December 13, Third Sunday of Advent: Zephaniah 3:14-20; Isaiah 12:2-6; Philippians 4:4-7; Luke 3:7-18

I am an Advent junkie. I love the hymns—“Watchman, Tell Us of the Night”; “What Is That Crying in Jordan?” I love Jesse trees, and Advent calendars, and the saffron-and-currant buns I bake for St. Lucia Day. I love the “intergenerational Sunday school” event of making Advent wreaths, and I especially love the candle we light on the third Sunday of Advent, the only one that’s pink.

The burst of pink offers a welcome bit of respite—because Advent is also, in its way, dreadful. By “dreadful” I don’t mean “unpleasant”; I really am talking about dread.

Advent places expectation before us, expectation of both judgment and delight. But thus far, the lectionary has given us mostly judgment. Even if at home you’re dragging a crèche down from the attic, at church we don’t get much about the babe until week four. And for the first two weeks of end times reflection, we’ve heard very little joy and a great deal of dread. “Be alert at all times,” we were told in week one, “praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place.” The next week it was “Who can endure the day of his coming, and who can stand when he appears?” This is end times terror.