"Joy is not made to be a crumb"

You may recall that I love the poet Mary Oliver. I love the way she tells the truth about the world—its beauty, its ache, its ordinary holiness. She had this gift of looking directly at what is real and still finding, tucked somewhere inside it, a glimmer of wonder.

There’s a poem of hers called Don’t Hesitate, that is fitting for Advent. It begins:

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it.

And she goes on:

Joy is not made to be a crumb.

Joy is not made to be a crumb. Not a scrap brushed off the table. Not something we ration until the world feels less frightening. A gift that arrives—sometimes unasked, sometimes at inexplicable times—and still somehow makes us more whole.

And I bring this poem to you today because this is Rose or Gaudete Sunday, which means “REJOICE”. In a season that is honest about longing, waiting, and the deep ache of the world, we turn our attention to joy.

But Gaudete Sunday doesn’t ask us to paste on a smile. It doesn’t command cheerfulness. It shifts the tone just enough to remind us that joy can come while we are still waiting, while things are unfinished, while the world remains wounded. It’s not an escape from reality. It’s a widening of reality. The Christian claim that God’s nearness can break through at the most unexpected time. And that’s a thread that ties the words of Mary that we said and John’s story that we heard just now.

When we meet John this Sunday, he is not the fiery prophet by the river. He is not the confident herald who pointed at Jesus and declared, “Behold the Lamb of God.” He is in prison. He is alone. His ministry may be over. His body is held. His future is uncertain. His expectations of what the Messiah would do are unraveling.

John sends word to Jesus: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

This is not a theological question. This is a human one. It is the question people ask when their hope is threadbare. The question whispered from hospital rooms, from worn-out parents, from lonely homes, from anyone who thought they understood what God was doing until life took a turn they couldn’t have imagined.

In John’s question, there is honesty, sorrow, confusion, maybe even disappointment. And Jesus does not scold him. Jesus does not say, “John, where is your joy? Where is your faith?” He doesn’t shame him for struggling.

Instead, Jesus sends back word of what is unfolding: “ The blind can see again, the lame can walk, the ones with skin disease have been cleansed! Ears that cannot hear have been opened, the dead have come back to life again, and the poor are being told the good story!”

Notice: Jesus is not glossing over John’s pain. He is not saying, “Everything’s fine” or “Just be happy.” He is giving John evidence that the world is still moving toward God’s healing. Jesus offers hope without erasing John’s reality. Joy without bypassing lament. A glimpse of God’s newness that honors John’s ache. This is the tenderness of Gaudete Sunday: Joy in the midst of waiting, not instead of it.

And then we turn to Mary. Mary, who is also living in an occupied land. Mary, who is young, poor, and pregnant under circumstances she cannot explain to most people. Mary, whose life is about to become more complicated, not less. Yet Mary sings: “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.” Or as we heard translated today: “From deep in my heart I dance with joy to honor the Great Spirit.”

Her joy is not naïve. Her joy is defiant. Her joy is prophetic. Her joy is rooted in the God who brings down the mighty, lifts up the lowly, fills the hungry with good things, and refuses to let injustice have the final word. Mary’s joy looks very little like comfort. It looks a lot like courage.

Where John’s joy is dimmed by the weight of uncertainty, Mary’s joy rises in the face of it. And our lives hold both of these experiences. Some of us walk into Advent feeling like John—tired, bewildered, longing for reassurance that God has not forgotten us. Some of us walk in like Mary—carrying a fragile but luminous hope that dares to sing. Most of us are some shifting combination of both.

What Mary Oliver names so beautifully—and what the Gospel affirms—is that joy often comes unexpectedly. Joy arrives in the middle of things. In the middle of fear. In the middle of confusion. In the middle of waiting. In the middle of grief. It bubbles up in a world that is still aching, still unfinished, still yearning for redemption.

And here is the miracle: Joy does not require the ache to disappear. Joy does not require us to pretend. Joy does not compete with lament. Joy is a sign that God is near. A small rebellion against despair. Joy is not a crumb.

And maybe this is where Gaudete Sunday gently turns the question back toward us. If joy can arrive in the middle of everything—as Mary Oliver says, “suddenly and unexpectedly”—then it is worth asking:

Where is joy showing up in your life right now? Not the big, sweeping kind. But the small, stubborn joy that insists on being felt. Where does joy slip in despite everything you’re carrying? Where does it surprise you? Where does it catch you off guard?

I saw it this week in the vast multitude of people, across what we might see as varied political beliefs, who showed up to say fear has no place in the way we govern our community. I saw it in the flexibility of this congregation to let go of plans for one celebration, to instead meet a real need in our community in a way only we can. I experienced it in sweet notes and prayers for my family as we turn a corner, nearing a transformation of our own family. And to be clear, none of these erase the ache. None of them solve the world. But joy isn’t meant to replace anything. It is meant to accompany us.

I wonder: Where is joy finding you lately? Where is it trying to break in, even if you’re not sure you have room for it? Where do you sense God quietly whispering, “I’m still here”? This kind of wondering, this paying attention, is spiritual practice. A practice of trust— trust that Christ is already at work in places we cannot yet see. Trust that even in our doubts, God remains faithful. Trust that the world’s pain is not the whole story. This is Advent work. It’s what helps us recognize Christ when he comes—unexpectedly, gently, and often in small ways first.

So on this Gaudete Sunday, I invite us to hold John and Mary together. To honor John’s vulnerability— his doubts, his questions, his hurt— without rushing him toward resolution. To honor Mary’s courage— her trust, her boldness, her song— not because she was unafraid, but because she dared to rejoice while the world was still aching. And as we honor John and Mary, we honor and notice those similar arrivals of joy within us.

So I leave you again with Mary Oliver’s words: “If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it.”

Because joy, like the Christ who is coming, arrives quietly, unexpectedly, and transforms us— not by erasing our ache, but by reminding us that love is already here.

May John’s courage to speak his doubts, Mary’s courage to sing her trust, and Christ’s promise to come near teach us to welcome joy—not as a crumb, but as a living sign that God is here. Even amid our ache and our uncertainty, God is working, turning the world around, and inviting us to witness hope breaking in.

Amen.