John’s story today is about vocation.
About knowing who you are, and what you’re here to do.
About calling to God – the call we heard in the poem today – and hearing God calling you.
The religious authorities send a delegation to ask John what on earth he is up to, baptizing in the wilderness. And first we hear all about what John is not. Not the Messiah. Not Elijah come back from heaven, not the prophet you have been waiting for.
There’s some stark clarity to these statements in the Greek that demonstrate that John knows exactly who he is, and what God wants him to do, and then he says:
I am the witness to the Messiah, to the one whose coming you don’t expect.
John’s vocation is to point to the Christ. To stand as witness that Jesus is the Anointed One of God. To clearly testify that God is here.
Your mother probably told you it’s rude to point at someone else. But pointing to Jesus is precisely what John is created and called to do. “Look!” he says, “Behold!” Look!
And it’s what we do, too, these many years later. As the church, as Christians, it’s up to us to point to Jesus in the world. It’s our vocation, too.
It was probably about twenty years ago when I first heard someone quote the spiritual writer Frederick Buechner’s definition of vocation:
Vocation – where God calls you – is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.
I’ve never been able to forget that. The idea took a powerful hold of my mind and heart, probably because for the first time in my life I really understood that joy matters, and that joy meets the deep need of the world.
Do you know how much joy matters?
Do you know your own deep joy?
You should. God wants you to.
You may have heard, from one source or another, that this Third Sunday of Advent is Gaudete Sunday. The Sunday of Joy. The pink candle in the Advent wreath and the pink roses at the altar today are clues – clues that our Advent waiting is not monochromatic, but a waiting spiked with gladness, with joy already and now.
It may not seem like we need more reminders to rejoice in a season that’s full of parties, presents, shopping, treats and jingling music, but Advent joy is not really about being happy or even merry.
Advent joy is about vocation. About who we are called to be, as the people of Christ, every single day.
That’s what Paul is talking about. The Thessalonian community is beset on every side by ridicule and oppression, and Paul’s advice to them – actually his charge to them, their assignment and job description – goes like this:
Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. Give thanks in all circumstances. This is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.
It’s vocation. It’s who we are to be in this world:
People for whom joy, and prayer, and thanks giving are as constant and natural as breathing.
Think about what John knew, and what the Thessalonians knew,
that God has come into the world so that nothing can separate us from God.
And what John and the Thessalonians were expecting at every minute:
that Christ is coming in such a way that the world is transformed, that all of the pain and irritation and temptation and struggle are swept into a new relationship with God where we can never even feel separated from God again.
Joy is knowing in your bones and gut that you are entirely loved.
Joy is that carbonated sense of the presence of God that bubbles up so abundantly that you can’t contain it.
Joy is a deep, rich peace that fills your heart, a lovely calm amid the rush and hurry.
I think the world might be hungry for that, don’t you?
Deeply hungry, even.
And that’s why Advent is about profound joy. About a gladness that is rooted so very deeply in our souls and hearts that nothing can dim it or break it.
God plants it there. God plants joy in each and every one of us.
And on the pink Sunday of Advent, the Sunday of Joy, you and I are reminded to water that joy, and feed it, to lean into it for strength, and to grow with that joy.
Joy comes naturally sometimes. But it also takes practice.
You can practice joy in the merry bustle of December;
and you can also practice joy when you’re exhausted, angry, or sad,
because joy doesn’t deny grief or fear or guilt, but stands beside them to remind us that pain is not the last word.
So we practice: like giving thanks, and praying – those things that remind us that we are, always, in the presence of God.
Practice like lighting a candle for the fear or sorrow in your heart, and paying attention to the living light that shines through that pain.
Practice like by receiving a hug from a delighted three year old.
Practice like singing Christmas carols – even if you can’t sing, even the ones that drive you crazy the 40th time you hear them in the store – and praying the words of comfort, peace, and especially joy for the world.
We find joy in many different ways, in many different places. But we can also practice joy, always and anywhere.
And we must.
Because it is our joy that points to Christ – to the presence of God among us right now, and to God coming now and forever, to transform the world.
Do you know how much joy matters?
Do you know your own deep joy?
You should. It’s your vocation. Our vocation.
Open your heart, today, and reach deep for that holy, life-giving joy that God has planted within you.
And now, and always, rejoice.
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