3rd Sunday of Advent-Year A 2025

3rd Sunday of Advent—Year A 2025         

Even in the midst of Advent’s waiting, quiet joy begins to surface—not the joy of arrival, but the joy of assurance. Light presses into the darkness, even though the night has not yet passed. Into this delicate space between hope and fulfillment steps John the Baptist. The voice that once thundered along the Jordan now speaks from behind stone walls and iron bars. John the Baptist—the fearless prophet, the herald of the Messiah—lives confined, waiting, compelled to ask a question that sounds uncomfortably human: “Are you the one who is to come, or should we look for another?”

          At first glance, the question surprises us. John had already identified Jesus as the Lamb of God. He had seen the Spirit descend upon Him and heard the voice from heaven proclaim Him as God’s beloved Son. Why, then, does John ask?

          John’s faith does not falter. Instead, as he has done throughout his ministry, John directs attention away from himself and toward Christ. Even from prison, he carries out his mission: preparing the way. He sends his disciples not because he doubts Jesus, but because he wants them to encounter Jesus for themselves and begin following Him. The friend of the bridegroom steps aside so that others may meet the Bridegroom face to face.

          John’s imprisonment raises a deeper question. King Herod incarcerates him after John publicly condemns Herod for entering an unlawful marriage—divorcing his wife to marry his brother’s wife. Herod does not repent; he represses. He silences John and eventually orders his execution.

          Why this issue? Why risk everything over what some might dismiss as a private matter? John’s confrontation reaches far beyond personal morality. Herod rules as an illegitimate king, governing not by covenant but by compromise, propped up by Roman power. His unlawful marriage exposes a deeper disorder: a kingdom built on convenience, domination, and coercion rather than fidelity and truth. By condemning Herod’s marriage, John also exposes the falseness of Herod’s kingdom.

          Against this backdrop, Jesus appears as the true King of Israel—Son of David and Son of God. Yet He arrives not as a tyrant, but as a Bridegroom. He does not seize power; He gives Himself. He does not dominate; He loves. Where Herod’s kingdom demands submission, Christ’s Kingdom invites communion.

          That role explains why John stands not only as prophet but also as best man. He steps aside with joy so that the Bride may meet her Bridegroom. That same invitation now reaches us. Advent does not ask us merely to believe the right things about Jesus. It calls us to give Him our hearts—to allow Him to love us, heal us, and claim us as His own.

          This call sharpens when Jesus answers John’s question. He points to His works: “The blind regain their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear.”In doing so, Jesus deliberately fulfills Isaiah’s prophecy: “Then the eyes of the blind will open, the ears of the deaf will clear; then the lame will leap like a stag.”The desert begins to bloom.

          Yet Jesus leaves one line unspoken—the promise of freedom for captives. John will not walk free. Neither will Jesus, in the end. Both will suffer. Through this silence, Jesus reveals the mystery theologians call the “already and the not yet.” The Kingdom has come, but it has not yet reached its fullness.

          Isaiah continues his vision: “Those whom the Lord has ransomed will return… sorrow and mourning will flee.” God promises that joy, though He has not yet completed it. He heals some immediately. He strengthens others through endurance. He lifts certain crosses. He transforms others.

          James echoes this tension when he urges the community to practice patient endurance, like farmers waiting for the precious fruit of the earth. “The Lord is near,”he insists—not distant, not indifferent, but close. James points to the prophets, including John the Baptist, who endured suffering yet remained faithful. Their perseverance did not fade into obscurity; it became a source of hope for others.

          This truth gives Gaudete Sunday its meaning. The Church does not postpone joy until suffering ends. She rejoices because God already works within the struggle. As the psalm proclaims, “The Lord keeps faith forever… gives sight to the blind… raises up those who are bowed down.” This joy rests not on optimism, but on the character of God.

          Many of us, like John, live within our own prisons—illness, grief, uncertainty, unanswered prayer. We ask why suffering remains if Christ has already come. Isaiah speaks directly to us: “Strengthen the hands that are feeble, make firm the knees that are weak.” The Lord comes. Liberation draws near, even when completion still lies ahead.

          Jesus Christ has come. He lives among us now, loving us with the self-giving love of a Bridegroom for His bride. We recognize that love most clearly in the Eucharist we receive—His Body offered, His Blood poured out.

          We await His return in glory, when He will wipe away every tear and drive sorrow from our lives. That promise—sure, unbreakable, already unfolding—feeds joy even in trial.

Gaudete joy refuses to deny the prison walls or pretend the waiting has ended. It proclaims that light has already entered the darkness. The desert is blooming. The Bridegroom is near.