Dig Deeper into Sunday’s Gospel: Read Matthew 11:2–11

Gaudete Sunday invites one and all to rejoice. A rose-colored candle is lit, signaling that the long night of waiting is nearly over. 

Named for the entrance antiphon, “Rejoice (gaudete) in the Lord always, again I say, rejoice.” Gaudete Sunday and the rose candle point us to the hope found in our waiting. In the midst of darkness, we have reason to rejoice for our Lord is near. 

As the reality of time sets in, however, this week often doesn’t feel terribly rosy. The pressure to buy, to wrap, to cook, to prep, to clean, to pray, to do, to do, to do intensifies. Add to my list: “go to Reconciliation, again,” confessing that the posture I began Advent with—intentions to live more simply, cultivate interior stillness, and pursue virtue even more devoutly—was undoubtedly too short-lived. Personal heartaches and challenges make this time of year even tougher, leaving me with a yearning to pack it all in, and run away—yes, to that Carmelite cloister I keep blogging about! 

Maybe, like me, you feel that the call to rejoice this Sunday falls on a weary heart. Sure, I’ll light that candle and pretend I’m joyful—as I sift through my mental checklist and force a smile on my face. 

Enter this Sunday’s gospel from Matthew, where we find John the Baptist, our fiery, animal-skin-wearing, locust-eating, ride-or-die prophet who prepared the way for Christ, now sitting in a prison cell. 

Hmmm, doesn’t necessarily scream joy, but let’s keep going. 

In the darkness and loneliness of his confinement, John sends a message to his cousin: “Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?” (Matthew 11:3).

Let John’s question sink in for a moment. At first, it may sound like a woeful confession of unbelief or doubt. But, I think it’s actually a whole lot deeper than that. It is the question from someone deeply in love with God, who gave everything to God and now finds himself in dangerous, scary circumstances that do not match what he thought God’s deliverance would look like. Maybe he is quietly wondering if he got it wrong. Maybe, John thinks, “He is not who I thought He was. Maybe that means I’m not what I thought I was. Maybe I misunderstood all along.” 

And, maybe, like me, you see yourself so clearly in John’s quiet question. Maybe, like me, you can imagine yourself standing alongside him in that dark prison cell, facing situations that feel uncertain, painful, or that remain bitterly unresolved, and you, too, are quietly wondering if Jesus is who He says He is. 

Lord, are You really moving here?
Are You going to come through for me?
Did I misunderstand what You were doing?

Questions like these do not necessarily point to weak faith. Often they erupt from the depths of a woman’s heart, a woman who is battle weary, discouraged, and longing for reassurance. 

Doubting, uncertain, and afraid, John sent word to Jesus. This is key. He didn’t overanalyze or ruminate, catastrophize about his future, or berate himself for his mistakes. He didn’t stuff his feelings or wear a false bravado, even as he fought hopelessness inside. He didn’t wallow and crumble in self-pity, nor did he get angry and bitter at his predicament and disavow Jesus altogether. He sought Jesus in His suffering. 

And, Jesus’ response to John is not shaming him or condemning him. Instead, He responds with honesty and compassion. 

“Go,” He instructs His disciples, “and tell John what you hear and see” (Matthew 11:4).

Jesus sends back to John a message of consolation: the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor receive the good news (Matthew 11:5).

In other words, “John, I am who you hoped for. I am who you believe me to be. My kingdom is breaking through into this world—even if you cannot see it from where you are.” 

Knowing of John’s doubts and uncertainty, Jesus praises him for all to hear, declaring, “Among those born of women there has been none greater than John the Baptist” (Matthew 11:11). 

Jesus does not measure our worth by the presence or absence of questions or doubts. In fact, He welcomes them. When we seek Jesus for answers, for confirmation, for reassurance, our faithfulness and confidence in Him shine. It is then that we can proclaim that the joy of the Lord is our strength. 

Let me repeat: “The joy of the Lord is your strength” (Nehemiah 8:10). Scripture doesn’t say that the joy of receiving a new promotion, making another Amazon purchase, seeing a certain number on the scale, or curating the perfect social media pictures is our strength. Yes, these things can bring us joy, but not the lasting joy and strength that we truly need. 

Did John jump for joy in his prison cell when Jesus’ message got back to him? That, I’m not sure about. But I can picture John releasing his edgy grip on the bars of his cell. I can imagine the muscles in his face relax, and his shoulders drop, maybe a small smile escapes from the corner of his lips. His fears subside. A peaceful contentment and silent joy overwhelm him. And, John whispers to no one in particular, “I knew it.”

The joy of Gaudete Sunday differs from the joy of Christmas morning, which celebrates our Lord’s arrival; it is a joy that comes from knowing who we are waiting for. It is the hope-filled joy grounded in a true understanding that He has come, He has saved us, and He will come again. This joy has the power to overwhelm us in the best way possible, regardless of the date on the calendar. It comes from personally knowing Jesus, our Savior, who assures us that no question, doubt, circumstance—nothing—will ever separate us from His love (Romans 8:39). 

Gaudete joy—a steady rejoicing—arises in us, and remains with us, when we root ourselves in our belovedness. No matter how you are feeling this week, what questions remain unanswered, or what sorrow runs deep, have faith: He will meet you right there and comfort you. You are not forgotten, your sacrifices are seen, and your heart is precious to Him. He delights in you.

Waiting with joy,
Jeannine

Food for thought or journaling …

What might Gaudete joy look like for me in this season—not perfect joy, but a steady joy that comes from knowing I am loved, seen, and held by our Lord, even in the middle of my unfinished places? 

Come, O Lord, into my heart, into my weariness, my questions, even my doubts. Let Your presence be my joy and Your faithfulness my strength. Hold my heart in Your peace today. Amen.