Advent Peonies

2026-03
sermon preached at Church of the Good Shepherd, Federal Way, WA
www.goodshepherdfw.org
by the Rev. DJ del Rosario, Guest Preacher
The Third Sunday of Advent (Year A), December 14, 2025

Isaiah 35:1-10 ; Psalm 146:4-9 ; James 5:7-10 ; Matthew 11:2-11

Good morning, Good Shepherd Episcopal Church. It truly is a gift to be with you today. Thank you for welcoming me—longtime members, first-time visitors, those joining online, neurodivergent and neurotypical siblings, LGBTQ+ family, those who came hopeful and those who came weary. Thank you for being a community that makes room for the full truth of people’s lives.

Before anything else, I want to offer my thanks to Rev. Josh—for the invitation to be here, for his friendship, and for the spirit of shared ministry he embodies. One of the quiet gifts of the Church is discovering that we don’t all worship the same way, organize the same way, or speak the same liturgical language—but we are drawn by the same Christ and sent by the same God.

Different traditions. One gospel. Shared work.

That shared work shows up in very tangible ways. One example is Fusion Adventure Camp, which some of you support alongside Federal Way UMC and other partner churches. It’s a summer camp for children and families experiencing homelessness—kids who deserve safety, belonging, and joy just like any other child. It’s faith lived out not just in words, but in sunscreen, snack tables, listening ears, and adults who keep showing up.

My family and I moved here about nine years ago. We live about a mile and a half away, and our girls attend Decatur High School—and yes, we are Gators. On fall evenings and winter weekends, we often drive right past this church on our way to football games, wrestling matches, band events—heading over to Federal Way High School. So when I say this place matters to us, I mean it quite literally. You’re part of the landscape of our lives. This is home. We love living here—the people, the neighborhoods, the way community shows up for one another.

And one thing I’ve learned about living here is that life doesn’t always follow the rules. At our house, we still have peonies blooming.

Now, if you know anything about peonies, you know this isn’t how it’s supposed to work. Peonies bloom in late spring. Every gardening book would tell you something is off. And yet—there they are. Still blooming. At the wrong time. And somehow, the right time for us. That’s Advent. Not tidy. Not predictable. But faithful.

Our scriptures today meet us right there—in the space between what we expected and what we’re actually living. Our Gospel begins not on a mountaintop, not with clarity or celebration, but in a prison. John the Baptist—the fiery preacher, the one who prepared the way—is locked up by Herod Antipas. His truth-telling had become inconvenient. His voice was silenced. His future interrupted. And from that cell, John sends word to Jesus: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

This is the same John who baptized Jesus. The same John who proclaimed, “Behold, the Lamb of God.” And now he’s wondering, Did I misunderstand? Is this really what God’s reign looks like? John expected the kingdom to arrive with force and clarity. Instead, he finds himself waiting—confined, uncertain, disappointed.

One of the reasons I love the Bible is that the Holy Spirit continues to speak through it—to the human condition then and to the human condition now. Scripture is not frozen in the past. It tells the truth about faith as it is actually lived. If John the Baptist can ask, “Jesus, where are you in all of this?” then we’re allowed to ask too.

And Jesus does not shame him. Jesus doesn’t argue. He doesn’t lecture. He simply says, “Go and tell John what you hear and see.” Tell him the blind are seeing. Tell him the lame are walking. Tell him the poor hear good news. Tell him life is breaking through where no one expected it. Jesus is pointing John back to Isaiah 35—a promise that deserts would bloom, weak bodies would be strengthened, and sorrow would not have the final word. Not immediately.

Not all at once. But truly.

The kingdom of God, Isaiah tells us, grows like flowers in a desert—like peonies blooming out of season.

James Cone, the founder of Black liberation theology, once wrote that if you want to know where God is, look where dignity is being restored. Look where healing interrupts injustice. Look where life pushes back against death. That’s what Jesus is saying to John: Pay attention to where life is already breaking through.

Across centuries and denominations, Christians have learned this same spiritual practice in different accents. We sing different hymns. We pray different prayers. We gather around different tables. And yet, we are all learning to look for the same signs of life. That shared attentiveness is itself holy. And we don’t practice it in a vacuum.

This Advent, the world continues to bear wounds that make waiting feel unbearable. On the first night of Hanukkah, a mass shooting at a Jewish celebration at Bondi Beach in Sydney turned a festival of light into a moment of terror and grief. Here in the United States, a shooting at Brown University shook a campus during final exams—another reminder that violence intrudes even into places meant for learning and growth.

These are not distant headlines. They make John’s question our own: “Are you the one who is to come?” And Jesus does not dismiss the pain. He points us—again—to where life is growing anyway. Sometimes that growth is quiet.

So let me ask you—do you remember what happened on December 6th at 11 a.m. here in Federal Way? After years of waiting… after cones and detours and shifting timelines… the light rail finally opened. Some of us celebrated. Some of us barely noticed. Some of us thought, I’ll believe it when I ride it. But there it was. Trains running. Doors opening. People boarding. A long-promised future finally arriving.

For years, people wondered if it would ever actually happen. And then—almost without ceremony—it did. Advent is like that. God’s kingdom is under construction right in front of us—sometimes slowly, sometimes frustratingly—but always moving toward God’s promised future. John couldn’t see the whole picture from prison. We often can’t see it from where we stand either. But God is still building. And hope often arrives quietly. Like a train pulling into a station. Like peonies blooming in December.

James gives us another image: a farmer waiting for rain. “Be patient,” he writes. “Strengthen your hearts.” Faith is not certainty. Faith is trust. Faith is choosing to believe that God is at work underground, even when nothing looks ready to bloom. John expected a Messiah with fire and force. But Jesus brings mercy. Jesus heals. Jesus eats with outcasts. Jesus restores dignity.

As theologian Willie James Jennings reminds us, God’s kingdom always moves toward belonging—toward knitting communities back together. It may not look how John imagined. But it is deeper. It is slower. And it is real.

After answering John, Jesus turns to the crowd and honors him. John’s questions do not cancel his faith. His doubt does not undo his calling.

We live on this side of the story. We know that God’s work often unfolds slowly. We know that healing doesn’t always arrive with spectacle. We know that resurrection comes after waiting—and sometimes after disappointment. John wanted certainty. Jesus offered signs of life. That’s Advent faith. It’s trusting that God is still at work when things bloom out of season, when progress takes longer than promised, when hope shows up quietly.

Those peonies blooming in December remind us that life doesn’t always follow the schedule we expect. That light rail finally running reminds us that delay is not the same as abandonment. So this Advent, Jesus invites us to do what he invited John to do: Look again. Look for where life is breaking through. Look for where healing is quietly taking root. Look for signs that God has not given up on this world—or on you.

Maybe it’s blooming at the wrong time. Maybe it arrived later than you hoped. Maybe it looks different than you imagined. But it’s real. And if life can bloom in winter, if long-awaited trains can finally run, then maybe—just maybe—God is still working in your waiting too.

So bring your questions. Bring your weariness. Bring your hope. Trust the slow work of God. Because even now, even here, even when it feels like the wrong time—Christ is near. God is faithful. And new life is already growing. Amen.