December 14, 2025, Year A, The Third Sunday in Advent

Matthew 11:2-19, Psalm 146, Isaiah 35:1-10

Good morning. On this Third Sunday in Advent, often called Gaudete Sunday, we are invited to rejoice amidst our watchful waiting. The rose candle on our Advent wreath flickers with a lighter hue, reminding us that the joy of Christ's coming pierces the shadows of anticipation. Yet our joy is not naive; it is rooted in the promises of Scripture, promises that span the chasms of time—from ancient prophecy to the incarnate Word, and onward to the consummation of all things.

Today, we will look primarily at the radiant vision of Isaiah 35, a chapter that bursts forth like a desert spring in the midst of exile's aridity. Here, the prophet paints a picture of transformation so vivid that it stirs the soul: barren lands blooming, the feeble made strong, the afflicted healed. But Isaiah's words do not stand alone; they echo in the praises of Psalm 146 and in the Gospel account of Matthew 11:2-19. Through these lenses, we see how this prophetic hope was inaugurated in Christ's first advent, even as it awaits its full unveiling at his return.

Let us begin in Isaiah 35. It is found on page __________ of your pew Bibles. The chapter opens with a declaration of reversal in verses 1-2: "The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus; it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with joy and singing" (Isaiah 35:1-2a, ESV). Imagine the Judean wilderness—a parched expanse where life clings tenuously to rock and sand. Isaiah, speaking to a people in Babylonian exile, foresees a day when this desolation erupts in floral splendor, echoing the glory once bestowed on Lebanon, Carmel, and Sharon. This is not a meteorological shift; it is a cosmic renewal, a sign that God's redeeming presence is breaking in.

The prophet continues in verse 2: "The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it, the majesty of Carmel and Sharon. They shall see the glory of the Lord, the majesty of our God" (Isaiah 35:2b, ESV). Here, the transformation is tied to revelation—the unveiling of God's glory. We understand glory not as abstract splendor but as the weighty, manifest presence of the divine, drawing all creation into worship. This glory, once glimpsed in the temple or on Sinai, will now permeate the earth, turning wasteland into witness.

But Isaiah does not stop at nature's renewal; he turns to humanity's frailty in verses 3-4. "Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Say to those who have an anxious heart, 'Be strong; fear not! Behold, your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God. He will come and save you'" (Isaiah 35:3-4, ESV). These words address the exiles' despair—their hands weakened by chains, their knees buckling under oppression. God's advent is portrayed as both salvific and vindicating; he comes to save, but also to recompense wrongs. This dual note of mercy and justice is crucial, for it reminds us that God's kingdom is not a tepid compromise but a righteous overturning.

The heart of the chapter lies in verses 5-6: "Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then shall the lame man leap like a deer, and the tongue of the mute sing for joy. For waters break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert" (Isaiah 35:5-6, ESV). These miracles are emblematic of holistic restoration—physical, spiritual, communal. Blindness, deafness, lameness, muteness: these are not just ailments but metaphors for humanity's alienation from God and one another. The bursting waters symbolize the outpouring of the Spirit, quenching thirsts long unsatisfied.

Isaiah then describes a "highway" in the wilderness in verse 8: "And a highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Way of Holiness; the unclean shall not pass over it. It shall belong to those who walk on the way; even if they are fools, they shall not go astray" (Isaiah 35:8, ESV). This path is safe from predators in verse 9—"No lion shall be there, nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it" (Isaiah 35:9a, ESV)—and leads to redemption on into verse 10: "the redeemed shall walk there. And the ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away" (Isaiah 35:9b-10, ESV). Zion, the holy city, which because of Jesus, is ultimately the Church in the new heavens and new earth, becomes the destination, where exile ends in eternal jubilation.

This vision is eschatological—pointing to the end times—yet it is not confined to a distant future. The lectionary, pairing it with Matthew 11 invites us to see its fulfillment in Jesus' ministry. John the Baptist, imprisoned by Herod, sends disciples to ask Jesus: "Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?" (Matthew 11:3, ESV). John's question reveals a poignant confusion. As the forerunner prophesied in Malachi, John had announced the Messiah's arrival with fiery urgency: one who would baptize with the Holy Spirit and fire, whose winnowing fork would separate wheat from chaff (Matthew 3:11-12). He expected, perhaps, an immediate apocalypse—a full enactment of Isaiah's vengeance and recompense.

Yet from his cell, John hears of Jesus' works, and they seem partial. Jesus responds not with rebuke but with evidence: "Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear, and the dead are raised up, and the poor have good news preached to them" (Matthew 11:4-5, ESV). Notice the deliberate echo of Isaiah 35:5-6—the blind seeing, the lame leaping, the deaf hearing. Jesus is fulfilling the prophecy, but selectively, partially. The miracles are signs of the kingdom's inauguration, not its consummation. The waters break forth, but the full flood is yet to come.

John's confusion stems from this "already but not yet" tension, a hallmark of New Testament eschatology. He, like the disciples and the Jews of the day, anticipated the kingdom's arrival as a singular event, where judgment and restoration coincide. But, Jesus' first coming initiates the age of grace, where healing and proclamation take precedence over final vengeance. Jesus later says, "And blessed is the one who is not offended by me" (Matthew 11:6, ESV), acknowledging that his method might cause one’s expectations to stumble. In Anglican theology, we affirm this inaugurated eschatology: Christ has come, defeating sin and death on the cross, yet the full renewal awaits his second coming.

This ties beautifully into Psalm 146, which praises God as the faithful executor of justice. "Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord, O my soul! I will praise the Lord as long as I live; I will sing praises to my God while I have my being" (Psalm 146:1-2, ESV). The psalmist warns against misplaced trust: "Put not your trust in princes, in a son of man, in whom there is no salvation. When his breath departs, he returns to the earth; on that very day his plans perish" (Psalm 146:3-4, ESV). Princes—earthly rulers, political leaders—may promise much, but their power is ephemeral, their salvation illusory.

In contrast, God's reign is eternal: "Blessed is he whose help is the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the Lord his God, who made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them; who keeps faith forever; who executes justice for the oppressed, who gives food to the hungry" (Psalm 146:5-7a, ESV). Echoing Isaiah, the psalm lists divine acts: "The Lord sets the prisoners free; the Lord opens the eyes of the blind. The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down; the Lord loves the righteous. The Lord watches over the sojourners; he upholds the widow and the fatherless, but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin" (Psalm 146:7b-9, ESV). Here, blindness is opened, prisoners freed—miracles that Jesus performs, fulfilling both Isaiah and the psalm.

Yet the psalm ends with a doxology: "The Lord will reign forever, your God, O Zion, to all generations. Praise the Lord!" (Psalm 146:10, ESV). This eternal reign underscores that while princes may bless or work contrary to God's will in the interim, ultimate hope lies in him. In Herod's day, a prince imprisoned John, working against the kingdom's herald. Today, political leaders may enact policies that align with freedom, justice, and dignity or they may do just the opposite. We are called to engage civically, praying for leaders (1 Timothy 2:1-2, ESV) and advocating for human flourishing, yet without idolizing these power structures.

John's imprisonment exemplifies this. Herod Antipas, a tetrarch or "prince," held sway over Galilee, yet his authority clashed with God's messenger. John's bold preaching against Herod's adultery led to his chains, a reminder that earthly powers often resist the prophetic call. Jesus, in Matthew 11, contrasts generations: "But to what shall I compare this generation? It is like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling to their playmates, 'We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we sang a dirge, and you did not mourn'" (Matthew 11:16-17, ESV). Neither John's asceticism nor Jesus' feasting satisfied them—a fickle response reflecting how societies reject God's ways.

Jesus then affirms John: "For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, 'He has a demon.' The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, 'Look at him! A glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!' Yet wisdom is justified by her deeds" (Matthew 11:18-19, ESV). John's role as Elijah (Matthew 11:14) prepares for the Messiah, yet his confusion highlights the mystery of God's timing. Why not all at once? Because God's kingdom unfolds in stages, allowing space for repentance and grace.

In Christ's first coming, Isaiah 35 finds partial fulfillment. The blind see (e.g., John 9:1-7), the lame walk (Matthew 9:2-8), the mute speak (Mark 7:31-37). Waters break forth in the Spirit's outpouring at Pentecost (Acts 2), and the highway of holiness becomes the way of the cross, open to all who believe. Yet sorrow and sighing persist; deserts still parch, bodies still fail. This "not yet" points to the second advent.

Anglicans don’t see a literal thousand-year earthly millennium, but see that as symbolic for Christ's rule and reign present now in the church and in heaven. The kingdom is spiritual, advancing through word and sacrament, yet awaiting consummation. At his return, Isaiah's vision will be ultimately fulfilled: creation renewed (Romans 8:19-23), bodies resurrected (1 Corinthians 15:42-44), justice fully executed. No more weak hands or anxious hearts; everlasting joy in the new Zion, the heavenly Jerusalem (Revelation 21:1-4).

Advent is never merely a season to contemplate distant promises; it is a season to be changed by them here and now. The “already but not yet” of Isaiah 35 is not a theological puzzle to be solved and shelved; it is a trumpet call to live differently while we wait. So, what does this mean for us, this Advent, in our homes, our church, our workplaces, and our troubled world?

First, like John, we may grapple with confusion when God's timeline confounds ours. Perhaps we pray for healing that tarries, justice delayed by corrupt princes, or peace amid global turmoil. John's doubt from prison reminds us that faith can waver, yet Jesus responds with compassion, pointing to deeds as assurance. We, too, look to Christ's works—his birth, death, resurrection—as down payments on these promises.

Second, we are called to walk the Highway of Holiness ourselves and to make that road plain for others. Isaiah’s vision of a safe, lion-free path (Isaiah 35:9) finds its New Testament fulfillment in Jesus’ words: “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6, ESV). Yet the way remains narrow, and many stumble because they have not cleared the obstacles. It is a reminder to us to pursue holiness.

Third, we are summoned to be bearers of Isaiah’s healing signs in a still-broken creation. When the prophet cries, “Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees” (Isaiah 35:3, ESV), he is not only announcing what God will do; he is commanding what God’s people must begin. The miracles of Jesus were never intended to remain museum pieces in the Gospels. They are previews of the kingdom that the church is commissioned to extend to a lost and dying world.

Consider those blind to hope: the teenager scrolling through images of curated perfection or the person isolated by bereavement. This Advent, ask yourself: whose eyes might the Lord open through my small act of kindness, my willingness to listen, my refusal to look away, and my words of Gospel encouragement?

Consider the emotionally lame. How many among us put on a Sunday smile while inwardly limping? The church must be a place where it is safe to say, “My knees are feeble.” We need communities that will bear one another’s stretchers to Jesus (Mark 2:1-12). This Advent, let one of our spiritual disciplines be the ministry of presence: sitting with the ill, calling the depressed, or driving the home-bound to Christmas services.

Fourth, we must learn to lament honestly and to hope audaciously—two disciplines John the Baptist models for us in his prison question. Many of us are tempted either to despair (“Nothing ever changes”) or to denial (“If we just pray harder, the kingdom will come in its fullness tomorrow”). John did neither. From Herod’s dungeon he sent a raw, honest question to Jesus, and Jesus honored that vulnerability with evidence and blessing.

This Advent, make space for sanctified lament. When the news cycle overwhelms, name the wars, the famines, the corruption, the personal griefs—and then boldly read Isaiah 35 aloud as God’s answer that has already begun and will not fail. Lament without hope curdles into cynicism; hope without lament floats into sentimentality. Together they form the authentic cry of Advent: “How long, O Lord (Psalm 13:1, ESV)?” met with “Behold, I am making all things new (Revelation 21:5, ESV).”

Fifth, we must re-order our trust away from princes and towards the coming King. Across the Anglican Communion we live in nations where political power shifts like sand. One election cycle promises to deliver us into the Promised Land; the next delivers us into the wilderness. Leaders—conservative, liberal, or otherwise—will always disappoint if we look to them to be messiahs. Psalm 146 is blunt: “When his breath departs, he returns to the earth; on that very day his plans perish” (Psalm 146:4, ESV).

This Advent, pray earnestly for those in authority, yes—but pray even more earnestly that our hearts would be detached from the rise and fall of earthly kingdoms. Fast from the 24-hour news cycle one day a week. Replace it with reading Revelation 21-22. Let the vision of the city whose gates are never shut discipline our gospel witness and detoxify our anxiety.

Finally, dear friends, let us prepare room for joy. Isaiah’s desert does not merely survive; it rejoices with joy and singing. The ransomed return to Zion with everlasting joy upon their heads (Isaiah 35:10). In the midst of our honest lament, our tireless mercy, our gospel engagement, we are to practice resurrection joy now. Light the rose candle and mean it.

For the one who began this good work in the manger and on the cross has promised to bring it to completion at his appearing. He who made the lame leap at Capernaum will one day make every knee dance in the new creation. He who opened blind eyes by the Jordan will wipe every tear from them forever. And he who heard John’s trembling question from prison will greet us at the end of the Highway with the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant… Enter into the joy of your master” (Matthew 25:23, ESV). Therefore, brothers and sisters, be strong; fear not. Behold, your God will come. He has come. He is coming. And when he does, sorrow and sighing will flee away, and everlasting joy shall be upon our heads.

Let’s pray…