Hope in the Darkness
Isaiah 9:1-7
But there will be no gloom for her who was in anguish. In the former time he brought into contempt the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the latter time he has made glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations.
The people who walked in darkness
have seen a great light;
those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness,
on them has light shone.
You have multiplied the nation;
you have increased its joy;
they rejoice before you
as with joy at the harvest,
as they are glad when they divide the spoil.
For the yoke of his burden,
and the staff for his shoulder,
the rod of his oppressor,
you have broken as on the day of Midian.
For every boot of the tramping warrior in battle tumult
and every garment rolled in blood
will be burned as fuel for the fire.
For to us a child is born,
to us a son is given;
and the government shall be upon his shoulder,
and his name shall be called
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Of the increase of his government and of peace
there will be no end,
on the throne of David and over his kingdom,
to establish it and to uphold it
with justice and with righteousness
from this time forth and forevermore.
The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.
But there will be no gloom for her who was in anguish. In the former time he brought into contempt the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the latter time he has made glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations.
The people who walked in darkness
have seen a great light;
those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness,
on them has light shone.
You have multiplied the nation;
you have increased its joy;
they rejoice before you
as with joy at the harvest,
as they are glad when they divide the spoil.
For the yoke of his burden,
and the staff for his shoulder,
the rod of his oppressor,
you have broken as on the day of Midian.
For every boot of the tramping warrior in battle tumult
and every garment rolled in blood
will be burned as fuel for the fire.
For to us a child is born,
to us a son is given;
and the government shall be upon his shoulder,
and his name shall be called
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Of the increase of his government and of peace
there will be no end,
on the throne of David and over his kingdom,
to establish it and to uphold it
with justice and with righteousness
from this time forth and forevermore.
The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.
As we gather around tables tomorrow to give thanks, we stand at the threshold of a new season. Thanksgiving marks the transition into Advent, the stretch of weeks when the church prepares to celebrate the coming of Christ. This year, our Advent series focuses on the four great themes of the season: Hope, Peace, Joy, and Love. We begin this Sunday with Hope, and our text is Isaiah 9:1–7.
But before we can have a conversation about hope, we need to talk about darkness.
Isaiah delivered this prophecy during one of the most desperate periods in Israel's history. The year was approximately 735 BC, and the nation of Judah faced a crisis that threatened its very existence. Syria and the northern kingdom of Israel had formed a military alliance against the expanding Assyrian Empire. When Judah's King Ahaz refused to join their coalition, they turned their armies toward Jerusalem. Their plan was simple, remove Ahaz and install a puppet king who would cooperate with their resistance.
Ahaz panicked. Rather than trusting the Lord, he sent messengers to the Assyrian emperor Tiglath-Pileser III, essentially begging for help and offering to become a vassal state. The Assyrians agreed. They crushed Syria and severely weakened the northern kingdom. But the cost to Judah was catastrophic. The nation that was supposed to be set apart for God had voluntarily submitted itself to a pagan empire.
The northern territories of Israel, specifically the regions of Zebulun and Naphtali (what would later be called Galilee), bore the worst of it. In 732 BC, Assyria annexed these lands as provinces. The people experienced the full horror of ancient conquest: deportation, foreign resettlement, cultural erasure. Isaiah says they dwelt in "a land of deep darkness." The word is tsalmawet, and it appears throughout the Old Testament to describe the shadow of death itself, the realm of Sheol, the most profound spiritual darkness imaginable. This is the language of Psalm 23: "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death." Isaiah's audience was not merely experiencing difficulty. They were living in death's shadow.
This matters for us because the Bible never pretends that darkness is not real. Our faith does not ask us to ignore suffering or paste on a cheerful face when life falls apart. The people of Zebulun and Naphtali genuinely walked in deep shadow. They had lost their land, their identity, their future. Many in our congregations carry similar weight. Grief that does not lift. Anxiety about what comes next. Relationships fractured beyond our ability to repair. Chronic illness. Financial pressure. Spiritual dryness that makes prayer feel like speaking into a void. Advent begins not with celebration but with honest acknowledgment: we know what darkness feels like.
And yet.
Into this darkness, Isaiah speaks a word that still echoes across the centuries: "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone."
Notice that Isaiah does not say the people would eventually find a way out. He does not suggest they should try harder, believe more, or pull themselves together. He simply announces that light has shone on them. The grammar here matters. Isaiah uses what scholars call "prophetic perfects," past tense verbs to describe future events. He speaks of what God will do with such certainty that it can be described as already accomplished. This is not wishful thinking. This is the unshakeable confidence that comes from knowing the character of the God who makes promises. The text then unfolds what this light will accomplish. Joy will multiply like the celebration after harvest. The yoke of oppression will be broken as decisively as it was on the day of Midian, when Gideon's tiny band of three hundred routed an army through the Lord's power alone. The instruments of war (the soldiers' boots, the blood-soaked garments) will be burned as fuel for fire, no longer needed because peace has finally come.
But the heart of the passage is verse six: "For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace."
This is the source of the light. This is the reason for hope. A child will be born who will bear the weight of government on his shoulders. And this child will carry a fourfold name that reveals exactly who he is and what he will do.
This is the foundation of Christian hope. Hope is not optimism, the vague sense that things will probably work out. Hope is not positive thinking, the attempt to influence outcomes through our attitude. Christian hope is confident expectation grounded in what God has already done in Christ.
We know the light has broken in because we have seen the empty tomb. The resurrection of Jesus is the guarantee that darkness does not get the final word. Death itself has been invaded by life. This is why Paul can write that we grieve, but not as those who have no hope. The grief is real. The darkness is real. But so is the risen Christ.
We live now between the "already" and the "not yet." The child has been born. The Son has been given. The kingdom of light has been inaugurated. But the fullness of that kingdom awaits Christ's return. We experience both the power of the light and the lingering presence of darkness.
Advent trains us to live in this space well. We light candles not to pretend that darkness does not exist but to declare that it will not have the final word. We wait, but not passively. We wait with confidence rooted in what has already happened and anticipation of what is coming. We practice hope by praying, gathering in community, serving those around us, and bearing witness to the light even when our own circumstances feel dark.
The passage ends with a promise: "The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this." Our hope does not rest on our own effort. It rests on the passionate commitment of God to his people and his purposes. The Hebrew word for "zeal" connotes jealous love, fierce protective passion. God is not indifferent to our darkness. He burns with holy desire to rescue and restore.
This Sunday, we stand with those first hearers in Judah who needed a word of hope when their world was falling apart. We stand with the shepherds who saw angels split the night sky over Bethlehem. We stand with every believer who has trusted that God keeps his promises, even when the evidence is not yet visible.
The invitation of Advent is to wait actively, to live as people shaped by hope. This does not mean pretending that everything is fine. It means anchoring ourselves to something stronger than our circumstances. The child has been born. The Son has been given. And his kingdom, established in justice and righteousness, will have no end.
As we enter Advent this year, may we have the courage to name our darkness honestly and the faith to trust that the Light has come and is coming still.
But before we can have a conversation about hope, we need to talk about darkness.
Isaiah delivered this prophecy during one of the most desperate periods in Israel's history. The year was approximately 735 BC, and the nation of Judah faced a crisis that threatened its very existence. Syria and the northern kingdom of Israel had formed a military alliance against the expanding Assyrian Empire. When Judah's King Ahaz refused to join their coalition, they turned their armies toward Jerusalem. Their plan was simple, remove Ahaz and install a puppet king who would cooperate with their resistance.
Ahaz panicked. Rather than trusting the Lord, he sent messengers to the Assyrian emperor Tiglath-Pileser III, essentially begging for help and offering to become a vassal state. The Assyrians agreed. They crushed Syria and severely weakened the northern kingdom. But the cost to Judah was catastrophic. The nation that was supposed to be set apart for God had voluntarily submitted itself to a pagan empire.
The northern territories of Israel, specifically the regions of Zebulun and Naphtali (what would later be called Galilee), bore the worst of it. In 732 BC, Assyria annexed these lands as provinces. The people experienced the full horror of ancient conquest: deportation, foreign resettlement, cultural erasure. Isaiah says they dwelt in "a land of deep darkness." The word is tsalmawet, and it appears throughout the Old Testament to describe the shadow of death itself, the realm of Sheol, the most profound spiritual darkness imaginable. This is the language of Psalm 23: "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death." Isaiah's audience was not merely experiencing difficulty. They were living in death's shadow.
This matters for us because the Bible never pretends that darkness is not real. Our faith does not ask us to ignore suffering or paste on a cheerful face when life falls apart. The people of Zebulun and Naphtali genuinely walked in deep shadow. They had lost their land, their identity, their future. Many in our congregations carry similar weight. Grief that does not lift. Anxiety about what comes next. Relationships fractured beyond our ability to repair. Chronic illness. Financial pressure. Spiritual dryness that makes prayer feel like speaking into a void. Advent begins not with celebration but with honest acknowledgment: we know what darkness feels like.
And yet.
Into this darkness, Isaiah speaks a word that still echoes across the centuries: "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone."
Notice that Isaiah does not say the people would eventually find a way out. He does not suggest they should try harder, believe more, or pull themselves together. He simply announces that light has shone on them. The grammar here matters. Isaiah uses what scholars call "prophetic perfects," past tense verbs to describe future events. He speaks of what God will do with such certainty that it can be described as already accomplished. This is not wishful thinking. This is the unshakeable confidence that comes from knowing the character of the God who makes promises. The text then unfolds what this light will accomplish. Joy will multiply like the celebration after harvest. The yoke of oppression will be broken as decisively as it was on the day of Midian, when Gideon's tiny band of three hundred routed an army through the Lord's power alone. The instruments of war (the soldiers' boots, the blood-soaked garments) will be burned as fuel for fire, no longer needed because peace has finally come.
But the heart of the passage is verse six: "For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace."
This is the source of the light. This is the reason for hope. A child will be born who will bear the weight of government on his shoulders. And this child will carry a fourfold name that reveals exactly who he is and what he will do.
- Wonderful Counselor. The Hebrew word for "wonderful" is the same word used for the Lord's mighty acts of salvation. This is not merely impressive wisdom. This is supernatural wisdom, the kind that sees and plans beyond human understanding. When we face decisions that overwhelm us, when we cannot see the way forward, we have access to a King whose counsel exceeds anything we could devise.
- Mighty God. This title is remarkable. The word "El" is a name for God. Isaiah uses this exact phrase for the Lord himself in chapter ten. Some scholars have tried to soften this to "godlike hero" or "mighty warrior," but the simplest reading is the most striking: this child will somehow embody the presence and power of God himself.
- Everlasting Father. The "father" language here speaks of a king who protects and provides for his people. Ancient Near Eastern kings were often called fathers of their nations. But the qualifier "everlasting" pushes this beyond any earthly monarch. This king's reign will never end. His care will never fail.
- Prince of Peace. The Hebrew word shalom means far more than the absence of conflict. It describes wholeness, completeness, flourishing in every dimension of life. This king will not merely enforce a truce. He will inaugurate the comprehensive well-being for which humanity was created.
This is the foundation of Christian hope. Hope is not optimism, the vague sense that things will probably work out. Hope is not positive thinking, the attempt to influence outcomes through our attitude. Christian hope is confident expectation grounded in what God has already done in Christ.
We know the light has broken in because we have seen the empty tomb. The resurrection of Jesus is the guarantee that darkness does not get the final word. Death itself has been invaded by life. This is why Paul can write that we grieve, but not as those who have no hope. The grief is real. The darkness is real. But so is the risen Christ.
We live now between the "already" and the "not yet." The child has been born. The Son has been given. The kingdom of light has been inaugurated. But the fullness of that kingdom awaits Christ's return. We experience both the power of the light and the lingering presence of darkness.
Advent trains us to live in this space well. We light candles not to pretend that darkness does not exist but to declare that it will not have the final word. We wait, but not passively. We wait with confidence rooted in what has already happened and anticipation of what is coming. We practice hope by praying, gathering in community, serving those around us, and bearing witness to the light even when our own circumstances feel dark.
The passage ends with a promise: "The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this." Our hope does not rest on our own effort. It rests on the passionate commitment of God to his people and his purposes. The Hebrew word for "zeal" connotes jealous love, fierce protective passion. God is not indifferent to our darkness. He burns with holy desire to rescue and restore.
This Sunday, we stand with those first hearers in Judah who needed a word of hope when their world was falling apart. We stand with the shepherds who saw angels split the night sky over Bethlehem. We stand with every believer who has trusted that God keeps his promises, even when the evidence is not yet visible.
The invitation of Advent is to wait actively, to live as people shaped by hope. This does not mean pretending that everything is fine. It means anchoring ourselves to something stronger than our circumstances. The child has been born. The Son has been given. And his kingdom, established in justice and righteousness, will have no end.
As we enter Advent this year, may we have the courage to name our darkness honestly and the faith to trust that the Light has come and is coming still.
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