There’s a line we spoke together this morning that feels like the heartbeat of Advent: “We stand in awe of your deeds, O Lord—repeat them in our day.”

Advent is a season that invites us to awaken our spiritual senses—to look again, listen again, hope again. And today, as we light the third candle, we name that awakening as joy. Not the thin, fragile joy that depends on everything going right, but the deep, steady joy that rises from God’s presence breaking into the world.

Our call to worship led us through that awakening:

• Grant us vision to behold your glory.

• Quiet us so we may hear your still, soft voice.

• Make us vessels of your mercy, compassion, and grace.

This is the posture of Advent: eyes open, hearts quiet, hands ready.

And into that posture, scripture speaks a word of joy.

Isaiah begins with a landscape that feels familiar to anyone who has walked through a dry season: “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,the desert shall rejoice and blossom.”

Isaiah is not describing a place where joy is obvious. He is describing a place where joy seems impossible.

And yet…

·        the desert blooms.

·        the weak are strengthened.

·        the fearful are comforted.

·        the blind see.

·        the lame leap.

·        the ransomed return with singing.

Isaiah is painting a picture of joy that does not wait for ideal conditions. Joy that springs up in barren places. Joy that surprises us. Joy that transforms what we thought was lifeless.

This is the joy of Advent: joy that comes not because everything is perfect, but because God is near.

Mary’s song echoes Isaiah’s vision, but with a personal, embodied joy: “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”

Mary sings this while living under Roman occupation. Mary sings this while facing uncertainty, misunderstanding, and risk. Mary sings this before anything has been resolved.

Her joy is not naïve. Her joy is not denial. Her joy is rooted in the God who lifts up the lowly, fills the hungry, scatters the proud, and keeps promises from generation to generation.

Mary’s joy is the kind that awakens the world. It is the joy of someone who sees God moving beneath the surface. It is the joy of someone who trusts that God’s glory is already breaking in.

This is the joy we pray for when we light the third candle.

James brings us back to the ground, reminding us that joy and patience often walk hand in hand: “Be patient, therefore, beloved… strengthen your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is near.”

James knows that waiting can wear us down. He knows that hope can feel fragile. He knows that joy can be hard to hold onto. So he gives us an image: the farmer who waits for the precious crop. The farmer cannot rush the rain. The farmer cannot force the seed to sprout. The farmer cannot control the timing of the harvest. But the farmer can trust the process. The farmer can tend the soil. The farmer can watch for signs of life.

James is telling us that joy is not passive—it is attentive. Joy pays attention to the small beginnings. Joy notices the first green shoot. Joy believes that God is at work even when the field looks empty.

And then we meet John the Baptist—sitting in prison, wrestling with doubt. He sends a question to Jesus: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

This is not the voice of someone who has lost faith. This is the voice of someone who is longing for reassurance. Someone who needs to know that his hope has not been misplaced.

And Jesus responds not with rebuke, but with evidence:

·         the blind see

·         the lame walk

·         the lepers are cleansed

·         the deaf hear

·         the dead are raised

·         the poor receive good news

Jesus is saying, “Look around. Joy is already breaking in.” Even in prison, even in uncertainty, even in disappointment – joy is still possible because God is still moving.

John’s question reminds us that joy and doubt are not opposites. Sometimes joy grows right alongside our questions. Sometimes joy is the light that flickers even when we’re not sure where the path leads.

So today, as we light the third candle, we awaken our spiritual senses to joy. The first candle taught us to wait with hope. The second candle strengthened the weary. The third candle invites us to behold God’s glory—to see the desert bloom, to hear Mary’s song, to trust the slow work of God, to look for signs of life even in unexpected places.

This candle burns for all who long to rejoice again. For all who need a reminder that joy is not a luxury—it is a gift. For all who are watching for God’s glory in their midst.

As the light grows brighter, so does our joy.

Beloved, joy is not something we manufacture. Joy is something God awakens in us.

Joy is the desert blooming. Joy is Mary singing. Joy is the farmer waiting. Joy is John asking honest questions. Joy is the promise that God is already at work—in us, around us, and through us.

May this third candle remind you that joy is possible, even here, even now, even in the places that feel barren.

For the God who once caused deserts to blossom and a young woman to sing and a prisoner to hope is still moving, still speaking, still bringing joy to the world.

Amen.