As we approach the season of Lent, Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians gives us a sneak peek of Easter, waiting for us on the other side: “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” Paul’s conclusion, telling us to remain steadfast and devoted to the Lord’s work, could serve as a Lenten motto. The reading from Sirach provides a series of adages regarding discipline of the tongue, and of our speech. Maybe not a bad Lenten practice to observe.

It’s likely that some friends or followers of Jesus told him, from time to time, to “get real” when his teachings seemed too hard or impractical. John’s Gospel, near the end of the Bread of Life discourse, reports that some disciples out and out turned away because it was too hard to continue following Jesus. When Jesus said to love our enemies, pray for those who hurt us, or do good for those who hate us, the response, “get real,” wouldn’t be surprising. And yet, the very life and witness of Jesus is filled with his prophetic examples of doing just that; of refusing to return harm for harm. The lives of the saints are likewise filled with such examples, especially those saints who were laborers in the field for justice and peace. Is this command of Jesus difficult? Yes. Is it impossible? No.

Today we hear once again of the deep connection between Jesus and Israel’s prophets. In the reading from Jeremiah, God's curses at the opening are counterbalanced by God's blessings in the second part. In Luke’s version of the Beatitudes, Jesus begins with blessings, then counterbalances with a “woe” section. The point is clear: the way we live our lives has a direct connection to whether we will experience curses and woes, or blessings instead.

Isn’t it comforting to know that others have struggles with low self-esteem? Today Isaiah calls himself a man with “unclean lips.” Paul is “not fit to be called an apostle.” Simon Peter tells Jesus (perhaps unnecessarily) “I am a sinful man.” All of these may be true, but God chose these three— unclean, unfit, sinful—as important, essential messengers in the work of salvation. We all can remember this whenever we are tempted to view ourselves as unqualified for (or excuse ourselves from) sharing the Good News.

The “fulfilled in your hearing” statement of Jesus today is also the conclusion of last week’s Gospel, with the words of Isaiah about the breadth of God’s mercy and justice at its heart. The response of the crowd in the synagogue is united: all are amazed, but all likewise ask if he’s not merely the son of Joseph the humble carpenter. Jesus calls them out for seeming to think that he ought to be doing his ministry only locally, and - selfishly - only for them. (After all, they know where he comes from!)

Community is important. Community is essential. Community is crucial. This message is the foundation of today’s readings from Nehemiah, Corinthians, and Luke. Ezra’s reading of the scroll is done in front of the community, including—a radical act at the time—women, and children old enough to understand, groups usually not counted among those hearing God’s promise proclaimed. Community is important. The mystical Body of Christ, like the human body, functions best and most fully when all members are playing the role for which they were meant.

“For Pete’s sake will you kids be quiet?” This question, no doubt, has passed the lips of numerous parents through the years. It’s tempting to speculate as to who, exactly, was instructing Isaiah to be quiet. Neighbors? Fellow prophets? Family? No matter. Isaiah says firmly that for the sake of Jerusalem and Zion he will not be silent. Conversely, in the familiar passage in today’s Gospel reading, Mary chides her son to break his silence, to save the wedding soon to run out of wine.

The Advent/Christmas cycle that began on November 28 ends with the Baptism of the Lord. We likely have an image in our minds (based on details from the Gospels and works of art) of what that scene looked like. We might wonder, “Who else was there and who wasn’t?” No disciples were present because Jesus had not yet begun his ministry. They would have to wait until the Transfiguration to hear a similar message.

Gifts are everywhere at this time of year. Christmas gifts. Hostess gifts. Hidden gifts. Wrong-size gifts. Unexpected gifts. Unwanted gifts. Unreciprocated gifts. And in today’s readings we hear about even more gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But we know intuitively (or, one hopes, eventually!) that gifts are symbols of something much deeper and less tangible. The gift of God’s Son is, of course, at the heart of our Christmas festivities.

It wasn’t at all what Mary and Joseph expected their life to be like. Almost from the beginning, there were indications that something extraordinary was at work: Mary’s angelic annunciation; Joseph’s strange dream; the puzzling words of Simeon and Anna in the Temple. And now this: during Mary and Joseph’s annual Passover journey to Jerusalem, the discovery that their son Jesus was lost—and even when he was found, they didn’t totally recognize their twelve-year-old boy.

For years, Catholic spiritual writers have drawn our attention to the Christmas liturgy’s subtle - and not-so-subtle - linking of Christ’s incarnation with his paschal mystery. In the infancy narratives of Matthew and Luke, there are countless intimations of the Passion and cross. The saints of the Christmas octave, dubbed “comites Christi,” Christ's companions in suffering, form a royal honor guard of martyrs and others who bore witness at great personal sacrifice to the Child we hail as “Prince of Peace,” while the wood of the manger evokes the wood of the cross.

Today is known as Gaudete - Rejoice - Sunday, the day’s Latin nickname is taken from today’s ancient official Entrance Antiphon, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice. Indeed, the Lord is near.” The optional rose vestments — reminiscent of winter's early morning skies as the solstice draws near, the festal organ music, the floral arrangements, all these ancient traditions together with the antiphon are meant to anticipate, in sight and sound, the soon-to-break-upon-us Christmas joy.

Almost nine hundred years ago, Saint Bernard of Clairvaux suggested in one of his Advent homilies that we should think of three Advents of Christ: the First, when Christ came in humility as Mary’s Child, clothed in our human nature; the Second, when Christ will come in glory as Judge and Redeemer of the world.