Teaching Summary: A Witness to the Light: The Joy of Becoming Less

John 3:22–30, John 3:30, John 1:19–27, John 1:23, John 1:29, John 1:14

It’s no secret that Christmas is my favorite time of year. I anticipate it every year, and as soon as October rolls around, visions of sugar plums start dancing in my head. I’ve never actually had a sugar plum—I couldn’t tell you what they taste like—but that doesn’t stop my anticipation or celebration, because Christmas usually fills me with joy.

But if I’m being honest, it’s been harder to find that joy this year. And I don’t like that, because I look forward to it so much. I’ve been doing a little soul-searching to understand why joy has felt elusive, and I think I’m realizing it’s not just about this year.

There are a few seasons each year that simply demand more—more at work, more at home, more energy. This is one of those seasons. As much as I love Christmas with my church family, it requires more. And it’s the same at home: preparing for family to visit, buying gifts, decorating the house, all on top of preparing to move. Please hear me—I’m not complaining. I love these things. It’s just… more.

And then there’s the internal weight: expectations, doubts, longings. Here’s the lesson I’ve been learning—when busyness increases, joy decreases. When expectations increase, joy decreases. When longing increases, joy decreases.

Today is the third Sunday of Advent—Joy. And we know it isn’t true, but it’s easy to believe the world when it tells us joy comes from more: more lights, more parties, more gifts, more noise, more magic. Meanwhile, we walk into this season carrying grief, loneliness, stress, old wounds, family tension, financial pressure, or that low-grade exhaustion that comes from trying to make everyone happy. And we wonder, where did all the joy go?

In the Gospel of John, we meet a man sent by God to point people to the light coming into the world—John the Baptist. John preached a message very different from the world’s message. He teaches us that joy doesn’t come from more. Joy comes from less. Not less meaning or purpose or life—but less self at the center.

By the time we reach John chapter 3, things are going well for John. Crowds are coming. People are listening. Lives are changing. He has influence and momentum. In modern terms—John is trending. But then something shifts. Jesus appears, and people begin leaving John and going to Him. John’s disciples are upset. They come to John and say, “Rabbi, everyone is going to Him.” Translation: John, you’re losing.

This is the moment when John could grasp, compete, protect his platform, or fight for relevance. Instead, he says something shocking: “He must become greater; I must become less.” And listen—John doesn’t say that like someone who’s fading away. He says it like someone who’s finding freedom.

John’s joy isn’t tied to being noticed. His joy is tied to seeing Jesus become more. Earlier, when the religious leaders asked who he was, John confessed freely, “I am not the Christ.” He said, “I am the voice of one calling in the wilderness.” In other words, I’m not the point—I’m the pointer.

So when Jesus arrives, John doesn’t panic. He points. He says, “The friend of the bridegroom stands and listens for him, and is full of joy when he hears the bridegroom’s voice. That joy is mine, and it is now complete.” John isn’t losing—he’s being fulfilled. His joy becomes complete not when he’s in the spotlight, but when Jesus is.

That’s Advent joy. Seasonal happiness rises and falls with circumstances—it depends on family behaving, money being enough, pain staying quiet. But Advent joy is deeper. It’s what happens when your life stops orbiting around you. When you stop trying to prove, defend, justify, or manage your image. When Jesus becomes the center.

Becoming less doesn’t mean self-loathing. It doesn’t mean you don’t matter. Becoming less is not disappearing—it’s being properly placed. It’s the difference between living as the sun and living as the moon. The moon doesn’t generate light, but it reflects it beautifully and guides people in the dark.

So what does becoming less look like? Less obsession with being right. Less need to win every argument. Less addiction to approval. Less managing appearances. Less acting like you’re the savior of your family. And more trust. More surrender. More love. More gentleness. More Jesus.

A lot of our exhaustion isn’t caused by what we’re going through—it’s caused by the image we’re trying to maintain while we go through it. John is free because he knows who the true center is. He doesn’t need to be the hero. He can simply be a witness to the Light. And that’s where joy lives.

So here’s the invitation this Advent: get out of the center. First, decrease your self-focus long enough to receive Jesus as He is. Let Him increase in your mind, your home, your reactions, your loves. Second, decrease your self-importance long enough to love the people in front of you—listening without correcting, serving without being noticed, forgiving without keeping score.

Joy doesn’t come from increasing yourself. It comes from stepping aside. May we find the freedom John found—the joy of knowing our place—so that Christ may increase, and the world may see not us, but Jesus.