Fierce Hope: An Advent Journey of Waiting and Wonderنموونە

I’ve lived almost 30 years in the busy city of San Francisco on the California Coast. Noise is a constant. Cars rushing by and kids playing. Garbage trucks early in the morning. The fog horn drifting in the Bay. Even when it’s not loud, there’s always a steady hum in the background.

For many years, I thrived on the hustle and bustle. The sounds made me feel alive, like life was always in motion. A moment of true quiet felt disorienting—almost unsettling—because I didn’t know what to do with it. Silence felt like absence. But over time, I’ve begun to wonder if silence holds more than I realized. In the same way that quiet moments in a noisy city can heighten my awareness, spiritual silence can open space for God to do a deeper work. Maybe silence isn’t where God is missing—but where He is forming.

Our passage today centers on an experience of silence in the life of Zechariah. Zechariah was chosen by lot to offer incense in the temple, and little did he know that this deeply profound moment would become a turning point in Israel’s story—and his own. As he placed incense on the altar, the angel Gabriel appeared with an announcement that shattered 400 years of silence—declaring not only that Zechariah and Elizabeth’s prayers for a child had been heard, but also that God was on the move. Their son would prepare the way for the Messiah and be great in the sight of the Lord. What a promise! It’s not hard to imagine why this encounter left Zechariah completely stunned.

Faced with a prophecy that countered their unanswered prayers, advancing age, and barren reality, Zechariah was overwhelmed and unable to believe the angel’s message. As a result, he was struck silent. This was the greatest news of his life—the most significant revelation Israel had received in generations—yet he could not celebrate, rejoice, or shout for joy. His voice was taken from him.

Once in my life, I completely lost my voice. I couldn’t whisper, mutter, or make a sound for days. I remember the frustration—how trapped I felt, with so much I wanted to say and no way to express it. Now imagine that same limitation, but within you burns the greatest news of your life!

It’s hard to grasp what God was doing at this moment. Many of us probably feel sympathy for Zechariah, and we may never fully understand God’s action here. We don’t know the condition of Zechariah’s heart, but it’s possible that God used this pause to shape him in ways words never could. Perhaps this was a sacred stillness, preparing him for the greatest task of his life: raising a prophet who would prepare the way for the Lord. What we do know is that God’s character is always good. And for Him, silence is not an obstacle but a vehicle. After all, it was in the silence of Holy Saturday, following Christ’s death on the cross, that God was at work defeating death itself. He does some of His deepest and most profound work in the space without words.

This story of silence forces us to confront our assumptions about God’s work in our lives. We often equate quiet and delay with God’s absence, but what if it’s the exact opposite? What if the very seasons when heaven feels muted are actually the times where God is preparing us most deeply for His purpose? Perhaps, it is in these hushed stretches of time that the deepest chambers of our hearts are stirred, shaped, and readied for what only silence can awaken.

Holding on to that truth requires us to anchor our hope into Someone greater than ourselves—even when His voice feels far away. We are invited to awaken fierce hope. The kind of hope that clings through the darkest nights and the deepest disappointments. A hope that refuses to be shaken. A steadfast, fortified hope that trusts God is at work in ways we cannot see or feel.

This hope is not hollow or without substance. It may be assaulted, tested, and pressed hard—but it will not break. Fierce hope is resilient, unrelenting, and unwavering because its strength is found in God Himself.

What if the places that feel silent are the places of God’s deepest work? Let the stillness become your sanctuary—a reminder that silence is not absence, but invitation.

Fierce hope is what we cling to this Advent season—hope in the God who worked miracles for Israel and still works them for us today. Hope gives us courage to face dead ends, false starts, and setbacks, and still declare: this silence is not empty—it is pregnant with promise.

Prayer

Lord, when silence feels empty, remind me it is full of your presence. Shape me in the quiet and prepare me for all you are bringing to life.

Amen.