Advent Week 1 2025: Year A – Upstream Hope – Isaiah 2:1–5; Matthew 24:36–44

(The following was first preached at the 8th Street Church in Oklahoma City, OK, USA)

Isaiah 2:1–5; Matthew 24:36–44

If Christmas is the season for big emotions, Advent is the season that walks into the room, calls a timeout, and says, “Let’s all take a breath.”

I’ll be honest with you—I’m not naturally a sentimental Christmas person. I like Christmas just fine—I’m certainly not against it—but all the prep, all the buildup, all the “magic”… that was never really my thing growing up in a house with two brothers. Our version of Christmas was more like: open the presents, eat the food, watch a game, call it a day.

But then—I married into that family.

A family with three girls and a mother-in-law who all could’ve been hired by Hallmark as seasonal ambiance consultants.

I didn’t know what I was in for at my first Christmas with them.

It was like stepping into a snow globe. My in-laws came into the room dressed in full Santa outfits, like they had been waiting all year for that exact moment. Matching pajamas were handed out to everyone—adults included. A massive fireplace crackled like it had a speaking role. There were hugs and kisses before and after every gift, and “I love yous” filled the room.

Later, there was caroling in four-part harmony with piano accompaniment. Evening walks in the snow. Hot chocolate with marshmallows. Games for everyone. A puzzle quietly waiting for whoever needed a slower moment. And at night, blankets came out so everyone could sleep together on the floor by the fire.

I remember sitting there thinking, I have accidentally climbed inside a snow globe.

And while it felt like whiplash at first… over time, I started to love it. Now, years later—with some of those people no longer with us—those memories mean more than I ever expected.

All that to say: some people sprint toward Christmas with joy, glitter, and matching flannel pants. I probably could have done that a little better.

And Christmas in our world is set up that way.

But Advent?

Advent is different.

Advent refuses to be rushed.

It looks at the frenzy of December—the decorating, the baking, the quiet question of “is this enough?”—and gently says, “No, thank you. We’ll wait for God. Not Amazon.”

And that’s hard. Because we are people who love to sprint. I know I am.

But Advent is God’s yearly reminder that no matter how fast we move, we cannot rush God.

Not then.
Not now.
Not ever.

Advent has a way of sneaking up on us—like a friend who corners you in the grocery store when you’re not quite put together. And maybe that’s exactly what we need: a kind of holy interruption. A rearranging of our lives that meets us in our most honest, unguarded moments.

We say Advent is the beginning of the Christian year, but most of us treat it like a hallway we rush through on the way to the real party. Christmas is already warming up—lights going up, packages arriving, calendars filling.

But Advent stands in the doorway, clears its throat, and says, “Not yet.”

And honestly—good.

Because if Christmas showed up right now, we wouldn’t be ready. Not really. Because we’ve got a mess on our hands.

Everywhere you look, there’s a battle being fought. Some are global and visible. Others are quiet and close to home.

Political battles. Racial tensions. Economic strain. Cultural division.

Everyone talking. No one listening.

Children carrying burdens far too heavy for their age. Teenagers wearing anxiety like a second skin. Teachers stretched thin, holding together classrooms with care and their own resources.

And beneath it all—a quiet loneliness. People grieving silently. People lying awake at night wondering if anyone is really steering this thing.

Families living paycheck to paycheck. Communities fractured by fear. People exhausted from explaining what should have been understood long ago.

And then we step into a season called “joy” while the world feels like it’s unraveling.

Even our holiday stories know this.

It’s a Wonderful Life isn’t just sentimental—it’s about a man on the edge of despair. Even the classics admit the truth: the world is not okay.

And Advent quietly says, “That’s why I’m here.”

Isaiah Saw a Word

Isaiah speaks into a world not unlike ours—politically strained, economically uneven, socially fractured, militarized, exhausted.

And into that world, Isaiah says he saw a word from the Lord.

Not heard it.
Saw it.

A vision that disrupted everything.

He describes a mountain—Mount Zion—that will be lifted above all others. A small, unimpressive hill becoming the place everyone notices.

And people will stream up to it.

Which doesn’t make sense. Streams don’t flow uphill.

But that’s the point.

In God’s future, everything is reversed.

What once ran downhill… doesn’t anymore.

Weapons become tools.
War rooms become classrooms.
Enemies become neighbors.

Isaiah stands before power—kings, leaders, systems—and declares: “All of this will end.”

That’s not just future hope. That’s present critique.

God is not content to leave the world as it is.

Jesus and the Unraveling

When Jesus is asked when all this will happen, he doesn’t offer a neat timeline. He offers an unveiling.

He says the systems we trust—the structures we depend on—are more fragile than we think.

The temple won’t last.
Our sense of control won’t hold.

Everything we assume is permanent… isn’t.

And that’s unsettling.

Because it forces the question: do we really want God’s world, or just a slightly improved version of our own?

Following Jesus is simple, but not easy. It requires surrender. It asks us to loosen our grip on comfort, control, and certainty.

And if we’re honest, we work pretty hard to protect the world we’ve built.

Rethinking Judgment

We often imagine judgment as harsh, condemning, final.

But in Scripture, judgment looks different.

It sounds like this:

Enough.

Enough brutality.
Enough oppression.
Enough dehumanizing systems.
Enough pretending everything is fine.

God’s judgment is not about destruction for its own sake—it’s about ending what destroys.

And for a broken world, that’s good news.

When the End Is Mercy

There’s a story of a woman in Honduras who said her favorite verse was when Jesus says he came to bring fire to the earth.

It shocked the people around her—until she explained:

She had lost three children to starvation.

“I am tired of this world as it is,” she said.

And suddenly, it made sense.

Sometimes the end isn’t cruelty.

Sometimes it’s mercy.

Sometimes the end is the beginning of something new.

Swords into Plowshares

Isaiah says that when God acts, weapons will be reshaped into tools.

Not discarded—redeemed.

That’s what God does. Not just ending things, but transforming them.

And we see glimpses of that even now.

Communities taking weapons and turning them into garden tools.
People choosing restoration over retaliation.

It’s Isaiah’s vision breaking into the present.

Practicing the World to Come

And it’s not just happening out there.

It’s happening among you.

Teachers feeding hungry students.
Artists restoring beauty to forgotten spaces.
Nurses offering presence in the middle of the night.
Parents praying over children carrying too much.
Employers giving second chances.

That’s kingdom work.

That’s the future of God showing up now.

Advent is where we practice the world that is coming—not the world we have.

Not Yet

Advent is the season that wakes us up.

It invites us to pay attention.
To lift our eyes.
To stand on our tiptoes and look for what’s coming.

Because if we stay flat-footed, we miss it.

We miss the quiet ways God is already at work.

Advent doesn’t ask us to ignore the pain.

It asks us to face it—honestly.

And to trust that God is coming to heal it.

Not in the way we expect.

But in the way we need.