As we listen to the opening words from the Gospel of Luke this morning, the story of Jesus begins with this line… “In the time of Herod…” Often, this seemingly small detail may be overlooked as we move on to the unfolding of this great story; however, it reveals some important information about the fearful world into which Jesus is born, one filled with widespread oppression, economic disparity, uncertainty, and instability. Sadly, it is a world not too different from the time in which we are living, and throughout the stories of Christ’s birth, the whispers of angels deliver a comforting and unexpected message: “Do not fear.” In our own time, we might ponder whether it is possible to be fearless in such a fearful world? When Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, and the magi are all invited into God’s redemptive and unfolding story, they do not deny their fears—they move through them. They ask questions, hold on to courage, trust in the good news, and say, “Here I am, Lord.” When we find ourselves afraid, I wonder if it might be possible for us to also acknowledge our fears while also seeking out signs of hope? Let us pray,
“What is it that you fear?” We might imagine these words spoken softly to us when we are feeling overcome; we might believe that the listener genuinely wants to know what is causing us fear and worry. When we are invited to name our fears out loud before God, perhaps we might discover that their power over us lessens, even a little. Our journey through Advent and our spiritual journeys in life encompass the wide range of human emotions, including yes, being afraid. Perhaps we might hear an invitation in this season of love to share our fears with the One who loves us and with one another, perhaps we might understand our role in this incredible story of faith and understand that those who came before us walked forward even in times of fear and anxiety and that we can too as long as we walk together in faith. Our fears may lead us to deepen our faith, to explore in new ways and to be more courageous and hopeful. I think this begins by acknowledging whatever it is that causes us to be fearful and to try and release the fears that may at times overwhelm us. Perhaps we are not afraid for ourselves but carry fear for those we love, a family member who is sick or struggling, a neighbor who is alone, a world of too much suffering. Whatever it is, we may lift that up in prayer and believe that God is already listening.
I remember when our son was young, like so many children, he was afraid of the darkness, of things that might lurk in his closet or under the bed. There is an age when children begin to identify that feeling of fear and it can have a visceral effect on them. We know that fear is a biological inheritance; our fears were meant to warn us so that we might seek out safety; however, our fears can also overtake us at times and immobilize us. Children experience fear in a very real way. I recall that we were encouraged to do guided meditation with him at bedtime, to help him calm each part of his body down so that he could relax. Essentially, we were trying to help him override that lizard part of the brain, the amigdyla, which can overwhelm every rational thought when it becomes afraid. Have you ever had an experience of real and deep fear in your life? Our fears as children are as real to us as the ones we face as adults, except, I think as adults, we have far more experience with things that can cause true fear within.
As we consider Zechariah and Elizabeth’s story from Luke, we realize that many of our fears show up as longing. Like a deep ache inside us, we long for a better world, a different story, a brighter future. Our passage from today concludes with Luke 1:13, as we hear of the
angel visiting Zechariah. We will also see angels visit others in Scripture in the coming weeks as Advent unfolds. But what has come before we encounter Zechariah and Elizabeth this morning? How many years had they been waiting, for both a son and a Messiah? What was it like to live under Herod’s reign? Had they run out of hope? While their prayers are eventually met with great joy, not every longing ends with a miracle.³ I trust that our God is listening to each and every one of our prayers, feeling our deepest sorrows and pain, and drawing near to us when we tremble.
The Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee explains that these opening words of Luke reminds us that the world in the time of Jesus’ birth is shaped by violence, occupation, and fear. This was no golden age of peace or spiritual clarity—it was a time of survival under empire. Herod, the Roman-appointed ruler of Judea, governed with paranoia and cruelty. His power, secured through imperial alliance, was maintained by coercion, surveillance, and brutality. Luke intentionally reminds us that the story of Jesus unfolded within these political realities. His Gospel is not only spiritual but political—resistance in the face of empire. In this context, Luke introduces Zechariah and Elizabeth—an aging priestly couple who are not marked by prominence, but by their deep longing. They had no children. At that time, to be barren was often viewed by others sadly as divine judgment. Elizabeth’s childlessness brought not just personal grief but public shame. I must add that we know now that difficulty having children is not only because of the mother but that was the understanding at that time. Yet, Luke insists: they were righteous.
Their faith endured, even while they waited. It’s tempting to rush ahead to the angel’s announcement and the joy of John’s birth. But Luke slows us down, inviting us to notice the interruption. While offering incense in the temple, Zechariah encounters a divine messenger. His response is not relief or joy—but fear. Luke uses the Greek verb tarassó—to be troubled, disturbed, or agitated. It evokes deep inner
shaking, a disruption of body and spirit. But fear can become more than a reaction. It can take root and become a way of being. In John 14:27, Jesus says, “Let not your hearts be troubled (tarassó), and do not be afraid (deiliaó).” The second term, deiliaó, implies a shrinking of
heart, our spirit—a fear that inhibits action and diminishes courage.
Together, these words describe fear that doesn’t just visit—it settles.
Fear that shapes our posture toward the world. Many of us know this kind of fear. Especially in “Herodian times”—eras marked by empire, oppression, and uncertainty—fear becomes embedded in our bodies, relationships, and public discourse. It becomes background noise so constant we forget it’s there.
Like Zechariah, we may grow so used to disappointment that when hope finally arrives, it startles us. When God reaches out, we are startled.
So when the angel says, “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard,” it allows for a new way of thinking and feeling.
Your fear is real—but it is not the only truth. God has already been listening. God enters the silence, the ache, the barrenness—
into the very place where fear has taken root.
And God’s response begins not with a miracle, but with recognition:
your prayer has been heard.
Perhaps in this a season of waiting, we are not asked to suppress fear but to face it. To ask: How does fear live in me? What voices has it amplified? What longings has it silenced?
Fear can provide new ways of learning. It tells us that something matters. That something is at stake. It is our tender vulnerable core that is calling out to be heard, to be recognized. Advent gives us room to sit with fear— not to banish it, but to listen. What are we afraid to hope for?
What have we stopped praying for? How has fear diminished our own lives, our spirits?
Zechariah’s fear marks the beginning of transformation. Even in the midst of his silence, he becomes part of the unfolding story— his life bearing witness to a God who hears, disrupts, and enters fearful places with grace. “In the time of Herod…”the passage reminds us, a time when the world was not as it should be, not as God wished for God’s people, a world echoing with grief and longing. And still—God broke in.
In the time of fear, God heard a prayer. And responded with presence.
This Advent, perhaps the question is not how we overcome our fears, but instead Can we name our fear honestly—and still believe God is near?
Rough Translations
Hope nonetheless.
Hope despite.
Hope regardless.
Hope still.
Hope where we had ceased to hope.
Hope amid what threatens hope.
Hope with those who feed our hope.
Hope beyond what we had hoped.
Hope that draws us past our limits.
Hope that defies expectations.
Hope that questions what we have known.
Hope that makes a way where there is none.
Hope that takes us past our fear.
Hope that calls us into life.
Hope that holds us beyond death.
Hope that blesses those to come. By Jan Richardson, from Circle of Grace: Blessings for the Seasons