESV)
Remember my affliction and my wanderings, the wormwood and the gall!
My soul continually remembers it and is bowed down within me.
But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
"The LORD is my portion," says my soul, "therefore I will hope in him."
Reflection: Name one specific grief or injustice you are carrying and write it down; then write one sentence calling to mind God's faithfulness toward that exact sorrow and read that sentence aloud three times today.
The Lord's Prayer models a reorientation from anxious scarcity to kingdom priorities—inviting daily dependence, forgiveness, and deliverance—and centers the pray-er in a rhythm that resists the empire’s language of fear and control [54:40]
Matthew 6:9-13 (ESV)
"Pray then like this: 'Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name.
Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.'"
Reflection: This afternoon, set a 10-minute timer and pray the Lord’s Prayer slowly, pausing after each line to name one concrete way you can live that line today (e.g., "daily bread"—share a meal, "forgive"—send a message).
Hope is not the absence of fear but the practiced resistance to fear through trust that God is present in both small acts of kindness and in the hard stretches, so one can choose compassion over retreat and courage over control [39:29]
Romans 15:13 (ESV)
May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.
Reflection: Identify one fear that has been keeping you from a brave, loving action this week; choose one concrete, low-risk step that would embody trust (a phone call, a visit, a donation) and do it before tomorrow evening.
The kingdom Jesus describes is constructed through neighbors showing up for one another—feeding the hungry, welcoming strangers, sharing resources—so practical acts of service and mutual support become the tangible presence of hope in the world [44:58]
Matthew 25:35-40 (ESV)
"For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me,
I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.' Then the righteous will answer him, saying, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink?
And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you?
And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?' And the King will answer them, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.'"
Reflection: Look at your calendar for the next week and commit to one specific act of compassion (volunteer two hours at the food pantry, bring groceries to a neighbor, invite someone alone for coffee). Schedule it now and follow through.
We begin again. As Advent opens, I named that we do not start with angels’ choruses or starry calm—we start in the dark, with longing. The world Jesus entered was tangled in empire, fear, and forced movements of people. I invited us not to rush past that landscape. Lament is holy work; it tells the truth about devastation and yearning, and it becomes the soil where hope takes root. Hope is not denial. It rises precisely inside the ache.
With our children, we touched the rough edges of that world—Caesar’s census, taxes that drained the poor, a young family on the move. This is the scene into which God chose to arrive. Into that same kind of scene, hope comes today. And hope, I insisted, is subversive. It resists fear. It lifts the lowly, feeds the hungry, and breaks open locked doors. Empire speaks fear; God’s kingdom speaks compassion.
I shared where I’ve seen hope while away: in vows spoken at my daughter’s wedding; along the Camino, where strangers cared for each other and no one walked alone; in the soft quiet of a father soothing his newborn; in a friend’s grief eased just a little by shared presence; in our town’s expanding generosity as needs grow; in volunteers who keep showing up (even in turkey costumes). All of it is the shape of a different kingdom—one built by love alongside, not power over; by staying connected more than being right.
I asked you to name your fear. Not to be shamed by it, but to see it clearly so hope can go to work. Hope is stronger than fear, not because life is easy, but because God is with us. I spoke about simple practices that keep us “plugged in”—attention, prayer, and intention—because I have learned I’m never far from God, even on hard days. That nearness is for all of us.
So Advent invites us to a fierce gentleness: compassion over despair, generosity over scarcity, community over isolation, courage over retreat. God is still being born in us, through us, among us. Let us begin again—with hope.
- Luke 2:1–7 (ESV) — In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration when Quirinius was governor of Syria. And all went to be registered, each to his own town. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child. And while they were there, the time came for her to give birth. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn. - Lamentations 3:19–24 (ESV) Remember my affliction and my wanderings, the wormwood and the gall! My soul continually remembers it and is bowed down within me. But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. "The LORD is my portion," says my soul, "therefore I will hope in him."
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