The Hope Candle: When the Waiting Feels Long

Isaiah 9:2–7

Advent Series Introduction — “The Words Behind the Waiting”

This year for Advent, we’re going to do something a little different.
Instead of just lighting the candles and naming the themes, we’re going to look at the Hebrew words behind those four themes—Hope, Love, Joy, and Peace—and discover what they really meant to the people who first heard them.

Because the truth is, our English words don’t always carry the weight those original words carried.

• We hear “hope,” and we think about wishing.
• We hear “love,” and we think about feelings.
• We hear “joy,” and we think about happiness.
• We hear “peace,” and we think about calm circumstances.

But in Scripture, those words are so much deeper. They’re richer, they’re rooted in real life with real pain and real waiting—just like us.

So each week of Advent, we’re going to take one of these Hebrew words
and hold it up to the light, and let it teach us how God meets us in the waiting.

INTRODUCTION

As we start this first week of Advent we light the candle of Hope and it is important because Advent begins in the dark. Not the comfortable darkness that comes at the end of a peaceful day, but the kind that sits heavy on your chest—the kind that makes you wonder if morning is ever going to come. Advent does not start with celebration or bright lights or angels singing overhead. It begins with longing. With a people who have waited so long that the waiting itself has become its own burden. And that, in many ways, is where some of us find ourselves today. Not in the place of answers, but in the place of aching questions.

There’s a Hebrew word for hope in Scripture—tiqvah. It doesn’t mean wishful thinking. It doesn’t mean optimism. It means a cord—a rope you cling to. A lifeline. Hope, in the biblical sense, is not something soft. It’s something you hold when everything else is slipping. And Advent invites us, before anything else, to pick up that rope.

To understand why this matters, we turn to Isaiah. But Isaiah didn’t write in peaceful times. He didn’t speak into a stable nation. His words were born in a season when everything was shaking. Israel was supposed to be one people—one covenant, one story, one identity—but by the time Isaiah stood to speak, the nation had torn itself in two. The northern kingdom and the southern kingdom were more like estranged brothers than unified tribes. The fracture was deep enough that people questioned whether they even recognized one another anymore.

And over all of this hovered the most terrifying empire of that age: Assyria. Assyria was not simply powerful; they were the kind of empire that erased nations. Their armies crushed cities, scattered populations, and left destruction in their wake. Every family in Judah carried the fear that their children might grow up under foreign rule—or not grow up at all. Every morning felt like waking up one step closer to disaster.

To make matters worse, their leaders weren’t the steady voices people needed. Some kings were corrupt. Others were spiritually compromised. Others still were so afraid of Assyria that they made political bargains that cost the nation its soul. Injustice flowed through the courts. The rich took advantage of the poor. Worship became performance instead of devotion. The moral ground beneath the nation felt unstable, cracked, and hollow.

And then the unthinkable happened. Assyria invaded the northern kingdom—their own brothers—and destroyed it. Imagine hearing the news that half your nation was gone. That cities where you once traveled, where relatives once lived, were now nothing but ruins. That people who shared your faith and your history were being marched away in chains. Judah watched this unfold knowing full well: If it happened to them, it could happen to us.

That’s the world Isaiah lived in. Not a world of confidence, but a world of exhaustion. Not a world of clarity, but a world drowning in fear, uncertainty, and division. A world where the darkness felt so thick that hope seemed almost irresponsible.

And this is why the prophecy of Isaiah matters. Because it did not come into a moment of stability. It came into a moment where everything felt fragile. When people questioned their leaders, questioned their identity, questioned their future, and even questioned God. Isaiah’s words were spoken into a time when the nation was unraveling—and into that unraveling, God planted a promise. Not a strategy. Not a plan. Not a political rescue. But the promise of a Messiah.

When Isaiah said, “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light,” he wasn’t describing people who were optimistic. He was describing people who were tired—people whose hope felt thin, worn, stretched like a rope fraying at the end. People walking through days they didn’t know how to navigate and nights they didn’t know how to endure.

That is the heart of Advent. Not pretending everything is okay. Not rushing past the darkness. Advent teaches us to tell the truth about the world and then to declare a promise over it—not because the world is stable, but because the Savior is faithful.

And this means something deeply personal: God does His best work in hidden places.

• In stables nobody valued.
• In nations nobody believed would survive.
• In hearts that feel too tired to pray.
• In prayers whispered in the dark.

Isaiah wasn’t describing a perfect world that God would make better. He was describing a broken world that God would enter. And that’s the same promise Advent holds for us.

So as we begin this season, we stand alongside Judah—not after the miracle, but before it. In the waiting. In the longing. In the unresolved tension of a world that needs God to come close. And into that world—into our world—Isaiah announces a hope strong enough to cling to, a hope you don’t have to manufacture or pretend, a hope that is not a feeling but a Person.

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.”

Not because they found the light. But because the light came for them.

And church—that is why we light the Hope Candle.  And today I want to talk about what the bible says about hope.

TIQVAH: HOPE IS THE ROPE GOD PLACES IN YOUR HAND

Tiqvah (תִּקְוָה) — “A Cord, A Rope, A Lifeline”

Pronounced: teek-VAH
Literal Meaning: a cord, rope, line tied to something secure
Theological Meaning: hope you cling to; a lifeline that holds when everything else shakes

This is the most vivid picture of biblical hope. Hope is not an emotion—it’s something you hold onto.

Key Scriptures

• Joshua 2:18 — Rahab hangs a tiqvah (scarlet rope) in her window.
• Job 6:8 — “Oh that I might have my hope (tiqvah).”
• Proverbs 23:18 — “Surely there is a future (tiqvah).”
• Jeremiah 31:17 — “There is hope (tiqvah) for your future.”

When Scripture talks about hope, it doesn’t begin with an emotion—Scripture begins with an object. It begins with a rope. The Hebrew word tiqvah means exactly that: a cord, a lifeline, something woven tight and handed to you so you can hold on when the world shakes. And I love that image because it makes hope feel real. It makes hope feel like something you don’t have to create inside yourself, something you don’t have to stir up with optimism or positive thinking. It makes hope something God gives, not something you manufacture. In Joshua 2, Rahab ties a scarlet rope in her window. That rope is her rescue. Not because the rope had power, but because the rope was attached to a promise. When the walls fell, the rope stood. When the city crumbled, the rope stood. When destruction swept through her world, she held onto that rope and discovered that God was holding onto her. That’s what hope is. It is the promise of God placed into human hands. It’s not a feeling you chase, it’s not a mood you try to maintain, it’s not a motivational phrase to get you through the day. Hope, biblically speaking, is God saying, “Hold this. I’m not done with you. I’m not leaving you. I’m not finished writing the story.”

And that’s the kind of hope Israel needed in Isaiah’s day. They weren’t living in a season of confidence or clarity. They were living in a season where everything familiar felt fragile. Their nation was divided. Their leaders were a mess. Their security was slipping away. Their northern brothers had already fallen. And into that world—into that fear and uncertainty—God places a rope in their hands. “A child will be born… a Son will be given… the people walking in darkness will see a great light.” When you read those words slowly, you begin to realize that hope always starts before anything changes. It begins in the unseen. It begins in the dark. It begins in hearts that are trembling and tired. And yet God says, “Take hold. I am on the way.”

That’s tiqvah. It’s the rope God gives before anything shifts. And maybe today you’re in the place where all you’re holding is a rope. You don’t see the answer yet. You don’t see the healing yet. You don’t see the clarity yet. You don’t see the reconciliation yet. But God has put something in your hand—His Word, His promise, His presence, His faithfulness from the past—and He’s saying, “This is enough for now. Hold this. Don’t let go of this.” Hope doesn’t deny the darkness; it simply says the darkness does not get the final word.

One of the things I’ve learned as a pastor is that people don’t usually lose hope suddenly. They lose it slowly, quietly, gradually. It leaks through disappointment, through unanswered prayers, through seasons that don’t make sense. Hope slips when the diagnosis changes, when the job falls apart, when the relationship cracks, when the waiting grows long. And that is exactly why God gives you something to hold. Because when your strength fades, you need something stronger than yourself. Hope is the rope that ties your trembling present to God’s certain future. It keeps you from drifting when everything inside wants to give up. It’s the scarlet rope hanging in the window of your life that tells you, “Rescue is coming. Hold on one more night.”

When Isaiah says, “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light,” he is reminding Israel that hope doesn’t begin with what you can see—it begins with what God has spoken. You don’t hold hope because the world feels stable; you hold hope because God is faithful. You don’t hold hope because your strength is enough; you hold hope because God’s promise is enough. And the more I study this word tiqvah, the more I realize that biblical hope is not fragile. It’s strong. It’s thick. It’s woven by the hands of a God who never breaks His word.

So before Advent gives us angels or shepherds or a manger, it gives us a rope. A rope for weary hands. A rope for tired hearts. A rope for people walking in darkness. A rope for every one of us who has prayed and waited and wondered if God still sees us. Tiqvah tells you: He sees you. He knows you. And He’s placed something in your hand to get you through the night. Hope begins with the rope God gives you. Before anything else, Advent says, “Take hold.”

QAVAH: HOPE IS PULLING THE ROPE TIGHT WHILE YOU WAIT

Qavah (קָוָה) — “To Wait, To Stretch Toward, To Pull Tight”

Pronounced: kah-VAH
Literal Meaning: to twist or pull a cord tight
Theological Meaning: waiting with tension, expectation, and endurance

If tiqvah is the rope, qavah is what you do with it. You pull it tight. You cling. You stretch toward God’s promise even when you don’t see it yet.

Key Scriptures

• Isaiah 40:31 — “Those who wait (qavah) upon the Lord shall renew their strength.”
• Psalm 27:14 — “Wait (qavah) for the Lord; be strong…”
• Lamentations 3:25 — “The Lord is good to those who wait (qavah) for Him.”
• Genesis 49:18 — “I wait (qavah) for Your salvation, O Lord.”

If tiqvah is the rope, then qavah is what you do with it. And this is where biblical hope gets incredibly honest. Qavah doesn’t mean to sit back and wait politely. It means to pull something tight—to stretch the rope, to brace yourself, to lean forward with expectation even when you don’t see what you’re waiting for yet. It’s the tension between the promise God gave and the reality you’re living in right now. It’s the ache of “already” and “not yet.” And the Bible doesn’t shy away from that tension; it names it, blesses it, and calls it holy ground.

Isaiah uses this word when he says, “Those who wait (qavah) upon the Lord shall renew their strength.” It’s almost ironic because we don’t usually associate waiting with strength. We associate waiting with fatigue, frustration, anxiety, and uncertainty. But Isaiah says there is a way of waiting—qavah—that actually renews the soul. It renews your strength because it keeps you tied to the promise instead of the problem. It renews your strength because it lifts your eyes from what’s breaking to the God who is unbreakable. It renews your strength because it turns waiting from something passive into something deeply spiritual. Qavah is a posture of trust in motion.

This is the kind of waiting Israel had to learn in Isaiah’s day. They had to pull the rope tight and say, “We don’t see the light yet, but we believe the light is real.” They had to hold the tension between a promise spoken and a world still falling apart. They had to face news of invasions and political collapse and moral decay while still gripping the hope God placed in their hands. Qavah meant waking up every day and choosing to believe God would be faithful even when nothing felt faithful around them. Qavah meant declaring, “We will not let go, not because our grip is strong, but because God’s promise is.”

But here’s the beauty of biblical hope: the tension is not a sign that something is wrong. The tension is the evidence that you’re connected. You only feel the pull because you are tied to something real. You feel the strain because God is drawing you toward His future. Qavah is the spiritual equivalent of a plant bending toward the sun—it stretches because something is pulling it forward.

Some of you are in that stretching right now. You’re living in a promise God gave you, but you’re not living in the fulfillment yet. The relationship isn’t healed. The diagnosis hasn’t changed. The door hasn’t opened. The peace hasn’t come. But you’re holding the rope anyway. You’re praying anyway. You’re worshiping anyway. You’re showing up anyway. And that is qavah. That is holy, sacred waiting.

Advent is the season of qavah. The world is dark, but the light is on the way. The promise has been spoken, but the fulfillment is still unfolding. And Advent teaches us to honor the tension instead of rushing past it. We don’t celebrate because everything is fixed. We celebrate because God is faithful in the tension. If tiqvah is the rope, qavah is the stretch—the real, aching, beautiful stretch—of pulling it tight while we wait for the One who was promised.

YACHAL AND BATAH: HOPE IS HOLDING THE ROPE THROUGH THE LONG NIGHT UNTIL YOU CAN REST IN THE ONE HOLDING YOU

Yachal (יָחַל) — “To Endure, To Keep Hoping When It Hurts”

Pronounced: yah-KHAL
Literal Meaning: to remain, to endure, to wait long
Theological Meaning: persistent hope—hope that survives disappointment

If qavah is the tension, yachal is the perseverance.

This word shows up when people are hurting but refuse to give up.

Key Scriptures

• Psalm 130:5 — “In His word I hope (yachal).”
• Job 13:15 — “Though He slay me, yet will I hope (yachal) in Him.”
• Micah 7:7 — “I will wait (yachal) for the God of my salvation.”

If tiqvah is the rope God places in your hand, and qavah is the stretching of that rope as you wait in tension, then yachal and batah carry us into the long night of hope. These two words are like companions, walking side by side, because they speak to hope not just in the moment, but over time. Yachal is the word Scripture uses when waiting becomes long, when the night drags on, when the prayers pile up unanswered. It means to endure, to stay, to keep holding the rope even when your hands are tired and your heart feels worn thin. And if we’re honest, this is where most of us spend the majority of our spiritual lives—not in the moment God gives the promise, not in the early days of expectation, but in the long seasons where we ask, “How much longer, Lord?”

Psalm 130 says, “I wait (yachal) for the Lord; my whole being waits.” That’s not polite waiting. That’s not tidy waiting. That’s your entire self—your breath, your questions, your worries, your hopes, your disappointments—leaning into God because there is nowhere else to lean. Job uses the same word when he says, “Though He slay me, yet will I hope (yachal) in Him.” That’s hope spoken through tears. That’s hope whispered when you can’t find the strength to shout. That’s hope that has gone through the fire, hope that has wrestled with God, hope that has survived heartbreak and still holds the rope. Yachal is the hope of people who have lived a lot of life, who have seen enough pain to know this world doesn’t always give tidy answers.

And yet, yachal doesn’t leave you stranded. It leads you to batah.

Batah (בָּטַח) — “To Trust, To Rest Confidently in God”

Pronounced: bah-TAKH

Literal Meaning: to lean on, to feel secure, to be confident

Theological Meaning: settled trust—hope that has matured into confidence in God’s character

If tiqvah is the rope, and qavah is pulling it tight, and yachal is holding it through the long night, then batah is the moment when you finally rest your weight on the One holding the other end. This is not naïve trust or blind optimism—it is the deep, quiet confidence that grows after you’ve seen God sustain you again and again. Batah is the peace that comes when hope stops being something you grip and becomes Someone you trust.

Key Scriptures

• Proverbs 3:5 — “Trust (batah) in the Lord with all your heart.”
• Psalm 56:3–4 — “When I am afraid, I will trust (batah) in You.”
• Psalm 37:3 — “Trust (batah) in the Lord and do good.”

Batah means to lean on, to feel secure, to rest with confidence in God. It’s the kind of hope David speaks of when he says in Psalm 56, “When I am afraid, I will trust (batah) in You.” Notice he doesn’t say, “When I am brave.” He says, “When I am afraid.” When fear rises, when the storm rages, when the rope feels thin—that’s when he leans into God even more.

Batah is hope that has grown deeper roots. It’s the shift from gripping the rope with white knuckles to placing your weight against it, trusting that it won’t break because God won’t break His word. It’s the moment where hope stops being something you do and becomes Someone you know. You begin to rest—not in the outcome, not in the timeline, not in your ability to endure—but in the character of God Himself. You begin to say, “God, I don’t know how You will work this out, but I trust You will.” And that kind of trust does not come quickly. It is formed in the long nights, not the easy days.

I think of Simeon in Luke 2—a man who waited decades for the promise God had made him. Luke uses this same idea to describe him. He had yachal’d for so long that he had become a man of batah—a man who could rest in the promise even before he saw it. When he finally held the Christ child in his arms, he didn’t say, “Finally, God kept His word.” He said, “Now Your servant may depart in peace.” That is batah. That is resting in the faithfulness of God after a lifetime of holding the rope.

And maybe that’s where you are today. You’re not at the beginning of hope. You’re not in the moment God first handed you the rope. You’re somewhere in the long night. You’re somewhere deep into the waiting. You’re holding on, but your hands hurt. You still believe, but you’re tired. You still pray, but the words feel heavy. Friend, that is exactly where yachal and batah mee8t you. Yachal reminds you that endurance is not failure. It’s faith. Batah reminds you that God doesn’t ask you to hold the rope forever in your own strength; He asks you to lean into Him, because He has never let go of you.

This is Advent hope at its deepest level. Hope that doesn’t deny the darkness. Hope that doesn’t pretend the waiting is easy. Hope that says, “I will hold on as long as it takes, because the One who promised is faithful.” And the more you lean into Him, the more you discover that the rope you thought you were holding is actually holding you. If tiqvah is the rope and qavah is the stretch and yachal is the long night, then batah is the quiet, growing peace that settles into your spirit when you realize God has had the other end the whole time. The waiting may be long, but the One you’re waiting on is trustworthy. And that is hope worth holding.

CONCLUSION — HOPE IS A ROPE THAT ALWAYS LEADS TO JESUS

The journey of hope across the Old Testament is simple but profound:

• Tiqvah — God places a rope in your hand.
• Qavah — you pull it tight in the waiting.
• Yachal — you hold it through the long night.
• Batah — you finally rest in the One holding the other end.

When we step back and look at these beautiful Hebrew words—tiqvah, qavah, yachal, and batah—we begin to see that the Bible doesn’t define hope as a moment or a feeling. It defines hope as a journey. A journey every believer walks, whether we realize it or not. A journey Israel walked for centuries. A journey your own heart has been walking through seasons you may not have had language for until now. Hope begins when God places a rope in your hand. That’s tiqvah. It continues as you pull that rope tight in the tension of waiting. That’s qavah. It deepens as you keep holding through seasons that stretch longer than you ever expected. That’s yachal. And it matures when you finally rest your full weight on the God who holds the other end. That’s batah.

And when we follow that rope all the way through Scripture, we discover where it leads: it leads to a manger. It leads to a child born in Bethlehem. It leads to God stepping into our darkness in flesh and blood. Every strand of hope woven through the Old Testament converges in Jesus. Every promise spoken over Israel is fulfilled in Him. Every tear, every waiting, every long night finds its answer not in an idea, not in a philosophy, but in a Person. Jesus is the One who took the rope Israel held for centuries and wrapped it around His own life. He is the One who holds the tension of our waiting. He is the One who endured the long night of human suffering. He is the One we can trust with our whole weight because He never breaks, never wavers, never fails.

And this is why Advent matters. Advent doesn’t ask us to pretend everything is okay. Advent invites us into the real story—the story of a people holding onto hope in the dark while God quietly moves toward them with salvation. Advent reminds us that God always keeps His word, even if He keeps it slowly. Advent tells us that hope is not the denial of darkness; hope is the declaration that darkness will not win. Advent teaches us that God is closer than we think, working in hidden places, preparing fulfillment long before we see it.

Some of you today are holding tiqvah—the rope God placed in your hand when life felt unstable. Some of you are living in qavah—pulling the rope tight because the waiting is real and the tension is heavy. Some of you are walking through yachal—the long night where you’re holding on even though your hands are tired and your prayers feel weary. And some of you are beginning to taste batah—you’re learning to lean your full weight into God, trusting Him with what you cannot fix, cannot change, and cannot see.

Wherever you are on that journey, Advent whispers the same truth: God is holding you. The rope is secure not because your grip is strong, but because His promise is. The rope doesn’t fail because His faithfulness doesn’t fail. And the rope doesn’t end in uncertainty; it ends in Jesus—the One who came, the One who comes, and the One who will come again.

So this Advent season, hold the rope. When we light the candle of hope, we declare that darkness will not win. The light may start small — one flicker on a wreath — but it reminds us that every great work of God begins in waiting. Hope doesn’t rush God’s timing; it rests in His character.