HOMILY: "Rejoice? Now? Yes!"

A Meditation on Philippians 4 & Isaiah 12

Sunday, December 15, 2024

Dave Grishaw-Jones

1.

A couple nights ago, I stepped outside after a particularly intense meeting of our Immigration Team, and just before a particularly important meeting of our Budget Team.  I just needed some fresh air.  To clear my head and do that little reset thing I do.  It was raining that night, and strangely warm for mid-December.  But I was grateful for a few quiet and uncommitted moments.  

And then, as I did, just as I stepped onto the porch off the mezzanine here, a text with a picture came through, from my daughter Claire up in Portland.  And she’d been out on the playground that day, yard duty at the school where she works.  And a group of 3rd graders she’s fond of decided to painstakingly thread and braid her long brown hair.  Strand by strand by strand.  

So in my hand, in those uncommitted moments, I had a picture of my 29-year-old daughter, a teacher-in-training, now sitting on a playground bench, with three tall 3rd grade girls behind her, all three beaming brightly at the expertly woven cornrows and spiraling braids falling across their teacher’s shoulders.  The tallest of the three—whom Claire later noted is an Angolan refugee—is pointing a long finger at my daughter’s reconfigured mane.  Smiling broadly.  Like she’s never seen something so beautiful.

And before I could even catch myself, or take note of the undergraduates chatting in the parking lot next door, I was laughing out loud, really out loud—the way you do when joy monkey-jumps your heart and blindsides decorum.  The way you do when delight overwhelms tedium like a lineman taking down a quarterback.  Just me on the porch, laughing into the damp night sky.  To no one at all.  But wanting the whole world to see the picture in my hand: the picture of a happy teacher in cornrows, and the three 3rd graders who made her so.

So here’s a question.  Do you ever feel a little guilty, or even just a little sheepish, when joy catches you by surprise?  When it feels like joy is a luxury, a privilege, and you wonder if it’s even appropriate, whether it’s even faithful to enjoy a moment, a text, a sunset, a warm embrace?  Do you ever worry that—in a world like the one we’re living in now—joy might be a little too selfish, a little too indulgent, outdated and even callous?  When immigrants live, day-in and day-out, afraid of the knock on their door?  When fear becomes public policy and queer friends are singled out for derision and worse?  When glaciers melt and seas rise and politicians dismiss climate change as a hoax?  Seriously.  Maybe the times we’re living in require a more sober spirit, or a more clear-headed approach to daily tasks and community life.  

I found myself looking down at my phone that night, at that picture of my daughter and her cornrows and the three students behind her, and then closing my eyes, and thinking of my friend, Antony.  Your friend, Antony.  Over these next several weeks and months, Antony and others like him are counting on our focus, and on our sobriety, and even on our protection.  The new administration has made it terribly clear that they intend to frighten and belittle and bully immigrants and their advocates across the land.  That had been the topic of our meeting that afternoon.  So was my brief flirtation with joy, then, a kind of betrayal of my commitment to Antony?  My love and devotion to his freedom, to his wellness, to his life?  Is joy now a luxury I should set aside for another day?

2.

And the answer to that question, friends, and on this both the Apostle Paul and the dear man we know as Antony fully and faithfully agree: the answer is emphatically no.  Joy goes hand in hand with service and resistance.  Joy is Christ’s birth in our hearts, and Christ’s teaching made concrete in our lives, and Christ’s promise that God’s love overcomes all human fear, all human folly, all arrogance and pride.  “Rejoice in the Lord always;” writes Paul to the Philippians, “again, I will say, Rejoice!”  As serious as we are about one another’s protection, we have to be awake, alert to the joy with which God resists cruelty and despair.  As deliberate as we are about dangers to creation, we have to be awake, alert to the delight with which God meets every human community, and every human need, and every human yearning.  Joy is our witness to the Love born again and again in the darkest days of winter.  “Rejoice in the Lord always;” says Paul, “again, I will say, Rejoice!”

So I want to insist on this, friends.  That our beloved community here on Main Street find a thousand reasons for joy in the New Year.  That our little church lean with harmony and gusto into hymns of hope and liberation.  That our united and uniting congregation search out the sunsets that swell human hearts, and the wonders of children growing before our eyes, and the simple, sweet things neighbors do for other neighbors—and that we rejoice in the power of God’s grace to overwhelm despair with delight.  Again, I will say, Rejoice!  Rejoice.  In Antony’s gratitude for a church that walks its talk.  Rejoice.  In Catherine York’s magic in bringing new life to an old carol.  Rejoice.  In the cradle that bears the Christ who reveals love as the one and only promise that matters.  Doesn’t mean we won’t have sad and difficult days; but joy is our mode of perseverance and resistance.

It’s interesting, maybe even necessary to note that Paul writes this letter to the Philippians facing his own death, knowing that he may shortly be executed, and sorting through relationships and commitments with the communities he’s loved.  All of his work, all of his hope, all of his sacrifice seems fragile now, vulnerable to the whims and rage of the proud and powerful.  And yet, and yet the nearness of Christ, the peace of God: it fills Paul’s heart with confidence—not in his own life, not in his own accomplishments, but in the grace he’s discovered in Christ, the grace that he’s celebrated in mutual care within communities he’s loved, the grace that shimmers in every sunset, and flickers in every child’s eye, and reveals all life, all of it, as divine gift.  As divine gift.  The executioners may seem powerful; but Paul trusts in a power far more lasting than violence, far more enduring than cruelty.  “And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding,” he writes, “will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

So is Paul saying: Rejoice when you get your degree?  Rejoice when you’re awarded tenure at last?  Rejoice when you reach the corner office?  No.  Rejoice in the here, rejoice in the now, rejoice in the One who has anointed you for just this moment, for just this season, for the day you’re living and the community you’re living for.  Is Paul saying:  Beat up on yourself for every imperfection, and then rejoice.  Serve your sentence, pay your fine, and then rejoice.  No.  Rejoice in your beautiful, wonderful and imperfect life.  Rejoice in the mistakes you’ve made, yes, even in the mistakes you’ve made, and the opportunity to reconcile with ones you’ve wronged.  Rejoice in relationships made whole through God’s mercy and your forgiveness.  “Rejoice in the Lord always;” he says, “again, I will say, Rejoice!”

So let’s all agree, shall we, that we can and we will claim our joy as birthright, lean into it as vocation, and set aside any shame at all when delight brings wonder and spirit to what has been a difficult day.  If it is our intention to resist authoritarianism, if it is our calling to advocate for the vulnerable, if it is Jesus’ desire that we inhabit a countercultural kin-dom of God—we will do so joyfully.  We will do so gratefully.  We will sing our songs of resistance and break the bread of abundance and accept the cost of discipleship with the deepest kind of gratitude.  For the Lord is near.  That’s the Christmas gospel.  The Lord is near.  Standing by the immigrant’s side.  Braiding the teacher’s hair.  Reaching for your hand.  Rising with the sun.

3.

Last weekend, Kate and I went to see the Indigo Girls—one of our all-time favorite bands, two of our favorite songwriters—in a packed-out hall in Medford.  We’d seen them first thirty years ago in the sunlit foothills of the Rocky Mountains; and the two of them, Amy Ray and Emily Saliers, have for all these years moved us with their harmonies, lyrics and longing for a world made right by justice and peace.  I’m betting there are a few fans in the congregation today.

But life does what life does, and Emily Saliers has some kind of neurological condition now—maybe Parkinson’s—that has changed, some might say weakened, her once so stunningly steady voice.  That night in Medford, I found myself a little rattled at first, to be honest even embarrassed for her: that this musical genius, this powerful voice of a generation was all these years later so delicate and almost feeble in a hall of eager and frenzied fans.

But she sang just the same—gratefully she was undaunted by my embarrassment in the twenty-first row.  The two of them sang, and Emily sang her parts as she’s always done—with sincerity and grace.  And then the most magical thing began to happen.  As she sang, the crowd of two or three thousand friends began to sing along.  All the songs.  All the verses.  The personal ballads.  The political anthems.  And Emily’s joy—and Amy’s too—was palpable from the twenty-first row.  A crowd like that, recognizing her frailty, delighting in her songs, singing her deeper into her own lyrics, singing her deeper into her own hope, into the promise and purpose of her own vocation.  

Kate and I would look around, and we’d see hundreds, thousands of loving faces, teary eyes—partners arm-in-arm, kids held aloft by their moms or by their dads—thousands of grateful, loving faces singing with the Indigo Girls, singing to the Indigo Girls, singing because music inspires hope among the hopeless and gratitude in the weary and joy in an accomplished vocalist who may well be losing her voice.  

You see, joy isn’t a possession, a commodity bought and sold, priced by the market, purchased by the privileged.  Joy isn't a prize awarded by a stingy deity to a saintly few.  Joy is something like a communion of voices, when one voice needs the many for encouragement and affirmation.  Joy is something like a gift revealed in gentleness and service, when two or three gather to resist bigotry and offer sanctuary to a friend.  Joy is something like a deep and unwavering confidence that love outlasts derision every time, that peace is stronger than war and will one day overcome it, that God created us all for praise and freedom, for dancing and art, for feasts of plenty and circles of mutual care.  Joy is grace.  Joy is blessing.  Joy is bestowed upon each and every one of us, whatever the circumstances of our lives, that we might know and celebrate the one who created us and loves us still.   

4.

So whether you’re joining us for an immigration workshop after worship, or maybe bundling up to carol around the neighborhood this evening; whether you’re checking in on a neighbor living alone this afternoon, or maybe writing a letter to a congressman rejecting the notion that war and violence make the world a safer place; whether Christmas is a season of deep peace for you or haunting sadness…

Know this.

You can live with uncertainty in your heart, and still you can rejoice!

You can live with nagging doubts about all kinds of things, and still you can rejoice.  

You can live with distrust for those who cling to power and wield it selfishly, and still you can rejoice.  

Your joy is God’s gift.  And nothing can take that gift, nothing can diminish that gift, nothing can cancel out that gift in your life.  For the baby born in Bethlehem comes to sing your song.  The baby born in Bethlehem comes to bless your spirit.  And no matter the weirdness of the age, or the doubts that come with living in it, God is and always will be Love.  Love.  Love.

Amen and Ashe.