[BLOG] God’s Boundless, Barrier-Breaking Vision (An Advent Daily Devotional Series)

Week 2

December 7

Isaiah 11:1-10

The self-trained Black painter Horace Pippin painted an interpretation of Isaiah 11 in his 1945 work “The Holy Mountain” (Isa. 11:9). The foreground shows the animals depicted in the Isaiah passage peaceably grazing alongside Black children lounging in the grass alongside them. The background paints a more sinister portrait. Among the trees, we see outlines of a lynched man, a plane on the upper branches dropping bombs on a cemetery below, and soldiers in war.i He paints during the ashes of World War II and in the midst of Jim Crow. These spectral vestiges of contemporary violence combined with Isaiah’s peaceful metaphors present a stark contrast, and prompt us to consider what peace looks like today.

Pippin’s depiction of war imagery in the background reminds his audience and ours too that peace, like hope, is a here-and-not-yet reality. Isaiah recognizes this as well: 10.2 says “Woe to those who make iniquitous decrees…to turn aside the needy from justice” before he turns to the peaceable kingdom the next chapter and the peaceful mountaintop imagery. We realize that for peace to come, justice must reign. For Pippin, the peaceable kingdom is juxtaposed against racial violence and war. For us today, the background images could still include racial discrimination, abuse and unjust treatment of migrants, and growing class inequities exacerbated by political motives. We too dream of a place where the lion and calf eat together.

When everyone has what they need and experiences equity, peace will come. As the Baptist theologian Martin Luther King tells us, we will not get there alone, but together. I see this in the group of multireligious clergy that stands vigil at the ICE detention office every Monday, praying for migrants and standing for justice. That we can dream points us to a reality that it God’s kin-dom. Let it be so, for Isaiah, for King, and for us.

Prayer: God of the wolf and the lamb,   Help us work toward your justice  So we can rest in your peace.  Amen 

Kate Hanch, Director of the Baptist House of Studies


December 8

Psalm 21 | Joy in the Strength That Holds Us

Psalm 21 is a victory song, but it’s not the kind that pretends life is easy. It’s the kind that looks straight at the battlefield (real enemies, real threats, real schemes) and still dares to rejoice, because the psalmist knows where strength actually comes from. 

At first glance, the focus is “the king”: crowned, blessed, granted desire, given life “length of days, for ever and ever.” But as the psalm unfolds, it becomes clear this is not a celebration of human greatness. It’s a celebration of God’s sustaining presence. The king’s joy isn’t rooted in ego or achievement; it’s rooted in the victories you give and the joy of your presence. Power is redefined: not domination, but dependence—“the king trusts in the Lord…he will not be shaken.”

That line lands like a hand on the shoulder in a season like Advent, when we’re asked to live with tension: longing and waiting, grief and hope, unsettled headlines and stubborn praise. Some days, “victory” looks like surviving. Some days it looks like choosing integrity when others plot harm. Some days it looks like telling the truth, doing good quietly, or refusing to let fear make your decisions for you. 

God of unshakable love, 
when we are tired, be our strength; 
when we are afraid, be our steadiness; 
when evil seems loud, be our defender. 
Teach us to rejoice not in our power, but in your presence, 𠊊nd to sing praise even as we wait for your justice to come. � exalted in your strength, O Lord. Amen. 

Romans 15:14-21

In Romans, Paul writes to a community he has not yet met but already believes in—trusting their goodness, knowledge, and ability to care for one another. His confidence in them isn’t sentimental; it’s rooted in the grace of God that equips ordinary people to do extraordinary work. Advent carries that same reminder: God often builds the future through communities who may not feel ready, but who are willing.

In this passage, Paul reflects on his ministry as an offering—something sanctified not by personal achievement, but by the Spirit working through him. This reframing is crucial. Advent invites us to shift from striving to attentiveness, from productivity to faithfulness. What if our calling isn’t to accomplish impressive things but to make space for God’s work to shine through us?

Paul’s desire to preach “where Christ has not been named” resonates with our longing for renewal in places that feel unfamiliar or untouched by hope. Many of us carry deep concern for fractured relationships, unjust systems, or communities that feel forgotten. Advent encourages us to imagine what newness might look like there. Not through our own force but through trust that Holy Spirit continues to move and God is not done yet.

The season of waiting is also a season of widening. Through Christ, God gathers people across boundaries and identities, forming a community shaped by mutual encouragement and shared purpose. In a world that often feels polarized, Paul’s words challenge us to reconnect—to believe that God can work through us and in us, even when the path ahead is uncertain.

As we journey through Advent, may we recognize the Spirit’s work in us: moving us to generosity, justice-seeking, and quiet acts of compassion. Paul reminds us that God is always creating new beginnings, especially in places that have yet to experience the fullness of Christ’s peace.

Prayer: Spirit of hope, open our eyes to the work you are already doing through our communities. Give us courage to carry Christ’s love into unfamiliar places. Strengthen us to serve with humility, joy, and trust in your transforming grace. Amen.

December 10

Matthew 12:33-37 | Christ the True Tree, and the Fruit of Our Hearts

During Advent, we remember that Jesus is the shoot from the stump of Jesse—the promised Branch who brings life out of places that seem cut down or forgotten. Isaiah 11 promises that from this unlikely stump will rise a righteous Branch whose fruit will renew creation. Matthew 12 uses similar imagery when Jesus says, “A tree is known by its fruit.” These two passages, read together, invite us to see Advent not just as waiting for Christ, but preparing to be rooted in Him, the True Tree who brings life to the world.

Christ bears the fruit that we cannot produce on our own. His life is marked by love, mercy, righteousness, justice, compassion, and peace. Advent invites us to graft our lives into His life so that the fruit He bears becomes the fruit we bear. In this season, we reflect on what is growing within us: What fruit is visible in my life right now? What do my words, habits, and reactions reveal about the state of my heart?

Jesus says, “Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.” Advent gives us the gift of slowing down long enough to listen—to our words, our reactions, our desires, our longings. If our words are fruit, then Advent becomes a season of spiritual gardening: preparing the soil, tending the roots, pruning what distracts, and making space for new growth.

The Jesse Tree tradition beautifully reinforces this work. Each ornament—Abraham’s stars, Ruth’s grain, David’s harp, Isaiah’s stump—tells part of the long story of God’s faithfulness. That story culminates in Jesus, the True Tree who bears the good fruit of redemption for the whole world. As we hang Jesse Tree symbols or read Scripture in these weeks, we are reminded that God has always been in the business of bringing life out of stumps and hope out of barrenness.

As we prepare for Christ’s coming, we ask Him to cultivate His life within us: mercy instead of harshness, peace instead of hurry, love instead of fear, generosity instead of scarcity, and hope instead of resignation. This Advent, choose one “fruit” to practice intentionally—one way your life can point to the Tree you belong to. Let your words and actions become living ornaments on Christ’s Jesse Tree, signs of the new life He brings into the world.

Prayer: Christ, our coming Savior, plant Your life deep within me. Make my heart good soil and let Your fruit grow in my words and actions. Graft me into Your life so that hope, peace, joy, and love may flourish in me this Advent season. Amen.  

Amy Reddoch, M.Div. Student

December 11

Ruth 1:6-18

They had thought that a new life in Moab would solve their problems. With famine raging in Judah, Moab had seemed to be the answer to their prayers. But, once Naomi, her husband, and her two sons had arrived, that rosy picture soon became tarnished. Her husband died, her sons took Moabite wives (which was forbidden by the Law), and then her sons had died. What Naomi had hoped to be a new, fresh beginning was just more of the same … and even worse.

Once she decides that life back in Judah is the only option, she sets out, and her Moabite daughters-in-law begin to accompany her. In her grief, she tries desperately to persuade them to remain in their homeland. (Misery sometimes loves solitude!) Naomi uses all sorts of persuasive techniques toward Ruth and Orpah (vv. 11-13). She commands them to return to their parents (twice). She asks about their motives or, perhaps suspiciously, their ulterior motives. She believes her only worth in life is bearing children, which is now impossible. She compares her plight to theirs, and finds theirs to be trifling. Then, finally, she does what we all do when faced with a reluctant audience: she does theology! “The hand of the LORD has turned against me,” she opines (v. 13b). Naomi looks at her life and sees the hand of God at work… causing her grief and devastation. For Naomi, God is someone who causes bad things to happen to people, particularly people like her.

Naomi lives in a world of fairness and just desserts. But, for Naomi, God can also be unfair. God is someone who reaches down and causes famine, pestilence, death, and bereavement. God, for Naomi, is someone who is separate and makes things to happen. This is the theology of Naomi, and it just leads her to further emptiness and hopelessness and grief. 

Ruth, however, sees things differently (vv. 16-17). Ruth finds that she already has the beginning of a relationship with Naomi’s God. But, for Ruth, any relationship with that God begins with a relationship with another person, particularly a person one loves. Relationship with God is found in fidelity, compassion, and love toward another human. For Ruth, being in a relationship with Israel’s God means loving another human.  

Blessed Savior, as we await your advent in Bethlehem, open our eyes to the true meaning of your incarnation. Help us to see that you are not separate from our sufferings, but that you suffer with us in our grief, our pain, and our disappointment. Give us a renewed understanding that loving others is like loving you… and loving you leads us to love others, in turn.

Advent is a time of preparation. A time of expectation. A time of waiting. A time filled with hope.

This little snippet of Ruth’s story is pregnant with hope (pardon the pun). Ruth is a faithful woman. An obedient woman. A woman of valor, chosen for her role because of her willingness and her devotion. Here, at the end of her story, she bears a son. Not just any son, but a redeemer.

The women of the town say to Naomi, “May the LORD be blessed, who today hasn’t left you without a redeemer.” They say it to Naomi, but I hope Ruth heard it as well. I hope she believed it for herself. Because this son of hers, who is named Obed, which means “worker” or “servant,” is the redeemer of not just his grandmother but his mother as well. He frees them both from what has held them in captivity, from what has brought distress to them. For Naomi, his grandmother, he will take care of her in her old age.

For his mother, she is now recognized as the woman of valor she has been all along.

I hope we hear those words as well. Because they are words for us, just as much as they were words for Naomi, and for Ruth.

“May the LORD be blessed, who today hasn’t left you without a Redeemer.”

In this time, when it perhaps feels as though hope is waning, when we feel empty and barren, may we remember that the LORD hasn’t left us without a Redeemer, the one who frees us from our captivity. Who sets us free from what distresses us. Our Redeemer has come, and is still coming. Our Redeemer lives. The LORD hasn’t left us.

Prayer: God who redeems, fill us with Advent hope today. Just as Obed was the redeemer of Naomi and Ruth, you are our Redeemer today. We bless you today, knowing that you have not left us without a Redeemer. Amen.

Kaylee Vida, Associate Director of Lifelong Learning

December 13

1 Samuel 2:1-8

When we sit in worship planning, I regularly remind my music staff how important their choice of songs is in conveying the message for the week. I know that on an average Sunday most people will not remember much of what I preach, but they will walk out singing the songs.

Music takes root in ways that words simply cannot. Music speaks beyond words into our very souls. It allows us to voice the things that cannot be spoken. This is the tragedy of Hannah’s song – not that she speaks these words that echo her deep pain healed, but that we cannot hear her sing it. Because she sang it! Undoubtedly with that profound joy – the kind of joy that springs forth from inexpressible pain – that comes when we have known a healing of our darkest places. What did that song sound like?

We might be quick to jump to the sound of the Magnificat, however we have heard it set to music, because Mary does echo Hannah’s song in her song. While both songs are songs of women who were unexpectedly pregnant, their journeys to such places are markedly different. When we quickly compare the two, we may injure those who still struggle to be pregnant, who long to sing like Hannah and are so often hurt by Mary’s story of unsought pregnancy. No, when I think of how Hannah sings, I am transported to Notre Dame de Paris, where I stood in 1998 surrounded by World Cup fans, all of us singing in unison, and hearing behind me a voice that was ecstatically not in tune. I turned around to see an African man singing with such palpable joy that I could not help but stare at him. I had never seen such joy embodied in a human in all my life, standing in a cathedral of a nation that quite possibly colonized his, and experiencing the collective reversal of all things in all moments, singing together with all voices in all notes, and knowing that this – THIS! – was experiencing the reign of God before us, like the world was born anew. In moments of such unbound joy, how can we keep from singing?

Prayer: God of sound and song, of heartbreak and heartbeat, you are with us in all things. Thank you for giving us joy that transcends our everyday moments. And thank you for giving us music that speaks more than we could ever say. Amen.