November 30, 2025 – The First Sunday of Advent

Each year, as November turns to December and the world plunges into the frenzy of Christmas advertising, the Church does something that seems almost strange. While the lights go up in shop windows and “Silent Night” plays in grocery store aisles, we begin our year not with sentimentality or snow-globes, but with Isaiah’s bold vision of a world transformed—and with Jesus’ unsettling words about an hour that no one knows.

Advent begins not with cozy carols, but with prophecy and apocalyptic images. It begins in the dark—because Advent is a season that teaches us how to wait for the light.

Today’s readings give us two windows into that waiting. Isaiah shows us what we long for: a world remade by God’s peace. Jesus shows us how we are to live until that day comes: awake, watchful, ready.

We begin with Isaiah, the prophet whose words trumpet through Advent like a clear winter wind. Isaiah speaks of a mountain—the mountain of the Lord—raised high above all others. Nations stream toward it, not to wage war, but to learn; not to claim dominion, but to seek God’s ways. They lay down their weapons, hammering swords into ploughshares and spears into pruning hooks.

It is one of the most beautiful visions in all of Scripture. A world where humanity no longer trains for war. A world where fear and violence no longer define the human story. A world healed.

And Isaiah dares to proclaim this vision in a time nothing like it. He prophesied in an age of political instability, moral confusion, and the looming threat of invasion. Yet he stands in the chaos and speaks a word of future peace—not because he is naïve, but because he trusts God’s promise.

Isaiah’s vision is not escapism. It is hope with its feet planted firmly on the ground. It names the world’s wounds honestly—and still declares that God’s future is one of healing.

That is the kind of hope Advent invites us to cultivate.

We live, too, in an age of fracture and fear: wars that seem endless, injustice that seems insurmountable, grief that sits heavy on the heart, and personal burdens that many carry quietly. Into our world Isaiah speaks again: “In days to come…”he says.

God is not finished with us.
History is not on a loop.
Something new is coming.

It is this promise that allows us to proclaim peace even in a violent world. To live generously in a culture of scarcity. To love boldly in an age of cynicism.

This is Isaiah’s gift to Advent: vision.

But the Gospel gives us something just as important: urgency.

If Isaiah gives us the dream, Jesus gives us the posture.

In Matthew 24 Jesus speaks to his disciples about the coming of the Son of Man—his return, the ultimate fulfillment of God’s reign. But notice what Jesus insists upon: not a timeline, but readiness.

“But about that day and hour no one knows,” he says—not the angels, not even the Son, but only the Father. And then: “Keep awake, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.”

In other words: don’t try to predict. Prepare.

In Jesus’ time, people were already speculating about when God would act decisively, when history would turn. Jesus refuses to give them a schedule. He does not satisfy curiosity; he awakens responsibility.

The examples he uses are ordinary, even mundane: people eating, drinking, marrying, working in the field. Not evil activities—just everyday life lived without awareness of God. The danger, Jesus implies, is not wild sinfulness but sleepy complacency.

Not that we are bad, but that we are numb.

The trouble is not that we reject God, but that we forget God.

And so Jesus urges us: Stay awake. Keep watch. Live as though God might break into your life at any moment—because God already does.

The coming of Christ is not merely a future event; it is the continual movement of God toward us. Christ comes in the neighbour in need, the stranger welcomed, the child who asks a simple question, the moment of forgiveness we did not expect, the stirring of compassion or conviction we cannot name but cannot ignore.

Advent teaches us to notice these moments—because they are signs of the Kingdom inching into the world.

So Advent places us between two powerful messages:

Isaiah: “Look! God is leading creation toward peace.”
Jesus: “Stay awake! God may come to you today.”

We live between promise and vigilance, vision and readiness.

And that is why Advent feels like both longing and urgency, hope and unease. It’s why the colour is blue or purple. It’s why the music has a minor key. Advent is not Christmas lite. It is its own deep and demanding season—a time of expectation, examination, and preparation.

What does it mean, then, to “stay awake” in Advent?

I suggest three movements: wakefulness, repentance, and active hope.

Jesus’ warnings about not knowing the hour are not meant to cause fear but attentiveness. Wakefulness means living as though God is present in the ordinary rhythm of your days.

It means looking for Christ in the interruptions you didn’t plan.
It means listening for the Spirit in the quiet moments between obligations.
It means letting Scripture, prayer, and worship tune your heart to God’s presence.

Wakefulness is a spiritual discipline, and Advent gives us four weeks to practice it.

Advent also invites us into repentance—not the heavy-handed guilt of caricature, but the joyful turning of the heart toward what is good and life-giving.

Repentance is making room.

Room for love in relationships that have grown strained.
Room for generosity in a season tempted by excess.
Room for quiet in a season overwhelmed by noise.
Room for God’s priorities in a life cluttered with lesser things.

John the Baptist will soon stride onto the Advent stage telling us to “prepare the way of the Lord.” Repentance is our way of building that road in our hearts.

Finally, to stay awake is to live with active hope.

Isaiah says that one day nations will beat their swords into ploughshares. But Advent asks us: what small act of peace can you forge today? What sword in your life—what resentment, anger, fear—can be hammered into something more fruitful?

Active hope means letting God’s promised future shape your present decisions.

Even if peace seems far off, you choose peace in your family.
Even if justice seems slow, you seek justice in your community.
Even if the world is anxious, you practice courage and compassion.

Advent hope does not wait passively. It builds, it yearns, it acts.

The reading from Isaiah ends with an invitation—and it is an invitation addressed to us:

“O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!”

Walk, Isaiah says—not sit and admire the mountain from afar, but move toward God’s light day by day.

And Matthew, too, ends with a simple call: “Therefore you also must be ready.”

Taken together, they form Advent’s marching orders:

Walk toward God’s future.
Be awake to God’s presence.
Live now as people who expect Christ to come.

Because Christ is coming—not only in Bethlehem as a child, not only at the end of time in glory, but again and again into the life of the world and the life of each believer.

Advent is not just a countdown to Christmas. It is an invitation to renewed faithfulness. A season to shake off spiritual sleepiness. A time to let hope reshape our habits and to let God’s promised peace inspire our choices.

As we light the first candle this morning, its small flame flickering against the shadows, remember what it symbolizes: not the fullness of the light, but its beginning. The promise of dawn, even while the world is still dark.

We start this new liturgical year in the half-light of early morning. The sun has not yet risen, but the horizon is already brightening. A new creation is on its way.

So let us walk in that rising light. Let us stay awake to its arrival. And let us lean with all our lives toward the peace Isaiah saw—and the presence Jesus promises.

In this holy season, may God give us eyes to see, hearts to watch, and courage to hope.

Amen.