Now listen to me. Skirta. That's the Greek. It
doesn't mean wiggle. It means leap. It's a violent
joy. Recognition before thinking. Before theology.
The body knows Messiah is in the room. That's
Bible. Hey, welcome back here to the Seminar
Seminarian. It is the third week of Advent. The
room's a little warmer now. Two candles already
burning, hope and peace. And today, we strike
the match for joy. Not the loud kind, not the
kind that gets sold in a commercial or slapped
onto a mug. This is the kind of joy, shows up
early, unannounced, messes with the furniture.
Kind that doesn't wait for everything to make
sense. In Luke's story, joy enters a room before
anyone explains it, before sermons, before systems,
before certainty. Two women, one house, and something
holy starts singing in the dark. That's where
we're headed today, not towards cheer, towards
recognition, toward the moment when mercy walks
in and something inside you leaps before your
brain can catch up. And if you're here, really
here, that's enough. This is church, real pews.
Four is the creek, coffee that's been on a little
too long, candy canes in a bowl that's seen a
few Decembers. People who showed up tired, hopeful,
guarded, curious, just because it's Sunday because
that's where they belong. You don't have to feel
joyful to be here. You just have to be close
enough to notice when joy enters the room. And
I'm glad you're here. I'll see you on the other
side. So, all right, church. Before we go anywhere,
again, this is an intentional time of waiting.
So, take a breath with me. We have lit three
candles now. Hope, peace, and today, joy. And
I know joy is a loaded word in our society because
The world talks about joy constantly, markets
it, packages it, streams it, sells it to us in
30 -second clips and curated highlights. The
world promises joy as entertainment, as escape,
as distraction from the ache. Joy, according
to the world, It's something you chase after,
something you have to manufacture, something
you experience briefly before it fades, and then
you have to go looking for it again. The algorithm
knows what makes you smile. The feed knows what
makes you click. And the market knows exactly
how to sell you the feeling. Without the substance.
But Advent should keep interrupting us. Because
Advent says joy is not something you produce.
Joy is something that arrives. Joy is not something
you schedule. Joy is something that breaks into
a room before anybody is prepared for it. And
today, Gaudet Sunday, the pink candle. We light
the one candle in Advent that says, take a breath.
Joy is coming whether you are ready or not. Gaudet,
it's Latin for rejoice. Not because everything
is now suddenly fixed. Not because the waiting
is now over. But because something is happening
in the dark that the dark can't control. And
today we are given one of the most disruptive
scriptures of joy in the whole Bible. No angels
yet, no shepherds yet, no manger yet. Just two
women, two pregnancies, two bodies holding promises
the world doesn't yet understand. And joy shows
up early, not as laughter, not as applause, but
as a baby leaping before comprehension. Let's
walk into it. Luke tells us that Mary, fresh
off the angel's visit, went with haste to the
hill country. With haste. That phrase matters.
Because Mary doesn't go to the temple to get
permission. She doesn't go to the religious authorities
to get their approval. She doesn't even go to
Joseph first to explain herself. She goes to
somebody who might understand. Elizabeth, her
cousin, also pregnant, also carrying something
impossible. Elizabeth is six months along with
child that an angel promised to a man who didn't
believe it could even happen. And Mary is maybe
two weeks along with child. The angel promised
to a girl who said yes before she understood
the cost of that yes. And Mary doesn't announce
herself. She doesn't prepare a speech. She just
shows up. Picture it. The hill country of Judea.
A smaller house. Elizabeth, older. Familiar with
disappointment, carrying a promise she's learning
to still trust. And then Mary walks into the
room. Luke says that when Elizabeth heard Mary's
greeting, the child leapt in her womb. Let that
land, church. Not moved, not stirred, leapt.
The Greek word is skirtaho. Skirtaho. It means
to jump for joy, to leap violently, to spring
up. This is not gentle, fetal movement. This
is recognition. Joy doesn't wait for an explanation.
Joy doesn't demand proof. Joy doesn't wait for...
to catch up. Joy recognizes mercy when mercy
walks in the door. John the Baptist, still hidden,
still unborn, still six months from breathing
air, responds to Jesus the only way the fetal
John can. He leaks. And Elizabeth filled with
the Holy Spirit in that moment, doesn't respond
with confusion or suspicion. She doesn't say,
wait, what happened? She doesn't say, let's talk
about this. Scripture says what she says. She
responds with a blessing. Blessed are you among
women. Blessed is the fruit of your womb. And
why has this happened to me, that the mother
of my Lord comes to see me? Notice what does
not happen here. No one asks Mary for clarification.
No one questions her story. No one demands certainty
before offering presents. Joy breaks in first.
Elizabeth doesn't need a full explanation of
what's going on. She just needs the Spirit. And
the Spirit is already filling the room. And then,
then, Mary sings. Friends, the words of the evangelist
Luke. First chapter of his gospel account, beginning
verse 39. In those days, Mary set out and went
with haste to a Judean town in the hill country,
where she entered the house of Zechariah and
greeted Elizabeth. When Elizabeth heard Mary's
greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth
was filled with the Holy Spirit and exclaimed
with a loud cry, Blessed are you among women,
and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And why
has this happened to me? But the mother of my
Lord comes to me. For as soon as I heard the
sound of your greeting, the child in my womb
leaped for joy. And blessed is she who believed
that there would be a fulfillment of what was
spoken to her by the Lord. And then Mary said,
My soul magnifies the Lord. and my spirit rejoices
in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor
on the lowly state of his servant. Surely from
now on all generations will call me blessed,
for the Mighty One has done great things for
me, and holy is his name. Indeed, his mercy is
for those who fear him from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm. He has scattered
the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones
and lifted up the lowly. He has filled the hungry
with good things and sent the rich away empty.
He has come to the aid of his child Israel. In
remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise
he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his
descendants forever. And Mary remained with her
about three months and then returned to her home.
Friends, reading of the word. Mary's song there,
we call it the Magnificat. And it's not a lullaby.
By the way, pause on the VCR. This is the question,
Mary, did you know? Mary knew. Right here, it's
in scripture, by the way. All right, play. This
joy that she's talking about doesn't fit in a
Christian lullaby. It's actually a revolution.
This is not soft joy. This is not sentimental
joy. This is not everything's going to be great
joy. This is upside down joy. He has brought
down the powerful from their thrones and lifted
up the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good
things and sent the rich away empty. That's not
abstract theology. That is a warning shot. Joy
in the kingdom of God is what happens when mercy
takes power seriously. Mary's joy is not rooted
in comfort. It's rooted in a promise. She's young,
maybe 15, unmarried at this point, still socially
vulnerable. Her future is uncertain at best.
And yet she says, my soul magnifies the Lord.
And my spirit rejoices in God, my Savior. Not
because her circumstances had suddenly improved,
but because God had showed up. And that's the
difference, not only to Mary, my dearest of friends,
but to us as well. The world promises joy as
a feeling that depends on the conditions of our
life. Christ reveals joy as the Spirit's interruption
when mercy enters the room. So let me ask you
this question gently. When you hear the word
joy, what do you feel? Excitement, suspicion,
exhaustion. Because. For a lot of us, joy has
become another expectation that we just can't
meet. Be joyful. Choose joy. Count it all joy.
Fake it till you feel it. And some of us are
thinking, I can barely hold it together. Don't
ask me to be joyful too. Others of you learn
to associate joy with noise, with chaos, with
pressure to perform happiness for other people's
comfort. So you don't trust joy anymore. And
some of us, if we're honest, have learned to
survive by keeping joy at arm's length. Because
joy makes you vulnerable as well. Joy gives you
something to lose. Joy requires you to feel again
after you've worked so hard at stopping feeling.
Maybe you've been burned by joy before. Maybe
you believed something good was happening when
it wasn't. Maybe you let yourself hope and got
disappointed. Maybe you sang too loud once and
someone told you, quiet down. And now joy just
feels like a setup for a knockdown. So, when
the church says, light the pink candle, it's
Joy Sunday, some of us are thinking, I just don't
have that in me right now. And Advent sneaks
along and whispers gently in your ear, you don't
have to make joy happen. You only have to notice
it when it arrives. Because joy, real joy, spirit
joy, kingdom joy, does not wait for you to be
ready for it. It shows up uninvited, like a baby.
Leaping in the womb before anyone asked permission.
And again, as we've been doing through each one
of these series in Advent, let's look at the
counterfeit option that the world offers. Counterfeit
joy, again, entertainment. Real joy is recognition.
Counterfeit joy distracts us from reality. Real
joy tells the truth and survives. Counterfeit
joy depends on escape. Real joy depends on presence.
The world says laugh so hard you don't have to
feel. Spirit says feel and joy will rise. That's
why joy shows up in this very famous story. Not
in a palace, but in a living room in the hill
country of Judea. Not through an emperor, but
from two pregnant women telling the truth. This
is joy that doesn't deny suffering. It interrupts
it. The world wants joy that requires nothing
of you, joy that asks no questions, joy that
doesn't threaten your comfort or rearrange your
priorities. But Mary's joy, dearest, is dangerous.
It scatters the proud, topples thrones, fills
the hungry, and sends the rich away empty -handed.
That's not feel -good spirituality. That's revolution
with a baby in its arms. World offers us happiness,
which is fine, but fragile. Happiness depends
on circumstances all lining up in a row. Joy
doesn't do that. Joy is what happens when the
spirit shows up and something in you recognizes
it before your brain catches up. Joy recognizes
before it fully understands. Joy leaps. before
he knows why. It's important. Joy is not the
result of intellectual certainty. It's the response,
the proximity of the spirit. When Jesus, still
invisible, still forming, still hidden, enters
the room, John's body knows before John's mind
ever could. And some of us have actually felt
that before. A moment in worship you just can't
explain. A line of scripture that just slapped
you sideways. Kindness happened to you that just
broke open unexpectedly. A song that made you
cry and you're not sure why. Joy is often your
body knowing grace before your mind catches up.
And Elizabeth names it. For as soon as I heard
the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb
leaped for joy. She didn't have to figure it
all out first. She felt it. And the spirit gave
her words. That's the order, friends. Presence,
recognition, then explanation. Doesn't work the
other way around. Joy is communal. Mary doesn't
sing alone. Elizabeth hears her, affirms her,
and names what God is doing in her. Blessed are
you among women and blessed is the fruit of your
womb. Joy grows when it's witnessed. That's why
isolation suffocates joy and why the church When
at its best is a room where joy is recognized
out loud. You need, we all do. You need someone
to say, I see what God is doing in you. You need,
we all do. You need someone to say, that thing
you're carrying is real. You're not crazy. The
spirit is moving. Barry stays with Elizabeth
three months. Three months, two women holding
impossible promises together. Three months of
watching bodies change. Three months of joy tended
in community. And some of us, man, we need that
right now. We need someone who won't minimize
what we're carrying. We need someone who will
sit with us while the promise grows. We need
someone who will let joy be complicated and still
call it joy. And that's what church is for. Not
to hand you a script, but to witness what God
is doing. Joy is dangerous. Mary's song threatens
systems. He has brought down the powerful from
the thrones and lifted up the lowly. That's not
metaphor. That's political theology. The proud
are scattered. The rich are sent away empty.
The lowly are lifted. Joy is not neutral. Joy
is what happens when the future God promised
starts to finally leak into the present. That's
why the world prefers happiness. Because it's
safer. Happiness doesn't threaten anyone. Happiness
keeps you comfortable. Happiness asks nothing
of the systems that hurt people. But joy? Joy
rearranges the furniture. Mary's joy says God
is remembering mercy. And if God is remembering
mercy, then power structures built on scarcity
are in trouble. If God is lifting up the lowly,
then hierarchies built on shame will not stand.
If God is feeding and filling the hungry of our
society, Then economies built on hoarding become
exposed. Joy is what happened when God starts
keeping his promises. And that's dangerous to
anyone who invested in things staying the same.
Joy is given, not achieved. Mary doesn't decide
to be joyful. She responds. Peter says it this
way in his first letter. Though you've not seen
him, you love him. And even though you do not
see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with
an indescribable and a glorious joy. Joy unspeakable
doesn't come from your effort. It comes from
an encounter. You don't manufacture it. You receive
it. Mary didn't earn this moment. Elizabeth didn't
qualify for it. John didn't prepare for it and
God just showed up and joy interrupted. That's
grace. You don't have to be joyful enough. You
don't have to perform joy for anyone. You don't
have to pretend. You just have to stay close
enough to notice when mercy finally walks through
the door. So, here's the invitation this week.
Stop demanding joy look like entertainment. Stop
requiring joy to justify itself. Stop waiting
until everything makes sense. Pay attention to
what leaps. Where did something in you stir unexpectedly?
Where did hope rise without permission? Where
did mercy walk into the room before explanation
followed? Because that's joy. And joy doesn't
erase grief. It sits beside it. And joy doesn't
solve everything. But it reminds you that God
is already here. Picture it one more time. Two
women. Two impossible pregnancies. One quiet
house in the hill country. And joy. uninvited,
unannounced, breaks in. Not loudly, but unmistakably.
This is Advent joy. Not something you chase,
something that finds you. Not something you perform,
something you recognize. And maybe, just maybe,
maybe this week you'll find something leaping
you before you ever even understand why. That's
the spirit. Lean into it. May joy surprise you
this week. May it rise in you before you understand
it. And may the mercy that stood up in Mary's
song stand up in your life. Quiet, dangerous,
and full of glory. Amen? Amen. Hey, before you
go, pause just a moment. If something stirred
in you today, I want you to hear this clearly.
You're not behind. You're not late. You're not
failing Advent because you didn't feel the right
thing at the right moment. Joy doesn't arrive
on command. It enters rooms when people are honest
enough to show up as they are. And if you're
carrying more weight than light right now, that
doesn't disqualify you. It names you. Good news
of the season isn't that you finally get it all
together. It's that God keeps drawing near anyway.
Hope's always burning. Peace has already been
spoken. And joy, joy doesn't erase what hurts.
It sits beside it and refuses to leave. So take
a breath. Whatever you brought in with you, you
don't have to carry it alone. Now, one practical
word before we part ways. If what you're hearing
here is feeding you, steadying you, helping you
walk this road through Advent into Christmas,
you're invited, never pressured. Take part if
you're in this room. You can place your light
in the offering plate as it passes. It's one
small, faithful way we keep the lights on and
the doors open for real people and real pews.
If you're listening online, the simplest way
to keep walking with us is to tie to your subscribe.
That's how you know when the next candle is going
to be lit. That's how you stay connected as we
move from joy to love all the way into Christmas
morning. No guilt, though. No obligation, just
invitation. However you do it, however you stay,
may you go knowing grace has already met you.
And friend, be blessed.