When the Locked Places Open

Lessons: Isaiah 11:1-10; Psalm 72:1-15; Romans 15:4-13; Matthew 3:1-12

We enter this fifth week of Advent with a theme that feels almost tailor-made for the moment we’re living in. This is the week shaped by the ancient cry of the Church for the One who opens what is closed, who frees what is bound, who breaks through the places that feel sealed shut. Every reading today is speaking to hearts that feel stuck, strained, or carried to the edge.

And I don’t know that there has been a year—at least in recent memory—when people in this country have felt more worn than right now. The cost of living keeps rising. Rent, groceries, utilities, health care. Everything that hits a family budget is heavier than it used to be. A lot of people are working harder and earning less. Layoffs shake communities. Whole industries feel unstable. Families are making choices they never thought they’d have to make. And underneath all that, there’s this quiet truth: people are tired. People are stretched. People feel sealed in.

And right in the middle of all of that, Isaiah begins with a stump.

He says, “A new king will arise from among David’s descendants” (Isaiah 11:1, GNT). The image behind that is a shoot rising from a stump. A stump isn’t pretty. It’s the remains of something cut down. It’s what’s left when potential collapses. When the tree that once gave shade and fruit and shelter is no more.

Israel knew that feeling. Their nation felt cut down. Their hope felt cut down. Their expectations about what life should look like were cut down. They looked at the future and saw nothing new.

And if we’re honest, many people today feel that way. You try to plan ahead, but the ground keeps shifting. You try to build stability, and the prices change. You try to find a sense of direction, but the path feels uncertain. It’s not that we don’t have dreams—we do. It’s that many of those dreams feel out of reach, or delayed, or constantly threatened by things outside our control.

Isaiah doesn’t deny any of that. He doesn’t pretend the stump is a tree. He looks straight at the wreckage, straight at the disappointment, and says: “God is not done. Something new can still grow here.”

But notice something: the shoot doesn’t grow from fertile ground. It doesn’t grow in perfect conditions. It grows right out of the old wound. That’s the mystery of God’s work. God brings life out of the place we thought was finished. God brings strength out of what we thought was failure. God brings new beginnings out of the soil of our disappointments.

And when Isaiah describes this new life growing, he says it will be full of the Spirit. “The Spirit of the Lord will give him wisdom and knowledge” (Isaiah 11:2, GNT). It will not be another season of the same old patterns. It will be a future shaped by the wisdom of God, the justice of God, the peace of God.

And that’s where Psalm 72 comes in. That psalm is a prayer for a ruler who leads with righteousness and compassion. It says, “Teach the king to judge with your righteousness… He will judge the poor fairly… He will rescue the needy who call to him” (Psalm 72:1–2, 12, GNT).

In other words, God’s heart leans toward the vulnerable. God takes the side of those who are struggling. God lifts up the ones weighed down.

If we take Scripture seriously, then any vision of life with God has to take that seriously too. Because the psalm isn’t describing some heavenly future; it’s describing what God wants for this world. A world where justice is real. A world where those who have the least are not ignored. A world where leadership—whether in government, workplaces, churches, or homes—is exercised with compassion.

When I look around this country right now, I see how far we are from that vision. Some families are choosing between rent and groceries. Some elders decide between medication and food. Some young adults wonder what future they’re stepping into. And too often, those realities are treated as numbers instead of lives.

Psalm 72 reminds us Advent is not about escape. It’s about desire. Deep desire for a better world. Deep desire for mercy and fairness. Deep desire that the world God intends will take root in the world we inhabit.

Then we hear from Paul. He writes, “Everything written in the Scriptures was meant to teach us, so that we might have hope” (Romans 15:4, GNT). Hope isn’t wishful thinking. Hope isn’t pretending everything’s fine. Hope is the posture we take when we trust that God’s story is not finished—even when our own story feels uncertain.

Paul prays that the God “who gives hope” will “fill you with all joy and peace” so that your hope “will keep on growing” (Romans 15:13, GNT). That’s not a shallow blessing. That’s a prayer for people whose hope is wearing thin. People who feel stretched, frightened, or discouraged. People like us. People like our neighbors. People walking into grocery stores and holding their breath at the total. People checking bank accounts with anxiety. People waking up at night wondering how long they can keep going like this.

Paul is saying: don’t forget the story you belong to. Don’t forget the God who has carried people through every kind of upheaval, every kind of wilderness, every kind of crisis. Don’t forget that you come from a long line of people who learned to trust God in the middle of the stump places.

And then we meet John the Baptist. John doesn’t ease us in. He says, “Turn away from your sins, because the Kingdom of heaven is near” (Matthew 3:2, GNT). He talks about axes at the roots and fire for what cannot bear fruit.

It sounds harsh, but John isn’t threatening people. He’s naming the truth. There are things in our lives that cannot stay if we want to be ready for the One who comes. There are attitudes, habits, resentments, fears, and patterns that choke the heart. There are ways of living that keep us closed off—from God, from others, from ourselves. John is saying, let God cut those things away. Let God clear that ground. Let God open the space for something new.

Repentance is not punishment. Repentance is permission. It is permission for God to work. Permission for God to enter the locked places. Permission for God to move what we’ve refused to touch.

And that’s the question Advent puts before us this week. Where am I closed? Where am I stuck? What part of my life feels sealed off from God? What am I holding onto that is suffocating the life God is trying to grow in me?

And it’s not just personal. Where are we closed as a community? As a society? Who do we look past? Who do we fail to hear? What injustices have we gotten used to simply because they’ve gone on so long? Advent asks us to clear a path—not just in our hearts, but in our world.

Christ comes to open what has been closed. Christ comes to free what has been bound. Christ comes to breathe life where we assumed nothing could grow.

And that opening begins with honesty. It begins with letting God look at our stump places. It begins with trusting that even there, new life can rise.

So my prayer for us this week is simple. May God open the rooms we’ve kept locked. May God break the patterns that hold us back. May God strengthen hope where hope is tired. May God give us courage to release what cannot bear fruit. And may the Christ who draws near in this season open a way through every closed door, every heavy burden, every weary soul.

Because the stump is not the end. And the locked door is not permanent. And the One who comes is nearer than we think.