Transfiguration / Mardi Gras Sunday
When the Lord restored the fortunes
of Zion, we were like those who dream.
Then our mouth was filled with
laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy;
then it was said among the
nations, “The Lord has
done great things for them.”
The Lord has done great things
for us, and we rejoiced.
Restore our fortunes, O Lord, like the
watercourses in the Negeb.
May those who sow in tears reap
with shouts of joy.
Those who go out weeping, bearing
the seed for sowing,
shall come home with shouts of
joy, carrying their sheaves.
Yes, it’s a strange and unexpected word. We are two weeks into a pandemic. There are glimmers of reprieve, but we have endured so many diminishments. There are fewer of you here. The big choir has reduced to an octet. People have quit their jobs, moved around. Some have caught a cab to eternity. And I want to talk about joy.
A northeastern Pennsylvania winter crawls along. The clouds brood over us, the sky is dark. No telling when the ice will fall and crust over the driveway. And no one over the age of eighteen is thrilled, to exclaim, “It looks like another snow day!” Even them, who have had twenty-four months of snow days. And believe me when I say it’s a good moment for a few words about joy.
Not merely because the jazz cats are here; it’s always good to see them. They revive our weary souls. The harmonies sneak into our souls. Our feet set off in rhythm. For the old-timers among us, the walls may swinge like the Hot Club of Paris in 1940: everybody sways to the beat while foreign tanks are intent on destruction. And in that disturbing paradox, the musicians play on with joy. Joy.
Maybe it’s getting clear for us that joy is not the same thing as happiness. We frequently tangle them so tightly that they seem like one and the same. She’s happy. He’s joyful. Sounds like the same thing, but it isn’t. Both are emotions, frequently associated with good feelings and a positive spirit.
Happiness is situational; something happens, it makes you happy. You connect with the love of your life, and your happiness soars off the scale. Your wrestling team wins a state championship (Hooray for Abington Heights!), and everybody cheers. The drummer throws in a little backbeat with the hymns and the air is lighter. There’s happiness here, just what we need as an alternative to lingering illness, winter gloom, and a terrible, no-good invasion in Ukraine. Perhaps for a brief time, this hour will counter-balance all the bad news. We can use a little happiness.
By contrast, joy is not created by our circumstances. Joy propels us through our circumstances. Why do we get out of the bed on a morning like this? Not because we are happy, but because joy is quietly at work even when we can’t see it.
The psalm for today declares how joy can surprise us. The poet remembers a national change of events, the winning of a battle or the turn-around of fortunes. “It was like a dream,” he says. “We started to laugh. We shouted hosannas. We laughed even louder – and all the world said, ‘Wow, look how things have turned out for them!’ What a joyful noise we made. Remember that? Can you remember that? Yes, I think we can.”
Then he pauses. Clears his throat for another paragraph. Waits for a bit. And then he says, “Wouldn’t it be great if God could do it again? Wouldn’t it be spectacular if God could sweep up all the broken glass and fuse it into something beautiful? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if God would do now what God had done then?” And twice in this reflection, the poet calls us again to joy. Because joy has caused him to remember. And joy has provoked him to hope. That’s how joy works.
You can think of it this way:
- Happiness
comes when the stars align. Joy keeps us going through a dark, starless
night.
- Happiness
visits when all is going well. Joy tarries when they aren’t.
- Happiness
is a car with well-aligned tires. Joy is the engine that keeps the car moving.
- Happiness bubbles up in us. Joy is an invisible gift from God’s Holy Spirit.
A few years back, Yale University got the John Templeton Foundation to cough up $4.2 million to study joy. The study team brought together psychologists, theologians, Bible scholars, thinkers of all kinds, all to explore the mystery of joy. There were explorations, research projects, speeches, and heavy papers. When the dust settled, they concluded that joy is what causes the human being to flourish. What makes for a well-lived life? It’s the presence of joy.
I thought of this, when my wife got up one morning and called out, “Alexa, play Motown!” The next song we heard was a now-ancient Stevie Wonder tune, titled, “Joy Inside My Tears.” Little Stevie sings his experience how another's love for him has created healing. He is astonished to discover a greater power at work. Amid pain, alienation, and fear, joy has found him. What a powerful, surprising gift!
This is the domain of
the Holy Spirit, especially in our own constricted circumstances. Sometimes joy
bubbles up in the affirmation that we are worthy of sound mind and good health.
Other times joy discovers us when God makes good on a holy promise. Sometimes, it
is love that sparks joy. Other times, joy sparks love. And when pushed against
the wall, joy shakes its fist as a protest against despair,
That’s how joy can
bubble up into the worst circumstances. Remember the apostle Paul, banging his
tin cup against the iron bars of his prison cell, and shouting, "Rejoice
in the Lord always; again, I say rejoice!" (Philippians 4:4). Or there’s brother
James, who begins his New Testament letter with an outrageous exhortation: "Whenever
you face trials of any kind, consider it nothing but joy." (James 1:2).
Either these two
apostles were deluded or something else is afoot. If you follow Jesus, you have
a clue what it is. Or Who it is. For joy, spirit-given joy, is our resonance
with the purposes of God. God breathed air into our nostrils and declared, “I
want you to flourish. I want you to live abundantly.” When that breath circulates
around, we can be revived. And we will be reminded that it is God who gives life,
light, and hope to the world. This is the essence of joy.
One of the apostles of
joy was a Dutch priest named Henri Nouwen. A talented man, able to stir the
hearts of many, yet nagged by the recurring demon of depression. Here is something
he offered, in a moment of spiritual clarity:
Joyful persons do not necessarily make jokes, laugh, or even smile. They are not people with an optimistic outlook on life who always relativize the seriousness of a moment or an event. No, joyful persons see with open eyes the hard reality of human existence and at the same time are not imprisoned by it. They have no illusion about the evil powers that roam around, “looking for someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8), but they also know that death has no final power. They suffer with those who suffer, yet they do not hold on to suffering; they point beyond it to an everlasting peace.[1]
“Joy Inside My Tears,” indeed.
And so Jesus climbs the mountain with Peter, James, and John. While he is praying, he suddenly bursts into glory. He shines like the sun. Peter, James, and John rub the stardust out of their eyes. And who’s that? It’s Moses – they’ve never seen Moses before, but they can tell who he is. And Elijah, the greatest of the prophets, who once called down fire from heaven – he’s talking with Jesus, who glimmers like the sun on earth.
What are they talking about? Luke says they are talking about “his departure.” What do you mean, “his departure”? Well, the Greek word is “exodus.” They are discussing his exodus, his splitting open of the water, his leading of the people through the sea. You can guess what this exodus is because it’s going to happen at Passover time. Moses the lawgiver and Elijah the prophet testify to the death and resurrection of Jesus. That is his “departure,” his life-giving, life-saving “exodus.”
In a burst of glory, precipitated by prayer, Jesus discusses
his death with two of the greatest figures in Jewish history. He’s discussing
his death – while shining like the sun. What a strange paradox! And then I
remembered an odd little
verse in the letter to the Hebrews, where the writer of Hebrews declares Christ
endured the cross "for the sake of the joy that was set before him."
(12:2).
Joy? In the face of
crucifixion? Yes, because it’s joy, that hidden confidence that God is alive
and working out the eternal purposes. When that confidence comes, when those
purposes are assured, they stand taller than anything that stands against us.
I think of three
vignettes.
(1) My friend Todd and his
wife brought a baby boy into the world three years ago. They named him Rowan,
nicknamed him “Baby Rowboat” from the sounds that he made. Six months after his
birth, the doctors said he needed a liver transplant. It scared them to death.
But Baby Rowboat smiled, giggled, made his rowboat sounds. They flew across the
country for the procedure, back to their home in Dallas, back to Pittsburgh. Todd
sent me a picture just the other day – Rowboat’s three years old and drinking a
chocolate shake. Actually, he’s wearing a lot of the chocolate shake. He’s been
through a lot, and he’s going to keep going. That’s what joy looks like.
(2) And then I saw the photo
of the young woman. She is decked out in her traditional Ukrainian outfit, red
piping, elaborate embroidery, an ornate crucifix on a gold chain around her
neck. Ever see an outfit like that? But it’s the look on her that face tells us
everything. She’s standing tall, having lived through more heartbreak than any
of us have ever seen. Her fierce eyes announce she is proud of her family,
proud of her townspeople, proud of the way they endure through suffering. No
tin-pot dictator will ever prevail over her. She is driven by joy.
(3) And then, there’s this music, forged by creative souls out of deprivation, racism, and poverty. One of the earliest practitioners was a cornet player named Bix Beiderbecke. He was baptized in the Presbyterian church where his mother played the organ, and his father had the account for delivering coal. Bix took to music early, able to discover melodies on the piano when he was two years old.
But his parents never approved of the music he played, or where the jazz took him, or the national acclaim he received. The crowds cheered, but he was lost to his family. Life was painful, traveling was lonely. As he discovered the hard way, he could not patch a broken heart with bathtub gin. There were too many leaks.
Yet he could play his horn. Even when life looked dark, he could lean back, close his eyes, and blow love notes into the air. Shortly before he died at the early age of 28, Bix lived in a rooming house in Queens. He picked up his cornet at all hours of day and night and play his horn. The tenants in the building gently mentioned to the landlord that they had been awakened at three in the morning by lovely music coming out of that apartment. Then they quickly added, "Please don't mention we said anything; we don't want him to get in trouble, and we also don't want him to stop."[2]
How could Beiderbecke blow such beauty into the air when life was so painful? You know the answer: it wasn’t happiness. It was joy.
There is more to be said
because these things are mysteries, and as mysteries, they are elusive. Suffice
it to say that joy is what carries us through to another new day. It is the
engine of the soul. It sustains us through impossible difficulties. Joy is what
pushes us forward until we, too, shine like the sun. This is inexplicable. And
it is real.
As Jesus said, “Take
heart, little flock. It is God's desire to give you the kingdom.” This is God's
desire – and this is God's joy
[2] Richard M. Sudhalter and Philip R.
Evans, Bix: Man & Legend (New Rochelle, NY: Arlington House
Publishers, 1974) 327
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