There’s a line we spoke together this morning that has been echoing in my heart: “The Light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not overcome it.”

Advent begins right there—in the tension between the shadows we know too well and the promise that God’s light is stubborn, persistent, unextinguishable. And today, as we light the second candle, we name that this light is not only a symbol of hope, but a sign of peace—peace for the weary, peace for the fearful, peace for those who feel stretched thin by the world’s heaviness.

Our call to worship named that weariness with honesty:

• We grow weary when fear overshadows faith.

• We grow weary when destructive actions erupt in the world around us.

• We grow weary when the shadows feel long and our strength feels small.

And into that weariness, we prayed: “Grant that we might have the peace of Christ as we wait.” That prayer is exactly where our scriptures meet us today.

Isaiah begins with an image that feels almost fragile: “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse.”

Not a mighty cedar.

Not a towering oak.

A shoot—thin, tender, improbable.

Isaiah is speaking to a people who have seen their hopes cut down to the stump. Their political life is in ruins. Their leaders have failed them. Their future feels uncertain. And into that landscape of exhaustion, God promises new life that begins small.

This is how peace often arrives—not as a sudden transformation, but as a quiet beginning. A green sprout pushing through what looked dead. A whisper of possibility in a place we had written off. A reminder that God’s future is not limited by our present.

And Isaiah goes further: this shoot will grow into a ruler who embodies wisdom, understanding, counsel, might, knowledge, and reverence. A ruler who judges not by appearances but with righteousness. A ruler who brings justice for the poor and equity for the meek.

And then Isaiah dares to imagine a world so transformed that even creation itself is at peace:

• The wolf and the lamb

• The leopard and the kid

• The calf and the lion

• A little child leading them

This is not naïve poetry. It is a vision of God’s peace that is deeper than the absence of conflict. It is the healing of creation’s deepest fractures. It is the restoration of relationships we thought were forever broken. It is the undoing of fear itself.

Psalm 72 echoes this longing. It imagines a king who brings justice, who defends the poor, who crushes oppression, who causes righteousness to flourish. And then it says something beautiful: “In his days may righteousness flourish and peace abound, until the moon is no more.”

Peace that lasts.

Peace that grows.

Peace that does not depend on circumstances.

Peace that is not fragile or fleeting.

This is the peace we pray for when we light the second candle.

Not a peace that ignores the world’s pain.

Not a peace that pretends everything is fine.

But a peace that strengthens the weary and lifts up the weak.

A peace that comes from God’s own heart.

And then—into all this beauty—Matthew gives us John the Baptist.

John is not gentle.

John is not soothing.

John is not the warm glow of candlelight.

John is the voice crying out in the wilderness, calling people to repentance, calling them to prepare the way of the Lord. His message is urgent, unsettling, even sharp.

And yet—John is part of the peace story too.

Because peace is not only comfort.

Peace is also truth.

Peace is the courage to turn around, to let go of what harms us, to release what keeps us from God.

John’s call to repentance is not a threat—it is an invitation.

An invitation to clear away the debris that clutters our hearts.

An invitation to make room for the One who brings true peace.

An invitation to step out of the shadows and into the growing light.

Sometimes the path to peace begins with honesty.

Sometimes it begins with letting go.

Sometimes it begins with hearing a voice that wakes us up.

Paul, writing to the Romans, ties all of this together. He reminds the church that the scriptures were written to give us hope. He urges them to live in harmony with one another. And then he offers a blessing that feels tailor‑made for Advent: “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”

Peace is not something we manufacture.

Peace is something God grows in us.

Peace is a gift that strengthens the weary and steadies the trembling.

Peace is the fruit of trusting that God is still at work—even in the stumps, even in the wilderness, even in the places where we feel most tired.

So today, when we light the second candle, we name this truth:

Peace is not the absence of struggle.

Peace is the presence of Christ.

The first candle taught us patience—how to wait with hope.

The second candle teaches us strength—how to stand in the shadows without losing heart.

This candle burns for all who feel weary.

For all who carry burdens too heavy to name.

For all who long for a world made whole.

For all who need the reminder that God’s peace is stronger than the darkness.

As the light grows brighter, so does our hope. Beloved, the world is weary. We are weary. But Advent is God’s promise that weariness is not the end of the story.

A shoot is growing from the stump.

A voice is crying in the wilderness.

A Savior is drawing near.

And the peace he brings is for you.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing.

May the light of Christ strengthen you.

May the Spirit kindle hope in you as the days grow shorter and the candles grow brighter.

And may this second candle remind you that even in the shadows, the Light shines, and the darkness has not overcome it.