"Hugging stairs" by onsecbeforethedub, on Flickr

Sing aloud, O daughter Zion;
shout, O Israel!
Rejoice and exult with all your heart,
O daughter Jerusalem!
(Zephaniah 3:14)

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:4-7)

John said to the crowds that came out to be baptized by him, "You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance. Do not begin to say to yourselves, 'We have Abraham as our ancestor'; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire." And the crowds asked him, "What then should we do?" In reply he said to them, "Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise." Even tax collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, "Teacher, what should we do?" He said to them, "Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you." Soldiers also asked him, "And we, what should we do?" He said to them, "Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages." (Luke 3:7-14)
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Zephaniah says, “Rejoice and exult with all your hearts, sing aloud, shout!” And the apostle Paul says “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice!” And the church calendar tells me that this is the third Sunday of Advent – joy Sunday – where we light the pink candle on the Advent wreath and take a break from our Advent watching and waiting to let our hearts be joyful. Today is supposed to be about rejoicing.

Now I don’t know about you, but I know that I don’t feel much like rejoicing today.

Because I’m still thinking about all of those parents in Connecticut who are in the earliest stages of confusion and grief as they try to make sense of the senseless loss of their children and their neighbors’ children.

I don’t feel like rejoicing today, because I’m still thinking about a quiet community that no longer feels safe, whose daily patterns of life and work have been turned upside-down, whose first responders are dealing with the trauma of an horrific event that they never imagined possible.

I don’t feel like rejoicing today because I’m thinking about a nation that has begun arguing, yet again, about questions of guns and gun violence, and I’m thinking about the way that these arguments bring out the worst in people, and the way that we all are prone to violence toward one another by the words that we choose to say.

I don’t feel like rejoicing today, because I’m thinking about the way that grief digs up grief, and the way that this horrible event puts each and every one of us in touch with all our own personal griefs and fears and pains that so often stay buried until something like this brings them to the surface once again.

Today, I look around the world and don’t feel like rejoicing, because I can see where thing are broken and where people are in pain. I can look out and see the darkness. And so I wonder what business Zephaniah and Paul have, exhorting us to rejoice and exult with all our hearts.

To be fair, both of them knew something about grief and fear. Zephaniah was prophet to a people who turned from God, worshipped false Gods, and were under threat of catastrophe and judgment. Paul was writing his letter from prison, facing the possibility of execution.

Both of these readings today urge us to trust that God will bring us hope and salvation. They assure us that, even in the darkness, there is good news to be found, because God’s goodness will always triumph over evil, and all that is broken will one day be restored.

I can go with them that far. But I’m still not ready to rejoice. No matter how much faith and hope I have, I cannot rejoice until I have taken seriously the grief that surrounds me.

It’s a really hard thing to do – taking grief seriously – and we as humans are pretty well programmed to do everything possible to skip past grief and get back to rejoicing. We’re all prone to saying well-meaning but misguided things to try to mitigate one another’s grief.

There’s an article circulating the web right now where a pastor lays out a list of things NOT to say to someone in grief. She tells us that we trivialize someone’s grief if we say things like “God just needed another angel in heaven,” and that we write off someone’s legitimate feelings of shock and confusion when we say that “This was God’s will.”

I know that Zephaniah and Paul tell us to rejoice, but what we really need to hear today is permission to put our rejoicing on hold, permission to grieve, permission to feel hurt or confused or heartbroken.

The season of Advent gives us this permission, I think. Advent is about dark spaces, about watching and waiting, about the gap between darkness and light. And so I think that Advent gives us permission to linger in our dark spaces, to take seriously our grief, to make peace with the darkness and to let God meet us, even in our brokenness.

I also think that John the Baptist gives us permission to grieve what needs to be grieved instead of skipping ahead to rejoicing.

John the Baptist knows that we stand in the middle of a dark and chaotic world. He is on a rampage at the beginning of today’s gospel, railing against injustice and oppression and self-indulgence and pride and arrogance and devious deeds born out of cowardice and self-interest. He yearns to see goodness in the world.

He speaks of Jesus, the coming Messiah, in terms of judgment and separation – he believes that Jesus is powerful, and if humanity were ever looking for a reason to believe that hope and goodness could defeat evil, Jesus is that reason.

But John knows that he preaches in a waiting-space, where redemption and restoration are on their way, but have not fully arrived yet. He knows that the world doesn’t stop being broken just because we wait in hope for God’s kingdom to come.

So in the meantime, we, with John, still lament the pain and injustice in our world. And the question on our lips is the same question the crowds asked at the river: “What then should we do?”

In this waiting time, what then should we do?

What then should we do about tragedies on the news?
What then should we do about the losses in our own lives?
What then should we do about poverty and illness and hunger?
What then should we do about fear and hopelessness?

What then should we do?

We should love. Love and love again. Love in word and in deed. Love the world to pieces, because God first loved us.

Do you have two coats, John asks, or extra food? Then share it out of love. Out of love, be fair to one another. Out of love, do not spread lies or take advantage of anyone. Out of love, be grateful for what you have.

What can we do for a Connecticut community in mourning? We can love them. Love them by praying for them and supporting them.

What can we do for the family of the shooter? We can love them, too, and pray for them, and do the hard work of remembering that we are all children of God.

What can we do for our broken world? We can love it, and show love, and be love. We can share what we have, and we can reach out to those on the outside, and we can stand up to injustice, and we can offer compassion and forgiveness to one another. We might not be able to make the world perfect – that’s God’s job – but we can love this world fiercely and without apology.

Someday, we will rejoice again. The light will come to pierce the darkness, and we will praise God along with all the angels, and we will see peace on earth once again. God will eliminate all fear, and remove all disaster, and save the broken and gather in the outcast, and restore everything that has fallen apart.

But while we watch and wait and hope for that day of earth’s redemption, we pass our days in love.

So friends, let your gentleness and your loveliness be known to everyone. Even in your darkness, let God’s light shine. Love because God has first loved us. And take heart, because the Lord is near.

Amen.