The Third Sunday of Advent, Year C
December 15, 2024
Zepheniah 3:14-20, Canticle 9, Philippians 4:4-7, Luke 3:7-19
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“Rejoice in the Lord Always”
The Very Rev. Kathleen Murray, Rector
Historic Beckford Parish, Mt. Jackson & Woodstock
“Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I will say, rejoice.”
These words from Paul’s letter to the Philippians form the bedrock of today’s message.
Yet, let’s be honest: when we hear them, they often feel more like a challenge than a comfort.
Rejoice? How can we rejoice when the headlines tell stories of injustice, violence, and
loss? How can we rejoice when people in our own community wrestle with grief, loneliness, and
uncertainty? What does rejoicing even look like in a broken world?
Our world is broken. On Friday afternoon, at approximately 4:30 p.m., a shooting
unfolded right outside the doors of Philadelphia City Hall, at an entrance I used for 11 years. A
14-year-old boy opened fire, injuring three other 14-year-olds near the bustling ice rink and
Christmas Village adjacent to City Hall. The area was crowded with holiday shoppers when the
shooting occurred, causing panic and fear among bystanders.
How do we rejoice when faced with the grief and fear that such an event stirs in us, even
as we seek hope?
Indeed, how could Paul rejoice? The world Paul wrote to was not so different from ours.
Philippi was a Roman colony steeped in political oppression and social inequality. Christ’s early
followers lived on the margins, and their faith often made them targets of persecution.
Yet, Paul’s call to rejoice wasn’t naive optimism. He wasn’t asking the Philippians to
ignore the suffering around them or to pretend that all was well. Instead, he was inviting them to
root their joy in something deeper than the chaos of the world—to anchor it in the unshakable
love of God.
Rejoicing, then, isn’t about denial. It’s about defiance. It’s about claiming hope in the
face of despair, love in the face of hatred, and light in the face of darkness. It’s about
remembering that, even when the world feels like it is falling apart, God is still at work, weaving
redemption into the fabric of creation. Rejoicing is an act of faith, and in a world as fractured as
ours, faith can feel like resistance.
Consider today’s Gospel. John the Baptist—that fiery prophet of repentance.
He will face death. His ministry is over. He’s facing death. And he sends word to Jesus:
“Are you the one who is to come, or should we wait for another?” John’s question isn’t born of
doubt but of longing. He’s asking, “Will the promises of God truly come to pass?” Jesus’ answer
is striking: “Go and tell John what you hear and see: 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.”
Jesus doesn’t point to political revolutions or grand displays of power. He points to lives
being restored, one by one. He points to the inbreaking of God’s kingdom in small but
unmistakable ways. And that’s where rejoicing finds its foundation—not in a perfect world but in
the glimpses of God’s grace breaking through the imperfections.
So, what does this mean for us, here and now? How do we rejoice when the world around
us feels so heavy?
First, we rejoice by opening our eyes to the signs of God’s presence among us. In the face
of injustice, we celebrate acts of courage, such as communities coming together to support one
another after acts of violence. In the midst of division, we honor moments of connection, like
neighbors reaching across boundaries to listen and care. In the shadow of despair, we give thanks
for every flicker of hope, like the dedication of first responders or the resilience of survivors.
Rejoicing doesn’t erase the pain but reminds us that pain is not the whole story.
Second, we rejoice by being the signs of God’s presence. If rejoicing is an act of
defiance, then it calls us to act—to be bearers of hope and agents of justice. When we share our
coats and food with others, care for the hurting, and build bridges across divides, we embody the
joy of the Gospel. For instance, when we participate in initiatives like supporting local food
pantries or mentoring young people, we are living out this defiant joy. As I said last week,
rejoicing is not passive; it’s active, participatory, and transformative.
Finally, we rejoice in the community. Paul’s exhortation to rejoice wasn’t directed to
individuals in isolation but to a gathered church. We rejoice together, carrying one another’s
burdens and sharing one another’s joys. As a congregation, we have opportunities to live out this
communal joy—whether through shared worship, acts of service, or simply gathering to support
one another in love. In a world that often feels fragmented, the church—imperfect though it may
be—is called to be a community of radical joy, a place where all are welcomed, loved, and
invited to glimpse the kingdom of God.
Rejoicing, then, is not about ignoring the world’s brokenness. It’s about daring to see
God’s goodness within it. It’s about holding onto the promise that the light shines in the
darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it. And it’s about remembering, as we light the
rose candle on this third Sunday of Advent, that our joy is rooted not in what we see but in what
we hope for.
Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I will say, rejoice. Not because the world is perfect,
but because God’s love is perfect. Not because justice has fully come, but because it is coming.
Not because there is no pain, but because God is present in the midst of it.
This Advent, let us rejoice. Let us rejoice boldly, defiantly, and together, as we prepare
our hearts for the coming of Christ—the one who is and who is to come. Amen.