God Builds the House; the Dawn Breaks Upon Us

As we gather for Morning Mass in these final days of Advent, today’s readings invite us to pause, to listen, and to trust the quiet but powerful faithfulness of God. They draw our attention to a God who does far more than we imagine—a God who does not merely receive our plans but transforms them into promises. In the first reading, King David is settled and at rest. From a place of gratitude and security, he desires to build a house for the Lord. It is a good and generous intention. Yet God gently turns the question back to David: “Should you build me a house to dwell in?” The Lord reminds David that it was He who acted first—who took him from the pasture, guided him through danger, and established him as king. Then comes the surprising reversal: God will build David a house. A lasting kingdom. A promise that will endure forever. This is the heart of Advent spirituality. Before we do anything for God, God has already acted for us. Before our efforts, our plans, our good intentions, there is grace. Advent teaches us not only to prepare, but to receive—to allow God to fulfill His promises in ways beyond our control. Psalm 89 echoes this assurance: “Forever I will sing the goodness of the Lord.” It is a psalm of memory and hope, sung in the morning as a proclamation that God’s covenant is firm, even when circumstances seem uncertain. In the stillness of this morning, we are reminded that God’s faithfulness is not fleeting; it spans generations. The Gospel places us squarely within the fulfillment of that promise. Zechariah’s canticle—spoken at the birth of his son John—looks back and forward at once. He praises God for raising up a Savior from the house of David, just as promised. What David could not have imagined is now unfolding: God’s “house” is no longer a palace or temple, but a people redeemed and restored. At the heart of Zechariah’s song is a striking image for this Advent morning: “The dawn from on high shall break upon us.” This is not the harsh light of judgment, but the gentle light of mercy—shining on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, guiding our feet into the way of peace. The Alleluia names this dawn clearly: Christ is the Radiant Dawn, the Sun of Justice. As Christmas draws near, these readings invite us to ask: Where do we need to let God build, rather than insisting on building ourselves? Where are we being asked to trust that God’s promise is already at work, even if we do not yet see its fullness? This morning, let us stand in hope. God remembers His covenant. God keeps His word. And even now, in the quiet of Advent’s final days, the dawn is already breaking.