“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice! Let your gentleness be known to
everyone. The Lord is near.” (1 Philippians 4:4-5)
Today is the day that we light the rose-colored candle in the Advent wreath. It is Gaudete Sunday, or “Rejoicing” Sunday. If you remember back to the season of Lent, the other contemplative season in our liturgical year, there is a parallel Sunday, Laetare Sunday, a Sunday of light, a brief pause, like this one, in the passage of weeks where we acknowledge the undercurrent of this time, the brightness and hope that is at the heart of our quiet contemplation.
Which makes the opening of this morning’s Gospel a little startling, almost comical – “You brood of vipers!” John the Baptist shouts at the people who have followed him out into the desert, hoping for wisdom, asking for insight – instead, he calls them names. He reminds me a little bit of that grumpy teacher we’ve all had – the one who grumbles and complains about their students, but is the that teacher we love the best, and the teacher we learn the most from. John, in this morning’s Gospel, is that teacher. “Rejoice, you brood of vipers!”
We hear two voices of beloved teachers in this morning’s lectionary readings . One is the voice of John, preaching about the coming of the Messiah who will baptize not by water but by fire. The other is the voice of Paul, arrested by the Romans, writing a letter to the church in Philippi. Each of them is writing from his own wilderness – John from the desert, Paul from prison. And each of them is teaching his students where to find hope, where to find rejoicing, in times that seemed devoid of hope, empty of joy – each of them is speaking to a people who were and are waiting for the coming of Christ, the coming of the Kingdom of God. John preached to a people who after centuries had not yet witnessed the Messiah. Paul wrote to a people who knew the Messiah had lived, died and was resurrected, a people who had witnessed him live, die and rise again. Today, in the season of Advent, we wait for both.
And today, specifically, we are invited to rejoice in that waiting. Paul uses the word “joy” over and over in the four chapters that make up his letter to the Philippians – even though he is writing from prison. Commentaries on this passage point out that the Greek word translated as “rejoice” can also be translated as “farewell.” Rejoice, farewell. Perhaps part of that was Paul guessing, knowing, that he was saying a long goodbye to his churches. But still, these words – rejoice and farewell – seem like opposites – don’t we rejoice when we see each other again, not when we say goodbye? Isn’t joy about reuniting, not about leave-taking?
Presbyterian pastor and author MaryAnn McKibben Dana sees a deep connection in those two seemingly opposite ideas – she points out that both “rejoice” and “farewell” require us to let go of something. To bid farewell to a person or place or a time requires us to step away from them – to disconnect at some level, to lose proximity to them. Farewells can take many forms – watching a child go away to college, coming to the end of vacation or a long trip, finalizing a divorce, retiring from a job, moving away from a familiar home or city, being with a loved one when their life comes to an end. We let go of an immediate presence, of companionship, of comfort and comfortableness; we become vulnerable in our grief or our disorientation.
And at the same time, we open ourselves to what comes next, to new possibilities.
Rejoicing also requires a letting go, and I would say it also breaks us open, both to
vulnerability and to new possibility. Rejoicing requires us to let go of fear, to let go of assumptions, of anxieties, to let go of our tendency to blame or shame ourselves. Rejoicing asks us to let go of those habits we have of looking always to what is coming or what might be coming, our what we don’t know is coming, and start slowing ourselves down enough to exist in the here and now, to settle into the waiting, for there is a beauty in waiting, in the simple being that waiting requires of us.
For joy, whatever ideas we attach to that word, is not really a loud and exuberant thing. Joy is something deeper and more lasting than happiness or excitement. Joy is not about how we inhabit the world, but about how we live and move and how our being in God. What does it mean to dwell not in the material world, our attention focused on things like status and tradition, social expectations, professional commitments, but to dwell in the Spirit? What does it mean to keep our attention focused on God’s work in the world, rather than our work? What kind of new life does Advent call us to? What does the joy of this season draw us into? What happens when we allow ourselves to wait, to rejoice, to let go?
Today’s Gospel reading from Luke suggests that there’s no separation between joy and
repentance. Even though John’s just called them a bunch of vipers, his followers respond not with fear or defensiveness or shame, but with questions, with expectation.
What should we do? The crowds ask him. What should we do? the tax collectors ask him. What should we do? the soldiers ask him. Because they know what their earthly lives call them to do, what the world expects them to do – to put themselves first, to seek success and wealth, to cheat others for their own gain, to threaten and steal, to make war.
And John says: Share with those who have none. Do not extort. Do not threaten. Be
satisfied, be content.
John says: “Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.”
John is saying: Be trees. Bear fruit. Bear good fruit. Do not conform to the expectations of this world. Be trees.
Trees dig their roots deep into the earth. They grow slowly. They provide shelter. They stand against the changing winds. Trees reach for the heavens. Trees are quiet. Trees wait.
And years after John’s call in the wilderness, Paul writes his beloved people from a prison cell. He tells them, Rejoice. Live into that quiet joy. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. Paul tells them to be trees – he asks them to bear good fruit. He goes on to write: “…beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me …”
Today’s reminder that joy is part of the waiting of Advent is also a reminder that this waiting is an active waiting, a creative waiting. Two weeks ago, you may remember, we heard the words of Church of England theologian Paula Gooder who compared the waiting of Advent to the waiting of an expectant mother – the waiting of Advent, she wrote, is like the waiting of pregnancy. From the outside, it seems passive, but it is in fact, she says, a “never ending action… a profoundly creative act.” The season of Advent calls us into active creation, into transformation.
Where do you find your joy this season? Where can you carry joy? Where do you see joy transforming us? Where do you see creation happening?
Rejoice, Paul tells the church, and “the peace of God, which passes all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” No wonder we hear these familiar words often in blessings at the end of our services. Rejoice. Farewell. Go in peace – go in joy – to love and serve the Lord. Amen.
Sermon preached by the Rev. Cara Ellen Modisett at Trinity Episcopal Church, Staunton, Virginia, on December 15, 2024.
