Isaiah looked at a world shaped by war, fractured by fear, and burdened by leaders who have lost their moral compass. The powerful nations of his day were stockpiling weapons, forming alliances of self-protection, and marching toward destruction. Violence was not the exception; it was the expectation. Peace was treated like a foolish dream.

And right in the middle of the darkness, Isaiah stepped forward and said, “I have seen something else.” He declared, “In days to come, the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains.”

It’s important for us to understand that Isaiah is not talking about geographical altitude here. He’s talking about moral altitude. He’s talking about a higher vision in a low-down world, a higher ethic in a selfish world, a higher purpose in a weary world.

Isaiah saw hope rising above the hills, not because humanity was finally learning how to love one another, not because it seemed like kings were suddenly going embrace kindness and empathy, not because history was correcting itself, the pendulum was finally swinging in the right direction, but because God was lifting the world toward something better.

This is the hope of Advent. It’s not optimism or sentimental waiting. It’s not whistling in the dark or something we naively sit around and wait to feel. Advent hope is an existential force that lifts us, a power beyond ourselves that refuses to let us down and keep us down.

Advent hope doesn’t deny the darkness, it climbs above it. Advent hope is God-given courage pulling our hearts, our communities, and even our nation toward higher ground. It’s a holy stubbornness, a refusal to give up and lie down in despair. It stands up tall. It climbs, and it calls the world toward the light. This is the vision Isaiah saw.

Isaiah’s mountain is not geographical; neither is it political. It’s not a nation with strong borders, for Isaiah says, “All nations shall stream to it.” The prophet imagines a world where people are not separating from one another in isolation but coming together toward something higher, where God is drawing the entire world upward.

And on that higher ground, people don’t seek supremacy; they seek solidarity. People don’t sharpen swords; they reshape them. They learn peace and study war no more. Isaiah is announcing a moral revolution: “They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks.”

It’s good for us to be reminded today that plowshares and pruning hooks are tools that grow food. They are tools that cultivate life. Isaiah describes what it looks like when nations truly choose life over death, when they refuse to spend its tax dollars not on war but on feeding the people.

It is a bold and disruptive vision. And it’s a necessary vision, for it confronts us with a truth that our nation must hear today, for we have not yet chosen plowshares over swords.

In her sermon on Thanksgiving morning during the Interfaith Service of Unity, Rev. Anghaarad Teague-Dees reminded us of the painful truth that “poverty exists, not because we cannot feed the poor, but because we cannot satisfy the rich.”

The United Nations recently calculated that the United States could end world hunger if we took less than 1% of the amount we annually spend on our military and spent it on food.

We pour billions into drones, missiles, and military expansion while families stand in line for food assistance that Congress debates like it’s a luxury. We allocate billions more to ICE detentions and border militarization than to programs like SNAP that put healthy food on the table for children, seniors, and working families. We have created a nation where it is easier to fund a weapon than a meal, easier to build a prison than a pantry, a nation that brags on opening a Department of War while it closes the department of education.

Isaiah stands in the middle of our budget priorities and declares: “God is calling you to live one way, but you insist on living the exact opposite way, which is not living.”

The prophet says a day is coming when nations will no longer invest in death but in life, where resources are used to cultivate, to nourish, and to heal. This is the future Advent is calls us to live into.

Although we are failing to live into that vision today, God has already planted signs throughout history showing us that this future is possible.

After the atrocities of World War II, the United Nations was formed. Imperfect, yes. But a step toward cooperation and peace.

Japan converted military industries into factories that built cameras, cars, and electronics, tools that helped rebuild global economies instead of destroying them.

In South Africa, after generations of apartheid, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission was formed to help the nation confront its past and rebuild toward peace.

These examples are not the fullness of Isaiah’s vision, but they are echoes of it, moments when swords were reshaped, moments when nations climbed a little closer to higher ground.

And oh, how we need such moments today as our world is aching today for higher ground.

This is where the spirit of the Moral Monday movement joins the voice of ancient prophecy.

On Monday, December 8, at 11 a.m., I will stand with other clergy outside Congressman McGuire’s office and call the Virginia legislature to higher ground as part of the Moral Monday movement. This movement was launched in 2013 with a document called “The Higher Ground Moral Declaration” which said, “it’s time to move beyond left and right, liberal and conservative, and uphold higher ground moral values!”

The declaration calls for a moral revolution of values rooted in scripture and in the foundational commitments of our nation. It names poverty, healthcare, wages, education, criminal justice, LGBTQ+ rights, immigrant dignity, environmental justice, and demilitarization as moral issues, not partisan ones.

It issues a prophetic, urgent call to the nation: “Come up to higher ground.”

Isaiah is saying the same thing. Isaiah climbs the mountain and then shouts back to the valley: “This is where we’re going. Come up higher!”

Advent calls us to join Isaiah, to say to every congressperson who weaponizes fear: “Come up higher.”

To every policymaker who refuses to lift the poor: “Come up higher.”

To every governor stripping rights from transgender children, healthcare from women, and food from the hungry: “Come up higher.

To every politician that believes more guns are the answer, on our streets, in our schools, “Come up higher.”

To every pulpit today that is choosing to stay silent as our immigrant neighbors are being terrorized, kidnapped by ICE, arrested and deported without any regard to due process, court orders or human dignity: “Come up higher.”

Higher than fear.

Higher than division.

Higher than cruelty.

Higher than self.

There is a mountain calling us today. And Advent is the church’s invitation to climb.

It is important to understand that Isaiah does not imagine individuals climbing this mountain alone. This is not a private, personal journey. We read in verse three: “Many peoples shall come and say, ‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord.’” This speaks to our need of community, to the reason church is important.

It is why we covenant with other churches and partner with nonprofits. It’s why we build coalitions with all who believe in the power love, why we work with others in acts of justice, mercy, and compassion. It’s why the Moral Monday chant is “Forward Together, Not One Step Back.”

Whenever we work together to feed families, we are climbing the mountain of the Lord.

Whenever we join hands to protect vulnerable children, when we stand shoulder to shoulder to shield our immigrant neighbors, we are climbing the mountain of the Lord.

Whenever we speak with one moral voice about dignity, equality, and compassion, we are one step closer to walking in the light of the Lord on the mountaintop.

The devotional book we created for you to pick up and take home today reminds us of this hope.

Hope is not sitting in the dark pretending everything will be fine. Hope is choosing to get up with others and walk toward the light of God’s future even when the present hurts. Hope is activism with prayer behind it. Hope is compassion with courage attached.

This is Isaiah’s invitation on this First Sunday of Advent: “Come, let us rise and walk in the light.”

Walk, not wait. Climb, not cower. Rise, not resign.

So today, let’s lift our eyes to the light rising in the darkness, lift our hearts to the hope God is placing before us, and lift our courage to meet the call of our faith.

And then, with Isaiah’s conviction, let’s speak to this weary world with prophetic clarity: “Come up higher. Come into the light. Come to higher ground where weapons become tools, where bombs become bread, where fear becomes love, where strangers become neighbors, and where all nations walk together in the ways of the Lord.”

The light is rising in the darkness. And with God’s help, we are rising too.

Amen.