Faith | Cats | Hope | Grace

A few weeks ago I mentioned that I love the rhythm of the church year. And with that love of the church year comes a love of the cyclical reading of the lectionary. But every once in a while, the church year and the readings seem to be having a laugh. Advent is a penitential season that is made all the more visible by the purple vestments. Except for one Sunday, this Sunday. Gaudete Sunday. A Sunday where we are particularly charged to rejoice. And in our Gospel reading, we are asked to rejoice from a prison cell. Not a locale that I would think inspires much rejoicing.

John has spoken truth to power one too many times, calling out lawlessness he sees in the community, proclaiming the coming of a Messiah, calling on the people to repent. He is now in prison for decrying Herod marrying his brother’s wife, Herodias. There were followers of John and I can imagine their struggle as they see the prophet they have chosen to follow and who they love imprisoned. To quite rightfully fear that this imprisonment will eventually lead to death. In my imagination, John the Baptist is a steely eyed realist and while he might have been afraid of what was coming next—the physical brutality of it—I imagine he had a clarity of purpose of what he was called to do that I envy. And with that clarity of purpose, a surrender into what was the next step on his journey. But that is just my imagination. We don’t actually hear too many words from John as compared to others in the Bible, and even less on his internal musings. We are left to fill in a lot of holes.

There is discussion about whether John’s sending his disciples to ask Jesus if he was the one to come, if that was a sign that John had his doubts about Jesus. And being in prison facing down the possibility of death, doubts would be natural. And I personally have gone back and forth on wondering if John had his doubts or if instead John was addressing his followers’ doubts by sending them to Jesus. I wonder if perhaps there’s a via media. John followers ask their question of Jesus and they learn that the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And the followers hear that message, but as importantly they are also charged with taking that message back to John. He hears that the path he has cleared is being trod by the one promised. I hope those words brought refreshment. That they brought even just a small moment of joy. Even joy within the walls of a prison. That that news made John rejoice.

I wonder if we sometimes have a very narrow idea of what rejoicing looks like—what are the perfect external conditions for it, and is it supposed to look like perfect happiness. Do we feel that we can only rejoice in perfection. And that perfection is of our own design and understanding. I would not be surprised if at the beginning of his ministry John had imagined a different ending for him personally. But the good news of Jesus finds him in even the most trying of circumstances. That promised healing and wholeness had come into the world. So I hope John rejoiced, even in that dark place. Especially in that dark place.

Rejoicing can feel easier, more readily at hand, when things are going well. It can feel harder, even inappropriate when things are not great. But maybe rejoicing in those hard moments is less inappropriate and more an act of resistance. A resistance to despair. A resistance to apathy. A resistance to closing off our hearts. Sometimes it can feel like the hardest form of resistance ever. But maybe the one most vital to our world.

We as people of faith, as Christians, are charged with many things. Things ranging from following the Ten Commandments to following the Great Commandment. Charged to follow the way of Jesus. Charged with trusting in the Lord. But we are also called to rejoice. Depending on your translation and whether or not you roll in exhortations to “be joyful” the Bible calls on us to rejoice anywhere from 100-300 times. Rejoicing is not an afterthought. It is central. As we hear in Isaiah, even the created world rejoices. “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing.” Creation’s and our own rejoicing is responsorial to what God is doing in the world. To the peace and redemption that Jesus is continually bringing into the world.

One of my favorite responses of rejoicing is the Magnificat, the Song of Mary. Somehow, despite a life time of church attendance, I was probably in my 20s the first time I heard the Magnificat. Or what is probably more likely, it was the first time I paid attention. What pulled me up short was hearing how God was going to utterly overturn everything. The Magnificat celebrates God’s love and action on behalf of those who have been marginalized. Those who have been excluded. Those who have been exploited. The God we love so dearly, sees this injustice and intercedes to make things right. Mary’s song celebrates, but it can also feel pointed, almost adversarial. The mighty are cast down and the rich are sent away empty. But what I hear most clearly is a song of rejoicing that a human-shaped world built on human-defined power, human greed, or human pride is not the world that God has ordained. Not a world that is acceptable in God’s sight. Mary’s song celebrates a world of care and of mercy. A world of salvation. How could we not rejoice.

And Mary rejoices for herself, even while I’m sure in the back of her mind she is wondering about the consequences. She will be a pregnant, unwed mother in a time and society were that is shameful and even dangerous. And yet she says yes. And in saying yes, she rejoices. She rejoices in the face of uncertainty and of danger and of coming heartbreak. She boldly rejoices even in the face of all this. Would that we all answered God’s call to us with such boundless enthusiasm and rejoicing.

This time of year is a dizzying amalgamation of the secular and the sacred. If you walk down any aisle of greeting cards or seasonal decorations, you’ll see a few things with the word Rejoice, but you are probably more likely to see Joy. Joy to the world. Joy of the season. If there hasn’t already been, I sure there could be many great discussions about the religious slash secular divide between rejoice and joy. And a fun rabbit hole I partially fell down myself was the etymological roots of the words rejoice and joy and then further what are the Hebrew, Greek, or later Latin words that were used in the Bible for the concept of rejoicing and the concept of joy. Fun to dig into and absolutely interesting to think about, in this moment and on this day I wonder if thinking of rejoice and joy as two halves of a coin is a more useful exercise. Rejoicing is a response. Joy is the feeling. Rejoicing is doing. Joy is being. Rejoicing is active. Joy is reflective. Not two things that are in competition but instead are in a dance. Depending on the season, the time in our lives, or even just the hour of the day, one or the other—rejoicing and joy, doing or being—take the lead in this dance. One initiating the motion. The other responding, mirroring, and complementing that motion.

Today, Gaudete Sunday, we rejoice with John the Baptist that the one who was promised has come into our world. With Mary, we rejoice in God working through us. We rejoice of the world-resetting change that is being brought about in our world. We rejoice even in the challenge of the place and the circumstance. The dance partners will soon change leads in a brief moment. Joy will lead the dance in just a little while more, when we will rest in fullness of the incarnation and a humble baby born in a stable.

May everlasting joy be upon our heads.

Rejoice in the Lord. Rejoice in the Lord always.