Hope
I’m Still Scared… But I’m Not Alone.
Picture this:
A cold, stormy night. The wind rattles the windows. Thunder shakes the house every few moments. Inside, a family is finishing bedtime routines, trying to ignore the chaos outside.
One of the kids—a little girl—is brushing her teeth when suddenly, the power goes out.
Pitch black.
The kind of darkness that makes everything unfamiliar.
Lightning flashes, and oversized shadows crawl across the hallway walls. Her imagination turns them into monsters. She freezes. Her breath quickens. Tears rise.
She chokes out a cry for her dad.
She is overwhelmed, terrified, alone—or so she thinks.
From downstairs she hears his voice:
“I’m coming, sweetheart.”
A small flicker of candlelight begins moving through the house.
He climbs the stairs, speaking gently, reassuring her before she can see him:
“I’m almost there.”
Finally, he rounds the corner. He sets the candle on the floor, sits down right in front of her, wraps her in his arms, and whispers,
“The darkness will pass. I’m with you. You’re safe.”
Her breathing slows. Her tears ease.
She presses her face into his shirt and says quietly:
“I’m still scared… but I’m not alone.”
This—this—is Advent.
Advent Begins in the Dark
The story of Advent doesn’t begin with tinsel or lights or warmth.
It begins in darkness.
In longing.
In fear.
In a world that feels unsteady and storm-beaten.
It begins with people who are crying out,
“God, where are You?”
And into that darkness, Scripture speaks:
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.”
— Isaiah 9:2
“For to us a child is born…”
— Isaiah 9:6
“They will call him Immanuel.”
— Isaiah 7:14
Immanuel: God with us.
Not God above us.
Not God far away from us.
Not God watching us from a safe distance.
God with us.
The lights may not come back on immediately.
The storm may still be raging.
But God steps into the dark—candle in hand—and holds us close.
Hope Begins With a Presence, Not a Feeling
Hope is a strange and wonderful thing. You can survive a lot without comfort, clarity, or control—but you can’t survive without hope.
Hope is what tells us:
- There is light ahead.
- Someone stronger holds our future.
- The dark is not the end of the story.
But Advent doesn’t ask us to manufacture hope.
It doesn’t ask us to pretend everything is fine.
Advent begins with honest darkness, and a single small candle lit in the middle of it all.
It whispers:
Hope is not a mood.
Hope is a person.
Hope has a name: Immanuel.
The Promise of Immanuel: God Refuses to Stay Distant
When Isaiah first spoke the name Immanuel, Israel was terrified—caught between enemy armies, corrupt leaders, and an uncertain future.
In other words:
they were a lot like us.
Into their fear came a promise:
A child will be born. God will be with you.
Matthew picks it up centuries later and says:
“The virgin will conceive… and they will call him Immanuel.”
— Matthew 1:22–23
Biblical scholar R.T. France notes that Matthew’s Gospel opens with “God with us” (1:23) and ends with Jesus saying,
“I am with you always.” (28:20)
The whole Gospel is framed by presence.
John says it this way:
“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.”
— John 1:14
Eugene Peterson paraphrases it beautifully:
“God moved into the neighborhood.”
The Incarnation is not a metaphor.
It is the Creator stepping into creation.
It is God refusing to love us from a distance.
God Didn’t Send Hope From Afar—He Became Hope Up Close
Think about this:
God did not arrive as a warrior or angel or king.
He arrived as a baby—fragile, vulnerable, dependent.
The infinite became an infant.
Why?
So that you would never again wonder if God understands you.
So you would never again question whether God cares.
So you would never again be alone in the dark.
Hebrews says:
“He shared in our humanity…
He was made like us in every way…
Because he suffered, he is able to help us.”
— Hebrews 2:14–18
He knows what it feels like to be tired, afraid, misunderstood, rejected, tempted, and heartbroken.
God is not an observer of human suffering.
He is a participant.
The cross is not a symbol of distant love.
It is God entering our pain to redeem it.
**Hope Isn’t That God Pulls Us Out of the Dark—
It’s That He Steps Into It With Us**
Jesus didn’t just come to understand humanity.
He came to rescue it.
The baby in the manger becomes the Lamb on the cross.
The Word made flesh becomes the Savior whose blood speaks a better word.
Because He came once, He will come again.
Advent looks backward and forward:
He came in weakness—and He will return in glory.
Revelation echoes Isaiah with the final, eternal promise:
“God Himself will be with them.”
— Revelation 21:3
Immanuel is not a Christmas slogan.
It is the future of the redeemed world.
So What Does It Mean Right Now That Jesus Is Immanuel?
It means you are not alone.
Not in your grief.
Not in your fear.
Not in your uncertainty.
Not in your shame.
Not in your waiting.
The God who stepped into human history
steps into your story
your home
your night
your hallway
your storm.
Your hope is not abstract.
It has a face.
It has a cross.
It has a resurrection.
Hope has a heartbeat.
Hope has walked our roads.
Hope has carried our sins.
Hope is coming again.
Hope is Jesus.
The Advent Promise
Whatever darkness you feel—whatever storm is shaking your world—Advent declares:
You might still feel afraid.
But you are not alone.
God is with you.
He is Immanuel.
He always has been.
He always will be.
And that is where hope begins.