St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL

Canticle 9         Philippians 4:4-7          Luke 3:7-18

So here’s a little Advent trivia for you.

Remember when we used to use purple for Advent—
or maybe you have been in other churches that still do?

That is because Advent was once thought of
as a second Lent—
a time of penitence and fasting.

But in the middle of those purple candles,
what color was the one for today?

That is right . . . pink—
or as the fancy-schmancy people would say . . .
“rose.”

Over the years,
some people have asked me if the pink candle
was supposed to represent Mary.
I remember one of you even saying,
“Oh, I always just thought
it was some kind of ‘feminism thing.’”

But nope.

The pink candle was simply a signal
that the season’s heavy tone was lifting.
On this day, the pink candle
was meant to break the somberness.

But here at St. John’s,
we use all blue in Advent—
a color not of penitence, but of Hope.

So instead of just one Sunday of lightening up,
our entire Advent points to Hope.

Not fleeting hope.
Not fragile hope.
But defiant hope.

The kind of hope that leads to defiant joy—
the joy that says, “God is not done yet.”

But we need to be honest—
there is a weight in the air right now.

The world feels restless.
Wars rage.
Conflicts intensify.
Divisions deepen.

And in the past couple of weeks,
we have seen it again in our national news—
the darkness that spills out
when anger and indifference
drown out compassion and humanity.

The murder of a CEO
and the outpouring of fury
toward him and the system he represented
reveals something deeply broken within us.

John the Baptist saw the same kind of brokenness.

When he called out, “You brood of vipers!”
it was not random anger;
it was righteous outrage—
a response to the deep rot he saw in his society.

But even in that dark time,
John still had good news to proclaim—
because he knew Someone good was coming.

He knew that even when the world seemed beyond repair,
God was still on the move.

And into all this weariness
comes the command—
from the Church,
from the Apostle Paul,
from the third Sunday of Advent:

“Rejoice, y’all!
Rejoice in the Lord always;
and again, I will say, rejoice!”

It sounds absurd.

Rejoice in a time like this?

But Paul is not writing from a place of comfort.
He is writing from prison.

His freedom is gone.
His future is uncertain.
And still—somehow—he says:

“Rejoice in the Lord always.
Rejoice, y’all, rejoice!”

Not because life is perfect.
Not because everything has worked out.
But because God is still present—
even in the darkest of places.

* * *

The prophet Isaiah knew this kind of joy, too.

He writes:
“Surely it is God who saves me;
I will trust in him and not be afraid.”

Isaiah’s words do not come from a place of ease or comfort.

He was speaking to people
who had lived through war,
exile, and ruin.

And yet, he dares to say:

“Therefore you shall draw water with rejoicing
from the springs of salvation.”

Notice he does not say:
“You will find water for your thirsty soul
when everything gets better.”

Instead, the springs of salvation are already present—
flowing, abundant, and free.

Even when life feels dry,
even when hope feels distant—
God is there.

This is defiant joy:
trusting that God’s love is already poured out—
already flowing toward us—
and daring us to receive it.

* * *

When Paul tells us to rejoice,
he is not suggesting we ignore life’s struggles.

He knows hardship personally.
He has been arrested, beaten, shipwrecked, and imprisoned.

Yet still, he says:
“Let your gentleness be known to everyone.”

Gentleness is not weakness.
It is strength under control.

It is choosing patience when you want to snap.
It is offering grace when someone least deserves it.
It is being steady when others are shaken.

Paul also tells us:

“Do not worry about anything,
but in everything by prayer and supplication
with thanksgiving,
let your requests be made known to God.”

And then comes this promise—
not that everything will be fixed,
but that something deeper will be given:

“The peace of God,
which surpasses all understanding,
will guard your hearts
and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

* * *

The grace for us today is this:

Whatever you are facing,
whatever shadows loom large,
whatever brokenness weighs heavy—

God is already here.
His promises are already unfolding.
His love is already at work.

Even when the world seems more fractured than ever—
when cruelty feels louder than kindness—
we are still called to live in defiant joy.

Not because life is easy.
Not because wounds heal quickly.
But because God’s grace can still break through.

This is what the Church proclaims on Gaudete Sunday.

It is joy as protest—
a refusal to be extinguished,
even when the odds are against us.

It is joy that stands its ground
when everything else seems to be falling apart.

It is joy that sees what is wrong in the world—
but also sees what is right.

It is joy that trusts
that love is stronger than hate,
that hope is deeper than despair,
and that light is still shining
even now—especially now.

So, cry aloud!
Ring out your joy!

Rejoice in the Lord always.

Rejoice, y’all!
All y’all!

Amen.