We need joy as we need air

 15 December - Advent 3: Zephaniah 3:14-end, Philippians 4:4-7 and Luke 3:7-18

Today is what’s known as Gaudete Sunday:  a day when we are commanded to rejoice.

It’s why we light a rose-pink candle. It signals a joyous note amidst the purple of penitence and preparation. 

Gaudete in Domino semper: rejoice in the Lord always.

The prophet Zephaniah speaks of singing, shouting, exulting and rejoicing with all our heart and voice.

That might sound a bit bullish when we’re exhausted or fearful; when we’re grieving or just getting by; when our hearts break.

John the Baptist - Jacopo del Casentino

Maya Angelou wrote that: ‘we need joy as we need air. We need love as we need water. We need each other as we need the earth we share.’

Like Zephaniah and Paul, Angelou doesn’t write this out of comfort but from a place of struggle, protest and advocacy. 

They are all aware of the personal burdens and community challenges - and yet glimpse and cling onto something more.

Joy isn’t something that simply happens. It’s not the pursuit of things we think might make us happy, for a while.

We have to choose it. Or notice it. And keep choosing it. And noticing it. 

Without it we can’t breathe. Just as without love, we thirst. 

Even when those #TinyJoys are like whispers not shouts; like breath before the song.

For Zephaniah, joy comes when justice is restored.

Despite the prophet calling out people’s neglect of the commandments of God, and in the face of the trauma of exile,  the presence of God brings new life, a new future. 

Instead of judgement there is overwhelming mercy. 

God comes to us, is in the midst of us: with love. 

This is a cause of celebration - of singing and shouting.

In the face of hurt and fear there is breath and joy. 

In the face of fragmentation and alienation flow the waters of justice and love that renews.

Relationships change - people are gathered up and brought home, healed and stretched, given a future. 

There is justice in place of fear - life together in a different register: as Angelou puts it, ‘we need each other as we need the earth we share.’

Such shouts of joy stand in stark contrast to the words on John the Baptist’s lips: ‘you brood of vipers!’

They are words of judgement: harsh, shocking, blunt. 

He calls us to turn back to God’s love, to repent.

They are words which call forth change and action: to show in our lives the fruit of such repentance, of returning to love. We need such love as we need water. 

The question on the lips of the crowd makes sense: what then should we do?

How are we to live? 

If we turn towards God’s love, if we repent, how then should we live?

In the face of a changing world and when love changes us, how should we act? 

From the wilderness, a voice calls us to us. It calls us home. 

Home to God. Home to ourselves. Home to the places where we live and worship and work. 

We need each other. We are to show love and joy in those familiar places. 

It is in the ordinary habits and patterns  of our lives, that God is near to us. It is in the routine and mundane that we can make a difference. 

Two coats? Give one away.

More food than we need? Share it with others.

We can be generous now. We can be compassionate now. 

We are invited to live our lives. Now. 

John goes on to offer specific advice - to tax collectors, soldiers and religious leaders.

Don’t take more than is owed in tax; don’t use force or threats to supplement wages; don’t be arrogant because of your role or position.  

Perhaps this is what repentance looks like: generosity, justice and contentment. It’s a practical expression of our faith.

The message to the crowd that we all have gifts - gifts more than what we own, but in who we are. 

There is joy and love in this: needs met by human lives. 

This is good news. This is a cause to rejoice, to shout and sing.

All that we have and all that we are is loved and capable of showing love. 

John ends with words that the Messiah will baptise with the Holy Spirit and with fire. 

It’s another stark image. An ear of corn is made up of both the kernel of wheat and the husk of chaff. What is capable of being ground into flour to make life giving bread is gathered up; the husk is inedible, it’s burnt up. 

John and Jesus are dividing human beings against each other - they are reminding us that when we come before the fiery radiance of love. Then the one who knows all the secrets of our hearts will gather us home; and gather up the rich harvests of our attempts to love. 

We are seen and known. Going through a baptism that cleanses, forgives and restores. 

Judgement is good news; it’s an act of love and source of joy. It speaks of right perception and being seen. It speaks of holding on to what is good; of letting go of defences, fears, hurts, failings. 

Joy comes from this honest place of setting aside painful truths - and allowing ourselves to be embraced by love (rather than turning away). 

It’s out of this hope that Paul writes. God is near to us - set aside worries. God is near - be gentle, to others and yourself. God is near to us - pray, give thanks. God is near - rejoice. 

Here we take the fruits of the harvest - the bread from milled grain, the wine from the crushed grape. They become for us food for the journey; drawing us into communion, community. A joyful feast, a love that meets us where we are and helps us bear fruit. 

‘We need joy as we need air. We need love as we need water. We need each other as we need the earth we share.’

© Julie Gittoes 2025

Shock of hope

 1st December Advent Sunday 2024: Jeremiah 33:14-16,

1 Thessalonians 3:9-13 Luke 21:25-36

‘Nous y sommes’, here we are, said President Macron as he posted a video clip of Notre Dame. He also addressed over a thousand specialist artisans who’d worked on the restored cathedral. He said: ‘the shock of the reopening will be as great as that of the fire, but it will be a shock of hope.’

Interior of Notre Dame: image US News 

We long for a shock of hope. Jesus’ words might resonate with the newsreels: the earth in distress, heavens shaking, waters raging and people fainting in fear. 

Nous y sommes, here we are.  Jesus doesn’t invite us to look away from the disruption, pain or confusion, but to be present in it, even to seek the nearness of God in the midst of it; to find within reality the shock of hope. 

Jesus’ words convey urgency, the references sound cryptic and the scope is cosmic. He calls his hearers to attention by using startling images and rhetorical devices. In the face of chaos and uncertainty, we are to be alert, to be ready and to look.

Advent begins in the dark, it acknowledges where things fall apart - and yet draws us into life and restores hope. The promise of justice and mercy will not pass away.   There is redemption and it is near.

For all the dramatic images, we’re invited to embrace Jesus now, to encounter his love today. We are to find encouragement in this as we seek to be faithful to God in the present, in our local.

His arrival is and will be a word of hope to us. Here we are: invited into a way of living that holds some kind of common ground in the face of uncertainty. 

We are invited to dwell in the truth and that takes courage. We see the world as it is - to be honest about the pain, questions and fears. This might lead us to lament rather than cheap cheer; it might motivate us to seek after justice rather than escapism; it might move us to compassion rather than indifference. Truth seeks change, renewal; it dares to hope. 

We are invited to wait and to long for what is not yet here. We sit in darkness, longing for light. As we wait, we notice what we really want to be different; desires to see an end to loneliness and hunger.

 In the dark, things break open and grow; seeds and bulbs long buried in soil root and push new life to the surface. Perhaps we too are being remade, our longings reshaped; being obedient to God’s ways of life and love;  as we long for what is possible. 

Honest waiting is an invitation to pay attention. It is to notice the details, to see where life might be bursting forth in bud and leaf. As seasons shift, what do we glimpse in our own hearts - what is giving energy, or joy; what do we let go of? 

As we go about our lives, our work, what do we notice in our households or communities? The voices we need to hear or the needs we can meet; the opportunity to be present with another.

Nous y somme. Here we are.

Waiting. Paying attention. Honestly. Dare we imagine?

Dare we hold our longings and sorrows together with the compassion of a God who comes to us in Christ; the one who brings the shock of hope?

The one who was born in a small town on the edge of an empire long passed as brought us a sure hope, here and now. In him is justice, healing, mercy - a profound hope in the face of all that is tense and uncertain. 

It is his judgement that grounds our hope. 

The prophet Jeremiah writes of hope and consolation. He is unafraid to remind us of the consequences of failing to love God and neighbour, and reminds us that an alternative future is possible. 

Jeremiah invites us to judge those systems or patterns of life that deny justice or extinguish the possibility of compassion. A hopeful future is built on noticing what is out of kilter, critiquing it and seeking to bring change. 

We do this placing our trust in the one who is our righteousness: the Lord who was, who is and is to come. Jesus is the one who brings justice and healing - who calls us to seek a kinder, fairer, more compassionate and just society. 

The letter to the Thessalonians reminds us that such hope is rooted in the pursuit of peace, joy and love; for those qualities to be made known within the reality of human lives in community. 

In a time of waiting, Paul sees the Christian community in that place as a source of joy as well as hope. Even in the face of affliction, they had sought to live in peace, prompting each other to acts of goodness. 

As he prays for them, Paul asks that love might increase and abound in them.  Love is the source of our hope, the well-spring of joy and the grounds of peace. It is the greatest gift - the character of God reflected in human lives. 

To echo another letter, such love is patient, generous and kind. Love is not stubborn, selfish or rude. Love hopes all things.  Love is the shock of hope - loving each other, being able to accept we are loved. It is a shock of hope - loving the world in its pain and confusion, its contradictions and beauty. 

Nous y sommes. Here we are. 

Advent is a rich season: it reminds us to look with honesty at the world, and invites us to wait with courage and imagination, with patience and longing. When hearts are fearful and the earth is distressed - Jesus reminds us of the shock of hope. 

A hope not simply in a restored cathedral, but in the building up of a body committed to courageous love. To be present in the world as it is because it is precisely here that God dwells with us. To see the depth and the darkness and notice what is growing, slowly. To yearn for it and to imagine it - something beautiful, something that heals the world, is waiting to be born. 

© Julie Gittoes 2024

Are you the one? Finding hope and joy

 Advent 3: Isaiah 35:1-10, James 5:7-10 and Matthew 11:2-11

In 1980, the sitcom Hi-de-Hi! appeared on the BBC. 

After the customary “ping, ping, ping” of the xylophone, Gladys Pugh - played by the late Ruth Madoc - says: ‘Hello campers; rise and shine. It’s a beautiful Maplin morning and we’ve got lots of Maplins’ fun in store for you today’.

Set in a fictional holiday camp, there is an atmosphere of forced amusement and fun. It’s expected that the ‘first laugh of the day’ will be at breakfast, with sports, laughter, games and entertainment filling every minute thereafter. 

Underneath that performed jollity, the entertainers are mainly out of work actors or faded stars and former champions; people out of pace and looking for something more. 

We have reached the third Sunday of Advent - known as Gaudete Sunday, a Sunday of rejoicing. As the liturgical “ping, ping, ping” introduces us to gladness, abundance, blessing and joy, perhaps we have arrived with a sense of unpreparedness, dread, tiredness or overwhelm.

Gladys Pugh’s ‘Hi-de-hi’ demands an Advent type response of rise and shine; wake up be alert. Yet, when we read the newspapers, see the evidence of our own senses, the beautiful mornings are shot through with discontent; the fun or laughter in store is combined with tears. 

And yet, and yet, our readings today allow us to be honest about that reality and tension; they draw us from despair to longing; they renew in our flesh and bones something of the mystery of God’s.

The one who gives us permission to long for joy when we don’t always feel it is John the Baptist.  In him, we see questioning and patience in our waiting; and the conviction to trust the promise that God will come. 

For today, the forerunner sends his disciples to ask Jesus a question: ‘Are you the one?’ And he waits, in prison, for an answer. 

Image: Visio Lectio

When he lept in his mother’s womb, Elizabeth felt joy, connection and recognition that the child her younger cousin carried was indeed ‘the one who is to come’. 

In the wilderness, he was the one who prepared the way by preaching a message of repentance. His dress and diet were strange and other - yet he was compelling,  inviting others to turn back to God’s ways of justice and love.

Now we find him imprisoned: his seeking after truth and courageous unmasking of abused power  had confined him to the loneliness of a cell He challenged a faithless and unfaithful king; he faces death as a result of a flirtatious whim and vain promises. 

Has it all been for nothing? Or are the stories he’s hearing true? His boldness has given way to uncertainty, his clarity becomes a need for reassurance. So he openly, honestly, bravely turns his despair into longing; he asks that poignant question: ‘Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?’ 

He asks. He waits. Might his patience give way to gladness; might joyful news strengthen his heart?

Jesus’ response isn’t a simple yes of self-identification. He points to what can be seen, known, talked about, witnessed to. He sends the disciples back to John saying - tell him your stories, for those stories reveal who Jesus is. 

The truth of Jesus emerges in these encounters: in fear and shadows, in whispers and speech, in movement and song. Listen to that, and be glad; may that news strengthen your hearts. As John waits, as we wait, God comes near; the promise of Isaiah is fulfilled. 

We aren’t told how John received the news and stories. Perhaps his joy renewed as relief broke in? Perhaps he saw life beyond his own death as God in Jesus raises up, restores and brings hope.  

We receive those stories today - trusting that Jesus is indeed the one who was to come, who came and will come again. In his words, we find encouragement and a depth of joy that goes beyond the first joke of the day. 

You are blessed, he says, if you don’t take offence at me: even when things are harder or more complicated than we’d imagine, he invites us to stay rather than run, to ask questions rather than quit; to wait patiently for the dawn when it is still dark.

For God is present in both the joy and the pain. There is something sacred about what we are gifted on this gaudate Sunday. We can trust our responses to the world - grief, rage, shock, despair - because those things reveal what needs to change. 

Our experience sharpens our longings and refines our actions - if every second we exist is a gift, is something sacred, we can dare to feel deeply because God is in it; God feels it too. As James wrote, we can allow for patience in sorrow and joy in abundance; we can ask questions and choose to act in a way that sets others free. 

Perhaps in a way John understood real joy. It is not sentimentality or superficiality: it’s not the rise and shine of Maplins’ fun. It is  the depth of assurance that God will come to save us;  that God’s activity is beyond his own circumstances; that life extends beyond the grave and finds completion in God. He has gone ahead of us - knowing that his hope was not in vain, despair to joy. 

Prayer for this Sunday from Christian Aid:

Every second we exist is a gift, 

Gone in a whisper, it will not come again…

So God of us all, we come to you and ask

That you help us unwrap it,

and teach us to share it,

and call us to cherish it - 

this precious life we’ve been given.

There are gifts we can offer each other;

time, forgiveness, consideration…

things we cannot purchase,

but which are priceless.

And there are the lessons

we desperately need to learn -

about love that does what it says,

about concern that changes our behaviour,

about this life that we’ve been given that

explodes in beauty when we understand 

how to give it up.

Every second we exist is a gift.

Gone in a whisper, it will not come again…

When poverty robs our sisters and brothers,

when unfettered power proclaims some lives 

are more important than others, 

when the prophetic voice of those struggling

under the chaos our over-consumption has 

caused, is drowned out, call us to listen,

to learn, to change.

Every second we exist is a gift.

Gone in a whisper, it will not come again.

Your creative, joy-filled love gave us life.

May we share it with the same joy and generosity.

(C)    Julie Gittoes 2022