Even though we like laughter and enjoy praise and celebration, especially at this time of year, it doesn't always come easily. One fellow tells of his work as a hospital volunteer. He couldn't believe the pain and suffering he saw there: burn victims, deformities, terminal cancer. He watched the little ones cry. Some children were so lonely. Their parents couldn't take the trauma, so they never came to visit their own children. How horrible!

This fellow decided to get a clown's nose and a pair of oversized shoes. Then he painted his face and pulled on a wig. When he went to work dressed like that the next day, some of the children were scared, some were captivated, and some even showed hints of a smile for the first time in ages.

But others couldn't stop wailing. They were consumed by agony. What could he do for them? The next day the clown brought along some popcorn. When he came to the side of a crying child, he took a kernel of popcorn, placed it against the child's cheek, and soaked up the cascading tears with its fluff. Then he popped that kernel into his mouth and ate it.

It was a stroke of genius. The only time some of those children stopped crying was the moment they knew somebody else cared enough to swallow their tears.

Advent brings us to a place like that. It takes us, at the end of our journey, to the "sanctuary" of God for a time of praise. "Sanctuary" is refuge, fortress, safe house, security, arms of love, a place where someone cares enough to swallow our tears and protect us from the worst that could harm us.

Madeleine L'Engle paints a picture of such a sanctuary in one of her children's books. She tells of a young couple on a desert journey through wilderness in a rough caravan. They're on their way to Egypt. Someone is after them; someone wants to kill their little boy.

The journey is a rugged one. The desert is alive with ferocious beasts. All eyes cast about uneasily as darkness settles. There'll be little sleep in the camp tonight. They build a great fire to drive back the shadows and keep away the world that belongs to monsters with glowing eyes. Suddenly they start in terror; a great lion appears at the bonfire. The mother reaches for her child, desperately trying to draw him to safety.

But the child stands and laughs. He opens his arms wide to the lion. The lion lifts his front paws and hops around on his hind legs. He's dancing! Then, from the desert, come running several little mice, two donkeys, a snake, and a couple of clumsy ostriches. Three great eagles swoop in from the purple skies and from the other side of the camp a unicorn emerges, a pelican, and even two dragons.

They all bow before the child and then dance together, round and round him. He stands at the center of their great circle, laughing in delight. It's a dance in the desert, as L'Engle calls it. In essence, it's the sum and substance of our worship here on earth, pilgrims passing through the wilderness of ghastly beasties and mournful hurts.

This is the third Sunday in Advent. Christmas seems close, but we are not there yet. We still spend time in the dark alongside those who wrestle with demons and shadows and beasties. Because of Advent confidence, we see the light and clap our hands in celebration of the child who comes to dance around our fires.

A young girl was watching a parade with her parents when the Scottish Bagpipe Band came by. As her dad explained how the pipes worked, pointing to the bags under the arms of the players, the girl put her hands over her ears and shouted above the shrill sound, "Maybe if they stop squeezing, the bags will stop screaming!"

Sometimes we avoid the biblical prophets because all we hear is their piercing jeremiads. Yet if we take the time to meet them in their historical context, the prophets bring us back to divine messages we desperately need. There is an inherent consistency of message and focus among all of these diverse religious ruminations and rantings. First of all, the prophetic sermons are invariably rooted in the web of relationships created by the Sinai Covenant. Israel belongs to Yahweh and her lifestyle must be shaped by the stipulations of that suzerain-vassal treaty. Obedience to Yahweh triggers the blessings of the Sinai Covenant, while disobedience is the first reason for Israel's experiences of its curses — drought, war, famine, enemy occupation, destruction of cities and fields, deportation, and so on. For this reason the prophetic writings are laced with moral diatribes that carry a strong emphasis on social ethics.

Second, the function and message of prophecy was very political. For Israel to come under the domination of other nations was always seen as a divine scourge resulting from the application of the covenant curses because of Israel's disobedience. How Israel handled its international relations showed plainly whether she trusted Yahweh or had otherwise become enamored with power and politics rooted in lesser gods. Constantly the prophets asked whether Israel was Yahweh's witnessing people, or if she was merely another nation with no particular mission or divine purpose. Israel's self-understanding was always very religious and at the same time very political.

Third, as the epochs of Israel's political fortunes unfolded, the message of the prophets became increasingly apocalyptic. There was a growing sense that because things had not gone the way they should have, producing heartfelt and on-going national repentance and covenant restoration, Yahweh will have to intervene directly again, in a manner similar to that which happened during the time of Moses. When Yahweh interrupts human history the next time, however, along with judgments on the wickedness of the nations of the world, Israel will also fall heavily under divine punishment. Because Yahweh is on a mission to restore the fallen world, this next major divine intervention will be paired with a focus also on establishing a new world order, even as the old is falling away under the conflagration. In this coming messianic age, everything in society and the natural realm will finally function in the manner the Creator had intended in the beginning. Furthermore, because Yahweh is faithful to promises made, Israel will not be forgotten and a remnant of God's servant nation will be at the center of all this renewal, restoration, and great joy.

This increasingly forward-looking thrust of prophecy leads some to think of it as primarily foretelling, a kind of crystal ball gaze into the future. In reality, however, the nature of prophecy in ancient Israel is more forth-telling, declaring again the meaning of the ancient Sinai Covenant, explaining the mission of Yahweh as witness to the world, and describing the implications of the morality envisioned by the suzerain-vassal treaty stipulations.

By the time the seventh century BC rolled around, the prophets were rarely welcome in the royal palaces, even though all that was left of a once proud and expansive Israel was the tiny mountainous territory of Judah. During the 600s, although Assyria kept threatening Jerusalem, it was increasingly occupied in defending itself against its rebellious eastern province of Babylon. During these years, while Jeremiah developed his gloomy diatribes in the heart of the capital city, Zephaniah (630-610 BC) provided a few paragraphs against Judah and the nations that surrounded it (chs. 1-2), couching the imminent intervention of Yahweh in the increasingly common term, "The Day of the Lord." In this final chapter, Zephaniah turned his attention toward restoration and renewal, pointing to a future when the fortunes of Yahweh's people would be made full once again. His words are the basis for all Advent celebrations: in a darkened world where the ways of God are no longer known, God will rescue the covenant community, restore their joys, and provide a light of grace that shines through them, beckoning the nations to enter the messianic celebration with them.

The true light, of course, would be Jesus, even though Zephaniah could not have understood at the time exactly how the divine message through him would be fulfilled. We, on the third Sunday of Advent, know exactly what God had in mind and now wait in expectation for Jesus' culminating return to fully and perfectly realize the grandeur of the messianic kingdom. Someday the prophetic bagpipes will no longer be squeezed, and the music of the angels will shout the "Hallelujah" chorus.

One of the great words of Advent is joy. It is a constant theme of the prophets when characterizing the redeemed community that emerges from exile and awaits God's next and greatest act. It is the heartbeat of Elizabeth and Zachariah as they hear that their cursed infertility is giving way to the medical impossibility of God's special pregnancy. It is the incredulous lyric of Mary's song as she feels the miracle of God's love growing inside her. Joy is the primary category in the index of the hymns of the church.

Joy is also a slippery eel, often squeezing past our best laid religious trappings and devotional weapons. In the East, the story is told of an extremely wealthy king who ruled a vast domain from magnificent palaces. He had the respect of his citizens and peace within his borders. Yet for some perplexing reason he was very unhappy. The king's doctors could find no medical problem. Neither could psychiatrists figure it out. One old wise man finally provided this advice: "There is but a single cure for the king. Your majesty must sleep for one night wearing the shirt of a truly happy man."

Strange advice, to be sure! But the desperate king needed only a hint of finding release from his malady to command that the search begin. So his messengers scoured the land, looking for one truly happy person.

Tragically, they couldn't find even one happy person! Everyone had experienced days of sorrow and times of mourning. Many might laugh for a moment but sooner or later each person would settle back to reflect on the pain in his or her life.

Almost beyond hope, the messengers suddenly happened upon a beggar next to the road leading back to the palace. He wore a smile. He giggled uncontrollably. He laughed at life as it surrounded him. Here was a truly happy man!

"Give us your shirt," the messengers demanded. "The king has need of it!"

But the fellow only doubled over with spasms of hilarity. "I'm sorry!" he gasped, between fits of laughter. "I have no shirt!"

Tantalizing, isn't it? To see joy and not to own it? To hear laughter and yet to find your own throat stopped with pain and silence? To have a cure within hand's reach and still missing the opportunity to close the deal? But that's where Advent joy is such a great message of the "good news" of the church, especially in the darkness of sin's night and earth's blight. For Paul, it is the essential word to speak and to live, so much so that he has to repeat himself about it.

The English language has a number of similar words that relate to good feelings inside. Pleasure, for instance, reflects our delighted response to sensations that stimulate us.

Happiness surrounds us because of certain happenings in our lives. And then there's joy.

In a sense, pleasure is an "it" word; it mostly has to do with things that touch our senses. And happiness is a "me" word; its primary focus is my response to events that come and go in my life. But joy is really a "we" word; it usually reflects what happens between persons, between me and you, between me and God.

Joy, as Paul notes in his letter to the Philippians, starts in the heart. It's a relational word. Rejoice in the Lord. Robert Rainy, one-time head of New College in Edinburgh, Scotland, used to say that "joy is the flag which is flown from the castle of the heart when the king is in residence there!"

If joy starts in the heart, it is refined in the mind. It is more than an emotion that comes and goes. It is deeper than a reflexive response that needs the right kind of stimulation. It is an act of the will. "I will say it again: rejoice!" commands Paul in his letter to the Philippian Christians. Joy grows from heartfelt relationships. But it is also a choice of the mind, as John makes clear when he applies this treatment to those who come to him looking for a way beyond the humdrum of their lives. Joy must be chosen as a part of sealing the deal, and joy comes when we direct our attention to serving others.

John seems to have had all the charisma of a pit bull or a nightclub bouncer. He looked strange. He had no time for conversational pleasantries. He didn't use Dale Carnegie's techniques to "win friends and influence people." The only word was slicingly divisive; the only message a stab through the heart. "You brood of vipers!" he harangued his fans and paparazzi, yelling at them that neither bloodlines nor cultural heritage nor religious piety gave them a leg up in life.

But for John, the bad news is good news, and the good news only sneaks in on the shoulders of the bad. As another John ("of the cross") would later remind us, it is only when we pass through the "dark night of the soul" that we are finally ready for dawn, aching for its energies to transform the world in which we have wallowed too long.

John was a larger-than-life figure in himself and his public interactions, yet he was surprisingly self-effacive. While the crowds flocked to hear him preach, mesmerized by his one-note song played with sirenic intrigue, his finger kept pointing in another direction. "I'm not the one!" he cried. "Look to him who follows me!" he shouted. "Stake your claim in that one's field!"

Of course, what John expected from his cousin was an even larger troll to rain more tar and feathers on polite society. "I baptized you with water," John warned, "but he will consume you with fire!"

John was the last of the Old Testament prophets, a transitional figure like Samuel of old, standing between the judges and the kings. John could sing Barry McGuire's "Eve of Destruction" better than that raspy-voiced seer of the American Cultural Revolution ever would. John realized that tectonic plates were colliding, the old order was passing more quickly than a Bob Dylan song, and few would enter the New Age of Messiah unless they passed first through the fires of judgment.

But that is exactly what made him the talk of the town in first-century Jerusalem. As another namesake (John Wesley) put it, when they asked him why people came to hear him preach, "The Holy Spirit sets my heart on fire, and folks show up just to watch me burn!" John was the doomsday prophet par excellence. He had decoded the secrets of the Old Testament and realized he was standing on the brink of the New. What would happen next, he was not entirely certain, but whatever it was, people should not presume to drift blithely from one into the other. When God slams into our world to deal with our stuff, no one can expect him to play nice.

On this third Sunday of Advent, it is not Santa Claus we are looking for, and John knew it. Jesus once slipped into our world by the backdoor. It won't happen the same way next time. There is much to hope for, to be sure, but it's a fire walk designed to scare the hell out of everyone that marks the path into the eternal kingdom. Listen to John. Amen.