Fear Not: The Promise is Coming
A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC November 30, 2025. The first Sunday of Advent. “Fear Not: Good News for a Weary World” series
Texts: Isaiah 2:1-5; Luke 1:5-25
There’s a line at the beginning of Luke’s Gospel that we usually breeze right past, but it sets the whole stage for what God is about to do. Luke writes, “In the days of King Herod…” Those words are not just a time stamp; they evoke what was happening in the time. They tell us that fear and corruption and cruelty had settled in like thick fog. Herod’s rule was marked by paranoia, violence, and the relentless pursuit of control. People learned to live small, to keep their heads down, to survive rather than hope. It was a world where the powerful behaved badly and the vulnerable suffered for it. A world where you could lose heart.i
It sounds…familiar.
Isaiah knew something about days like that. In Isaiah 2, the prophet speaks against the backdrop of political danger, corrupt leadership, and national anxiety. Fear had become the air the people breathed. And into that heavy atmosphere, God gave a vision: a mountain lifted up; peoples streaming toward divine wisdom; swords hammered into plowshares; nations walking in peace. Isaiah’s vision is God’s reminder that fear does not get the last word—and that God gives promises not just in peaceful times, but in fearful ones. Just like Luke. God speaks light right into the moments when we’re tempted to believe the darkness will win.
Into that landscape of anxiety and uncertainty, Luke introduces two quiet, faithful people: Zechariah and Elizabeth. While they come from well-known family trees, they aren’t flashy. They don’t wield influence. They’re a couple who show up, who serve God, who keep the faith. Luke says they are “righteous before God,” “blameless.” That is rare praise in Scripture. And then—right alongside that high commendation—Luke tells us they have no child.
In that culture, barrenness carried profound grief and heavy shame. People whispered. Extended family averted their eyes. Many believed Elizabeth must have done something wrong, that God was withholding blessing. But Luke makes it plain: their disappointment is real, but it is not divine disfavor. Remember they are “blameless,” “righteous before God.” Their unanswered prayers, their long ache, their quiet sorrow—none of that is evidence of God’s judgment.ii
We need that message today, too. Because we are far too quick to blame ourselves when life is painful or confusing. “If only I had tried harder… If only I had been better… If only I’d made a different decision… If only I had prayed differently…” We slip so easily into shame-based spirituality, imagining a God who doles out blessing as reward and suffering as punishment. But that is not the God who comes to us in Jesus. That’s not the God who meets Zechariah and Elizabeth.
Their story reveals something else: God is at work even when hope feels far away. Even when disappointment has settled in and we’ve quietly resigned ourselves to things as they are.
Perhaps Luke is signaling newness and hope when Zechariah, a priest among many, gets his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to enter the sanctuary and offer incense before God. Scholars tell us many priests never had this chance. It’s a sacred, intimate place—standing between heaven and earth, offering the prayers of the people. And it’s in this holy moment that God breaks the silence.
An angel appears—startling, luminous—and Zechariah is “terrified” and “overwhelmed with fear.” The angel says what angels almost always say when they show up unannounced: “Do not be afraid.” And then: “Your prayer has been heard.”
Notice that God doesn’t begin by correcting Zechariah or scolding him for doubt. God begins with presence and compassion. “Do not be afraid…Your prayer has been heard.” And then God makes a promise: new life, a son, John, who will prepare the way for the Holy One. It’s an intimate promise to a long-disappointed couple—but it is also part of a much larger story.
Because God is not only answering Zechariah’s prayer; God is advancing Isaiah’s vision. The personal promise and the prophetic promise belong together. Zechariah receives a promise for his household. Isaiah received a promise for the world. And God weaves them together—John preparing the way for the One who will fulfill the ancient vision. God’s work unfolds in stages. One step preparing the next. One life preparing a people. One prophet preparing the world.
Before John, there is Isaiah and all the prophets. Before Jesus comes, John comes. Before the Messiah is revealed, the ground is cleared. Before transformation there is truth-telling. Before renewal, repentance. Before the light, someone must wake up the sleepers. God prepares the way before revealing the way.
We often want God to fix things now—quickly, decisively, unmistakably. But God’s work in Luke 1 and Isaiah 2 reminds us that divine promises often begin as a whisper, a seed, an opportunity, a stirring. Something small and fragile. Something we might miss if we aren’t paying attention.
And sometimes the promise shows up in the most unlikely places—in the quiet faithfulness of an aging couple, in a political moment that seems hopeless, in a weary heart that has almost stopped expecting anything new.
Isaiah gives us an image for this too. He says that “all nations shall stream to the mountain of the Lord.” Not trickle—stream. Rivers flow downhill by the laws of nature, but in God’s vision, people will flow uphill toward peace and wisdom. It’s impossible. Illogical. And yet full of promise.iii Just like Elizabeth’s pregnancy as “she was getting on in years.” Just like John’s calling. Just like God’s light shining in Herod’s shadow. Over and over again, God brings life and hope in places where hope should not exist.
This is how God works: Just when you think new life cannot happen—just when injustice and cruelty seem locked in—just when the world’s turmoil has worn you down—God plants the beginnings of a promise. Hope emerges by stages. Grace unfolds step by step.
But Zechariah, in the face of that holy promise, doesn’t have the words. He asks, “How will I know that this is so?” It’s not an unreasonable question. It sounds a lot like Abraham and like so many before him. But in this moment, Zechariah struggles. Fear and years of sorrow have made receiving this hopeful promise difficult.
So the angel gives him silence.
We often read this as punishment, but there’s another way to see it. Sometimes our words get in the way. Sometimes our explanations, our defenses, our doubt, our fear—they make so much noise that we can’t hear what God is trying to say.
The angel’s gift to Zechariah isn’t punishment—it’s mercy. The silence he’s given is spacious and holy, the kind of silence where a promise can quietly take hold.iv
Because sometimes silence is the only thing that can quiet the noise of fear.
Sometimes silence is what softens doubt, the ground where trust grows.
Sometimes silence is how we finally hear God again. Silcnce becomes the doorway through which the promise enters.v
And as we enter this holy season—crowded with noise, weighed down with expectations, humming with activity—maybe this story invites us to receive silence as a gift too. To make room for moments when our hearts can listen instead of fill the air with our own anxious words. //
By the time Zechariah speaks again, it is not in fear or confusion or resistance. His first words are praise. (Lk 1:64) His words align with God’s word. The promise reshapes him.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, steps into her own promise with clarity and joy. When she conceives, she says, “This is what the Lord has done for me… to take away my disgrace.” Luke honors her voice and her theological insight. Even as Zechariah sits in silence, Elizabeth becomes the first preacher of God’s new work—announcing grace, naming blessing, recognizing God’s tender mercy.
And Isaiah’s final word in the passage gives us our call to action: “O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!” After the breathtaking vision of peace—the mountain lifted up, the nations streaming, the weapons transformed—Isaiah ends with an invitation. Walk in the light. Live as if the promise is already unfolding. Live toward the peace that God is bringing.
Zechariah needed silence to find that light. Elizabeth found it in joy and blessing.
We are invited to find it by making the journey of faith—by practicing hope even before we feel it, by preparing our hearts as John prepared the people, by living toward the vision of peace Isaiah saw and Jesus embodied.
Friends, the God who spoke to Zechariah in the dim sanctuary of Herod’s reign is the same God who gave Isaiah a vision, the same God who speaks to us today. These promises are not just ancient dreams; they are God’s long, unfolding work.
So do not be afraid. Your prayer has been heard.
The promise is coming—by stages, in unlikely places, sometimes in silence, other times in joy, always in love.
And while we wait… We walk in hope that does not disappoint.
We walk toward the peace Isaiah saw and toward the Savior John will announce.
Fear not. The promise is coming.
Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.
Thanks be to God.
