Gaudete Sunday: Rejoice (and Yes, the Candle Is Rose, Not Pink…)
A Reflection on Preparing for the Third Sunday of Advent
Every year—every single year—I make the same joke about the rose-colored candle on the Advent wreath at Christ Episcopal Church. Ten years running, and I’ve still got gas in the tank. Somewhere around the lighting of that candle, I usually quip that it serves as our “insurance policy against the baby Jesus coming out as a girl this year. ” It’s an old joke, admittedly, but it’s survived a decade’s worth of Advents, toddlers kicking kneelers, surging Christmas pageant energy, and at least eight HVAC replacements. And, of course, I always add the obligatory reminder: It is not pink. Please do not call it pink. It is rose. Rose, as in properly erudite and Episcopalian, the kind of color that sounds like it belongs in a Tudor chapel rather than a Sherwin-Williams catalog.
But behind the humor, there’s actually a remarkable story about why this particular Sunday—and that particular candle—is rose and not violet. Gaudete Sunday, the third Sunday of Advent, is the liturgical counterpart to Laetare Sunday, the fourth Sunday of Lent. Both are mid-season “breather days,” little liftings of the fast, moments when the Church leans toward joy even within penitential seasons. And both take their names from the first word of the traditional Latin introit appointed for their Mass: Gaudete—“Rejoice.”
The ancient introit begins, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice. Let your forbearance be known to all, for the Lord is near at hand; have no anxiety about anything…” (Philippians 4:4–6). That tone of joy, patience, and gentle trust runs right through the readings appointed for Gaudete Sunday. It is, in a way, the Church catching her breath—lifting her eyes toward the horizon of hope before plunging again into the final stretch toward Christmas.
Advent, at its heart, is always about three comings: Jesus’ first coming in Bethlehem, his present coming among us in Word and Sacrament, and his final coming in glory. But Gaudete Sunday shifts the emotional center. Last week, we heard John the Baptist thundering in the wilderness, calling us a brood of vipers and telling us to repent. This week, the Epistle from James offers something far gentler: “Be patient, therefore, beloved, until the coming of the Lord… Strengthen your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is near” (James 5:7–8). No fire, no axes at the root of trees. Just patience. Tenderness. Encouragement. A pastor’s hand on the shoulder.
Even the Gospel takes a softened tone. Instead of warning or exhortation, we hear Jesus praising the works of God unfolding around him and proclaiming with great joy the prophetic greatness of his cousin: “Truly I tell you, among those born of women no one has arisen greater than John the Baptist.” That’s high praise from the one person qualified to give it.
And perhaps that tone is precisely what we need. Because while December is a season wrapped in words like “joy,” “merry,” and “comfort and joy,” many of us experience the weeks leading to Christmas very differently. Some of us are sprinting through end-of-year deadlines, Christmas parties, concerts, school programs, and To-Do lists that seem to multiply like loaves and fishes—but without the same divine assistance. Some are worried about finances, wondering if our resources will stretch far enough for gifts, travel, or even the needs of daily life in a challenging economic season. And some are facing a first Christmas without someone they deeply love—a spouse, a parent, a friend. Grief has a way of bending the light of the season, leaving us feeling out of step with the cheer around us.
Gaudete Sunday does not deny any of that. Instead, it invites us into a deeper truth: joy is not the same thing as cheerfulness. Joy does not require everything to be fine. Joy is not carefree, nor is it a denial of sorrow. Joy is a spiritual practice—a choice, an orientation of the heart, an act of trust that God is faithful even when we are weary.
So here is the invitation for us this week: rejoice anyway.
Not a forced or saccharine rejoicing. Not the “Christmas-card-perfect” rejoicing that pretends everything is tidy. But a rejoicing rooted in gratitude—a rejoicing that looks honestly at both the good and the difficult, and still turns toward God with thanksgiving.
Between now and our Gaudete celebration on Sunday, I invite you to take five quiet minutes—yes, you can find five minutes; I promise the gift wrapping will wait—and make a short list of gratitudes. Write down the good, hopeful, beautiful things that have come to you this year, even if they arrived quietly or unexpectedly. Then read that list in a posture of prayer. Offer those gratitudes to God and simply say, “Thank you.”
Rejoicing requires no money, no party, no perfect circumstance. It requires only a willingness to be vulnerable with God.
And the miracle of Gaudete Sunday is this: when we offer God our thanksgiving, God always gives us joy in return.
Rejoice in the Lord always. Again I say—rejoice.
Pax et Bonum!
Fr. Ben +
