Sunday of Joy

Today was the third Sunday of Advent — the sunday of Joy.

I lit a candle today during the service at ERUUF (the first time I’ve ever lit a candle during the service before for a joy or concern).  Mine was a very special joy.

As a kid I didn’t love the Joy Sunday of Advent as much as I loved the others.  Peace was probably my favorite (little activist kid that I was).Joy was also the pink candle, and I had an aversion to pink.

As I’ve aged, Joy has risen in my esteem to where it now sits, as my favorite.  In fact, Joy Sunday might be my very favorite Sunday in whole liturgical calendar, right up there with Palm Sunday itself.  There are certain emotions that transcend the human experience, that allow all the conflicting truths of life to stand together and make sense.

I’ve gone through many years of my life where I did not know even a hint of true Joy.  But in the last year and a half of my life, that has really changed.  I have had more joy (and yes, perhaps more deep sorrow) since leaving Nebraska than I did in all the years I spent out on the great plains combined.

This reminds me of what has always been my favorite section of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran:

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, “Joy is greater thar sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits, alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

Gibran's Mother - Painted by Khalil Gibran