Third Sunday of Advent

The courageousness of Advent joy
​Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
December 14, 2025 - Third Sunday of Advent, Year A
Isaiah 35:1-10; Canticle 15; James 5:7-10; Matthew 11:2-11

Ever-present Spirit, you invite us to participate in your dream of joy on earth. Break through our human doubts, fears, and cynicism. In dark times, turn our hearts toward you that we might magnify your light. Amen.

This week, we hear from the prophet Isaiah once again. But this is not the Isaiah whose words sting with warning or lament. I have joked with one of our lectors about how we often get “grumpy Isaiah.” But this Sunday, we meet Isaiah the dreamer, Isaiah the poet of hope, Isaiah who dares to proclaim joy in a world that has forgotten what joy feels like.

His vision is breathtaking: deserts bursting into bloom, weak knees strengthened, fearful hearts encouraged, exiles walking the long road home with songs instead of sighs. 

What I find so heartening about listening to Isaiah the dreamer is not that he sugar-coats everything. Isaiah dreams without forgetting the difficult realities of the world we live in. With clear-eyed compassion, Isaiah speaks honestly about the things that cause us worry or fear: the dry places in our lives, trembling hands, faltering spirits, the uncertainties that make our steps unsteady. And yet, into all of this, he pours the audacity of joy.

We are stepping deeper into Advent. This third Sunday of Advent is called Gaudete Sunday. Gaudete is a Latin word meaning "Rejoice!" This Sunday offers an invitation to take a joyful pause in Advent's introspection as Christmas comes closer. This week, we are invited to examine our lives through the lens of joy. This is not a surface-level joy that ignores pain or papers over fear. This is a deep joy that rises from God’s presence already moving within us. 

Once again, Isaiah says, “Come, let us walk in the light.” What I hear him saying is “Look for the light especially when life feels dim.” Sometimes the darkness makes it easier see the faintest flicker, just enough light to remind us that hope is still alive. Joy is still possible, and God’s future is already glowing inside the present moment. When we notice even the tiniest light, we can place it in our hearts and magnify it through our attitudes, our choices, our small acts of compassion and courage.

Mary's wondrous story of carrying the light of the Christ child embodies this kind of joy. She says, “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my Savior; for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant.” 

It’s a marvelous song of joy, especially when we think of her situation. Mary has every reason to live in fear and dread. She is an unmarried young woman living in a rigid society that confines women to the household, denies them education, denies them legal standing, and deems them ritually unclean. Mary faces judgment, danger, and an unknown future. And yet, her song shines like a lantern in the night.

Her words through the Song of Mary (the Magnificat) beam to us from across the ages. What amazes me is the way she describes God’s power: God of mercy… God who lifts up the lowly… God who fills the hungry with good things. These are different images of power than those of our society. Mary sings of God's power not as domination but as restoration and rebalancing. In her vision, God is turning the world toward compassion. Mary names a God whose strength is found in mercy, whose justice is tenderness, whose might is revealed in feeding and lifting and healing.

As we reflect on our lives and the state of the world, we might envy Mary’s unburdened joy. My soul is aching as I think about the shootings yesterday at the Hanukkah gathering at Bondi Beach in Australia and at Brown University. Kirk and I were on campus during a similar shooting at the University of Iowa on November 1, 1991. I will never forget the fear and sorrow that gripped the campus. We knew people who died that day and we knew one who was critically injured. 

Where was God’s tenderness and lifting and healing that day? Where was the certainty of God’s love and joy?

I thought about this as we heard the story of John the Baptist last week. This fiery prophet pointed with such fierce certainty toward Jesus, proclaiming Jesus as the Promised One, a savior who would bring love and joy and peace. 

We heard more of John’s story this morning, learning that even John finds himself in a dark place, held in the confines of a prison cell, held in the grip of doubt. He sends word to Jesus, asking,  “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” 

Even John wonders. Even John waits for the light to break in. 

Jesus answers with his hopeful vision of life transformed: the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the poor receive good news. In other words: the light is already shining, even in the darkest hours. We can see it if we look where life is sprouting and blooming: in the hands holding candles at the vigil; in the tenderness of hugs; in tears that finally flow; in the slow healing that comes even though we still remember the wound.

Perhaps true joy comes when we’ve been shaken to the core. Upon hearing from John in prison, Jesus makes it clear to the crowd just how difficult John’s path has been and how great a disciple he is. 

John’s discipleship is not defined by worldly measures like certainty, wealth, talent, success, or influence. A true disciple is not the one who knows everything, or does everything right, never experiences hardship, or never has to ponder hard questions. A true disciple is the one who remains open. Open to the questions; open to continual learning. Open to the vast mystery of God that unfolds forever. Open to self-examination, to being reshaped, to being redirected toward love. 

As we gaze at this soft light of this pink candle, what I hear above all is this: Advent joy is not naïve. It is courageous. It is born in deserts, prisons, uncertain futures, and trembling hands. Our glimpses of joy show us that God is near, that creation is still unfolding, that the Holy One is still turning the world toward mercy and healing. 
On this Gaudete Sunday, we remember to look for joy in dark places. This holy light of joy is our Creator's gift. May we receive it with open hearts. With hearts filled, may we magnify it through our thoughts and prayers and actions. May the world may find its way home by the light we share. Amen.

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