Read Malachi 3:1–4.

Today we read from the last book of the Old Testament, just before we flip the page into the first chapter of Matthew. The Israelites have returned from the Babylonian exile, the Jerusalem temple has been rebuilt, and yet their relationship with God is still … complicated.

The Book of Malachi is structured around a series of declarations by God, which are met by questions and accusations from the people of Israel. As these dialogues unfold, Israel’s ongoing sin and rebellion are laid bare, as is the steadfast character of Israel’s God. Our passage in chapter 3 is introduced by Israel’s pleading for the God of justice to show up (2:17), and God’s promise to send a messenger who will prepare the way of the Lord (3:1). After that, God himself will come to the temple. What a hopeful promise! The God who has chosen the Israelites as his treasured people will come, demonstrating anew his commitment to his people.

This hope, however, is given a sharp edge in the next verse. Yes, God is coming—but who can endure the day of his coming? God will not pat the Israelites on the back for their half-hearted temple service or refusal to honor God fully. Indeed, the God who is coming is like a refiner’s fire and a launderer’s soap, putting the Israelites on trial for their injustices and waywardness.

During Advent, as we await the birth of the Messiah and long for God’s coming yet again, the yearning is palpable. Our world is broken, and we need a savior. But, like the Israelites, the savior we await may not be exactly as we expect. He may not pat us on the back either. Rather, our shortcomings will be laid bare, and we too will be called to repent and change our ways.

But this is precisely the point. Our God is not a God who leaves us alone and lets us be just how we are. He is a God who changes us, and this change can only come about through an awakening to the parts of our lives that are in desperate need of reordering. It is this reordering, this opening of ourselves to the refining hand of God, that will indeed draw us nearer to God and closer to the people we were made to be.

Let us be open to God entering into our lives, and let us embrace that God showing up may not look exactly how we may have imagined. What can be trusted is the goodness and gentleness of this great God, the God of faithfulness, the God who will not leave us alone.

Jen Rosner is affiliate assistant professor of systematic theology at Fuller Theological Seminary and the author of Finding Messiah: A Journey Into the Jewishness of the Gospel.

Read Isaiah 40:1–5.

As we seek to gain insight on this beautiful passage, a window into its meaning for the Jewish community can help us better understand its context and significance. The Jewish people worldwide move through a weekly biblical reading cycle, similar to the Christian lectionary. The darkest weeks of the cycle fall in midsummer, leading up to Tisha B’Av, the saddest day in the Jewish calendar. It commemorates the destruction of both the first and second temple in Jerusalem. Tisha B’Av also marks numerous other tragedies throughout Jewish history. It is a day of fasting and mourning. The Book of Lamentations is read publicly and Israel’s sin before God is laid bare.

But that is not the end of the story. Immediately following Tisha B’Av, the reading cycle enters seven weeks of consolation, leading up to Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Isaiah 40:1–26 is the designated reading for the week after Tisha B’Av, offering a reminder that judgment is not the final word. Each year, the Jewish people walk through the darkness of divine rebuke and are then reminded that God’s grace and forgiveness ultimately carry the day. They emerge from a time of ashes and despair into a new promise of God’s unyielding love.

Isaiah wrote during the expansion of the Assyrian empire and the demise of the kingdom of Israel (and eventually Judah). It was a tumultuous and tragic time, which Isaiah paints with haunting imagery. Yet Isaiah knew that this would not be Israel’s ultimate destiny. His description of restoration is equally visionary, instilling hope and perseverance in a battle-sieged people who doubted God’s presence in their midst.

Isaiah’s words also point forward to the pinnacle of divine revelation in the New Testament and the role played by John the Baptist, who’s identified as “one calling in the wilderness” (Matt. 3:3). The reference to Jerusalem’s hard service being completed and her sin being paid for (Isa. 40:2) would one day become true for all nations, as Jesus proclaimed that all people on earth are now invited into a covenantal relationship with God.

The contours of this new covenant inaugurated by Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection mirror the covenant Israel had long known. While there are repercussions for sin, God’s forgiveness and commitment to his people are renewed again and again, like waves crashing on a shore. May we press into the comfort of God’s presence and promises as we await the full revelation of his glory, even as Isaiah prophesied.

Jen Rosner is affliate assistant professor of systematic theology at Fuller Theological Seminary and the author of Finding Messiah: A Journey Into the Jewishness of the Gospel.

Read Luke 1:67–79.

In my branch of the church, we pray the words of the song of Zechariah each day during the service of Morning Prayer. As the new day begins, we say or sing: “The sunrise shall visit us from on high to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace” (vv. 78–79, ESV).

Anyone who has taken the trouble to get up early and climb a hill or tower to watch the burning cusp of the sun swell into a cheering, blazing ball on the horizon will know how easy it is to treat a sunrise as a metaphor for hope. The rising sun says, “Whatever happened yesterday, here is a day of new possibilities. There is life beyond darkness and peace beyond strife.”

Maybe the most famous use of the metaphor comes from the Old Testament prophet Malachi, who pictures the sun as a peaceable bird whose flight path showers mercy on those who look up to see it. In Eugene Peterson’s memorable paraphrase, Malachi 4:2 reads, “For you, sunrise! The sun of righteousness will dawn on those who honor my name, healing radiating from its wings” (MSG).

What we hope for when we say these words morning after morning is that the sun’s warm light would simply remind us of God’s light that shines in our hearts with fresh grace for the day ahead (2 Cor. 4:6).

One of the things that’s always a bit jarring to me, though, when I pray the song of Zechariah is that the somewhat gauzy, universally recognizable symbol of the rising sun sits side by side with a stubbornly concrete reference to a specific child from history: the cousin of Jesus, the one we know as John the Baptist. “You, my child,” sings Zechariah, breaking away from his grandiose imagery to focus on one particular human being, “will be called a prophet of the Most High; for you will go on before the Lord to prepare the way for him” (Luke 1:76).

What this means for my prayer life, I’ve come to think, is that all the beautiful but somewhat underdetermined talk about divine light, health, peace, and so on comes into sharp focus in the events surrounding one particular first-century Israelite prophet who would one day, pointing away from himself, declare about Jesus: “Look, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” (John 1:29). The sun is meant to remind us of hope, yes—but, particularly, the hope of the Son himself.

Wesley Hill is a priest serving at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and an associate professor of New Testament at Western Theological Seminary in Holland, Michigan.

Read Luke 3:1–6.

We’re tempted to imagine the ancient world of the Bible as far more foreign than familiar. In phrases like, “In the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar” (Luke 3:1), we hear the yammering of our high school history teacher. But Luke’s gospel introduces us to a recognizable world. A world where lust for power, celebrity, and wealth reigned supreme. In this world, political might made right. In AD 19, for example, Tiberius Caesar exiled the Jewish community from Rome—because he felt like it. In this world, religious loyalties were corrupted by political compromise. Archaeologists believe they may have found Caiaphas’s house—its multiple stories, water installations, and mosaic floors all bearing witness to the high priest’s coziness with the ruling party. Much like ours, this world was waiting for rescue.

John the Baptist may have been a member of one of the small holiness communities that fled Jerusalem because of the corruption. From the wilderness, John preached his “baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins” (v. 3) and announced a loud cry of salvation (v. 6). As the forerunner of Jesus, John was making a way for people to see what Rome, despite its promises, could never provide.

In the Jewish imagination, repentance was a means for restoring the blessing of God. Although repentance reminded people of their sin, it was nevertheless emphatically good news. We see this clearly in the book of Deuteronomy. As Moses reprised the terms of the covenant God made with Israel, he reminded God’s people that sin would always be their ruin. To their own peril, he said, they “invoke a blessing on themselves, thinking, ‘I will be safe, even though I persist in going my own way’ ” (29:19). But despite the pleasure people may think sin affords, it is always cause for eventual catastrophe—as Israel learned the hard way.

Repentance is a call to turn from our sin and turn toward God. To say it differently, repentance is a call to turn from self-harm and turn toward self-preservation. Repentance is a lifesaving measure.

But as the message of John reminds us, this turning is only made possible because God sent a “word … to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness” (Luke 3:2). The good news announcement is that God himself has prepared the way for God’s people to return to him. During Advent, we remember that repentance is made possible because God enfleshes a Word—and sends him to speak, to serve, to save.

Jen Pollock Michel is a writer, podcast host, and speaker based in Toronto. She’s the author of four books, including A Habit Called Faith and Surprised by Paradox.