2020-12-14
Brooke Strong
This service was livestreamed due to COVID-19 restrictions.
Sermon Text
Scripture: PSALM 126
It may seem strangely tone-deaf to talk about joy this year. A viral contagion, racial inequity, loneliness on an epic scale: it’s all enough to mock us on this day when the church calendar infelicitously lets us know that today we’re supposed to be all about joy. What?! Here a family loses a child. There a woman is blindsided by cancer. Around the corner a man struggles with drastically reduced income. And over there, a family is hammered by a COVID-19 that sucks oxygen from the lungs and hope from the soul. Maybe this is the year for us to put joy on some sort of hiatus—furloughed, if you like—and hope to God it returns sometime in the future. ’Cause, for many, it’s a little difficult to feel any joy this year.
As it happens, ancient Israelites knew all about this despair that is so often lurking. You may remember that the whole population has only recently been carried off into exile by the Babylonians, and that, though they’re now back home, they’re struggling mightily to find again the peace for which they ache. Their homeland has been violated, certainly. But even worse, their sense of God’s presence has evaporated. In their exile and its aftermath, everything has been upended, and it apparently feels as though something crucial, something life-giving, has died.
This is an exile, isn’t it, with which you and I are all-too-familiar. We, too, have been exiled. We’ve forfeited almost all of our shared gatherings. Those of us who enjoy Christmas shopping in stores have had to largely abandon that practice. Staff and neighborhood Christmas parties have gone out the window. Maybe you won’t be able to see a favorite aunt or brother or grandchild or grandparent this year. In church, we can’t be together for worship or fellowship or so much of our shared mission. On Christmas Eve, we won’t be able to sing “Silent Night” in the sanctuary and pass the Christ-light to each other. How dreary can you get! As it did for ancient Israelites, the world has, in many ways, shrunk and dried up. Laughter and joy may seem at a premium.
And then, even in our lethargy and discouragement, we decide, for some reason, to join worship today. And we hear that word about joy. And we wonder, maybe, what in the world that could be about. The psalm is full of joy, even with the people’s dismay and despair. Joy, joy, joy—that’s the continual refrain. The people remember a time of unadulterated joy, a time when all seemed right with the world. “It seemed like a dream, too good to be true . . .. We laughed, we sang, we couldn’t believe our good fortune. We were the talk of the nations—‘God was wonderful to them!’ [said the nations]. God was wonderful to us; we are one happy people” (Psalm 126:1-3, The Message). And maybe, just like the Israelites, we think: ‘Yeah, there was a time when we felt that way. We can remember that feeling. But it’s certainly not the way we feel now.’
‘OK, preacher-man,’ I can hear you saying under your breath right about now, ‘tell us something we don’t know. Tell us some good news for a change. Tell us something that will buoy us, for God’s sake—literally for God’s sake, but also for our sake. ’Cause we’ve had enough of what drags us down.’
So I’m going to tell you something this morning that is as important as anything I’ve ever told you. And that is this: you and I will feel joy again. And if we’re on the lookout for it, we will find it, not just in some far-off future, but even, and maybe especially, now. And that’s partly because of what’s happened in the past—God has a track record on this front that is astounding. Again and again and again and again and again, when life has apparently tanked, blessing and lilt and love and hope and grace have moved back into the neighborhood. Beauty has bloomed. Life has been reborn. And the jolting truth is that this joy has thrived not just in the past. It is unfolding even now, as we speak.
‘And just how exactly does that joy show its face?’ you may be wearily or grumpily wondering. Well, I’m going to tell you. And you may be surprised at just how commonplace, just how ordinary, those sparks of joy are. Sometimes it’s Hallmark or Lifetime movies that lift your spirits. Sometimes it’s yet another showing of “Rudolf” or “Elf” or “Love Actually.” Sometimes it’s your spouse or partner rubbing your feet. Sometimes it’s eggnog and a fire and a Christmas tree. We know this, don’t we.
It’s the simple things, isn’t it. It’s the comforting glow of Christmas lights. It’s a Christmas tree going up this year as soon as possible: the first Christmas tree I saw up this fall was on November 7, much earlier than I think I’ve ever seen one. For many, it’s having a fresh, natural Christmas tree: their sales are through the roof this year. And maybe it’s just hanging out and being together. A neighbor told me a few days ago that, when she and her family lost power during the snow storm last week, she and her husband and children camped out for the night on the floor in front of the fire. And, while, in the morning, the parents were a little stiff, the children just thrilled to it. It was magic to them. It’s these little things that keep us going, that remind us that there’s more to life than a pandemic and sorrow and tears. There has been life and joy before. And that life and joy are plentiful even now.
Not unlike you, I’m guessing, I have been buoyed this year by a relentless streak of humor that keeps defying this potent virus. Not long ago, a Federated member sent me a whole bunch of church signs and social media posts that had been spotted during the pandemic. “This too shall pass,” says one. “It might pass like a kidney stone, but it’s gonna pass.” Or this one, entitled “Texas Coronavirus Prevention: Wash your hands like you just got done slicing jalapenos for a batch of nachos and you need to take your contacts out.” Or this: “Single man with TP seeks single woman w/ hand sanitizer for good clean fun.” Then there’s this one: “A home-schooling mom posted that her kid called her on the phone from his room and told her he missed the bus and won’t be in today!!” Or this: “People keep asking ‘Is COVID-19 really that serious?’ Listen up: Casinos and churches are closed. When heaven and hell agree on the same thing, it’s probably pretty serious.”
Two more church images that I think you need to see for your own edification! First this one: “Went to my first social-distancing christening last Sunday” [with priest aiming a water gun at baby]. And then this Christmas-themed one: the three kings go to the market to buy gold for their trip to see the baby Jesus, and next to the gold, they see the sign, “Customers who bought this also bought frankincense and myrrh.” Nice!
Humor is a prime source of joy for us. It can save us from giving up in despair. What’s key, though, is that the joy God offers is so often in the very ordinariness of life—in the delight that comes from the daily habits of living that keep us sane and buoy us. One of those grace-filled habits, says theologian and poet David Russell Mosley, is simply to enjoy our meals, especially during this holiday time. Are you “isolated for the holidays?” he asks. “You should feast anyway.” He quotes Michael Pollan, who writes extensively about food, as saying that it’s “when we learned to cook [that] we became truly human.” Cooking and feasting, he says, are “part of the primal human experience.”
Mosley then quotes the philosopher Josef Pieper who argues that “all cultures have at their root leisure.” Leisure in this sense doesn’t mean inactivity. “Rather, leisure is related to celebration, to anything done for its own sake and not for the sake of some utility” or practicality.
He goes on to illustrate this by saying that we bake bread because it’s useful. In so much of the world, bread is a staple, it’s a necessity. “Yet,” as he says, “we didn’t stop with bread. We made cake, something utterly superfluous. We do not need cake. It is the definition of gratuity. We make it because it tastes good, because it is beautiful. But we also make cake to celebrate. And Pieper says the ultimate reason humans celebrate, why we feast, is to worship.”
For any who may we be wondering if this might be a year to skip feasting, especially if you’re alone, Mosley says: No way! This is exactly the time to feast. In this time of exile and strangeness and fear and loneliness—this is precisely the year when having a Christmas feast is the thing to do! This, maybe more than any other, is the year to dig out a favorite recipe of your grandmother’s that you haven’t had in decades. This is the year to make something absolutely scrumptious that you may usually avoid because it may not be the best thing for you. This is the year to break out that rare and special bottle of wine that you’ve been saving for just the right occasion. Extravagant superfluity: that’s how we bask in the luxurious excess of the grace of God. Have that wine, that dish, that meal, and remember, as you do so, that in it, God’s grace is overflowing. And as you do, remember that “weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning” (Psalm 30:5).
Joy isn’t about satisfying only ourselves, of course. Joy is intimately related to the fulfillment of everyone. I can’t be fully joyful as long as you’re starving or you’re desolate or you’re kept under an oppressive thumb for your race or your gender or your sexual orientation. True joy is ultimately communal. It is shared. It’s complete only when it’s something in which we all partake.
So a crucial part of joy is that we share with each other the excess of the grace we all receive. Joy is richest, in other words, not when I eat my cake all by myself, but when you and I share cake together. “A feast, properly speaking,” says Mosley, “is a meal shared—and for Christians who are called to look after [those who are] poor and disenfranchised, it means a meal shared not only among our families but with [those who are] suffering”
At some level, we intrinsically get this. Stories about how, at Christmas, people learn to share are the heart of the season. It’s a Wonderful Life embodies the sense of that holy day because George Bailey has lived a life of such rich and overflowing generosity. A Christmas Carol has its power because Scrooge comes to see how appallingly selfish he’s been, and comes to find a new and open-hearted way to be. How the Grinch Stole Christmas! touches us because the Grinch does such an about-face and comes to see the sublime wonder of Whoville as it shares a joy that is far richer than any of its things. His heart grows three sizes and he comes to the town to join in the feast.
This is a day and a season to rejoice. And it’s a day and a season to extend the rich and wonderful blessings that we’ve received to others. No matter what’s going on around us, you and I have been blessed. And we have the opportunity, indeed the privilege, to join Scrooge, the Grinch, and the people of Bedford Falls in sharing our abundance. Joy? Yes, indeed! Eat, drink, and be merry. And share the bounty with someone else. That’s what it is to rejoice as a follower of Jesus Christ.