Expectant
Joy
Luke
18:31-34
Advent is a time of joy—expectant joy. True, much of this expectant joy has to do
with the secular celebration that comes at the end of the waiting. We build Christmas up so much that we can’t
help but feel expectant joy. Decorations,
special foods (especially cookies!), shopping for presents, programs at church,
all contribute to that feeling of expectant joy that elevates this season far
above ordinary times of the year.
Advent is a time of expectant waiting. We see it in the faces and actions of our
children. Their expectant joy is evident
in everything they do. Their expectant
joy reinforces and heightens our own. We
want to make them happy. We want to
please them with all the trimmings of Christmas—especially that one present
that will make the day extra special. We
can’t wait for Thanksgiving to come because Advent will be right behind, and
Christmas right behind—all right, four weeks behind—that. And the expectant joy grows.
Why don’t we feel the same expectant joy during
Lent? The waiting period is longer, of
course, but there is a significant event at the end, the most important event
in the Christian calendar. Is it because
we don’t—perhaps can’t is better—make
as great a secular celebration of Easter as we do of Christmas? Oh, we try:
Easter baskets, new clothes, sunrise services breakfasts at church,
special meals. We do all this and more,
but it’s not the same. Expectant joy doesn’t
build through Lent as it does through Advent.
Should there be expectant joy during Lent? That’s a tough question. We’ve made Lent a solemn time. We give things up. We spend time contemplating our relationship
with God, perhaps involving more time in prayer, in Bible reading. Perhaps we add periods of fasting, or more
work serving others. In some churches
the word alleluia is not spoken or
sung from Ash Wednesday through Holy Saturday.
None of these actions raise expectant joy.
Then there’s the problem of Holy Week. As we prepare for and observe Maundy Thursday
and Good Friday expectant joy is the farthest emotion from our mind. How can we experience joy as we contemplate
the last twenty-four hours of Jesus’ life on earth? Knowing what he went through, how he suffered,
the agony of his death, how can we even imagine expectant Joy?
Jesus knew. We
don’t know when he knew for sure what his fate would be, but he knew. I assume
he knew before he began his ministry how it would end. And yet, even with this knowledge he enjoyed
warm friendships, blessed companionship with his inner circle, with Mary, and
Martha, and Lazarus, and perhaps others of whom we are not aware. There was joy!
When he set his face toward Jerusalem he told his closest
disciples where they were going and what would happen. Luke tells us they didn’t understand—couldn’t
fathom how any of this could happen. He
had already predicted his death three times, but it hadn’t sunk in. Perhaps, in spite of Jesus’ announcement, the
disciples felt expectant joy heading for Jerusalem at Passover. What greater blessing could there be?
Somewhere, deep within us, under the layers of solemn
contemplation, under the impending sorrow of Holy Week, there must be at least
a glimmer of expectant joy. As a seed
endures the winter so it can bloom beautifully in the spring, so our joy,
hidden as it might be, waits through this solemn time so it can burst forth in
full force on Easter morning. Perhaps
the joy is even sweeter because of the wait, even fuller because of the solemnity
that proceeds it.
It may be Lent, but Easter’s coming. Wait—in expectant joy.
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