It is surprisingly difficult to describe joy. If we are angry, frustrated or upset, give us 45 minutes and we’ll tell you exactly how we’re feeling. But ask a group of people the question “What is joy for you?” and suddenly the room falls silent. Joy is deeper than happiness and more permanent than pleasure, but it can be hard to put into words. In honor of the new pope, I thought of his namesake, Saint Francis of Assisi, who wrote many joyful prayers, and I looked up what Francis had to say about joy. I found an old story about how he and Brother Leo were walking one bitter, cold night, when Francis said, “Brother Leo, if we could give sight to the blind, give hearing to the deaf, and make the lame walk – that would not be perfect joy.” Trudging on a bit, he said, “Brother Leo, if we knew all languages and could prophesy about the future and speak with the voice of an angel – that would not be perfect joy.” After more of these examples, Francis finally said, “Brother Leo, when we reach our destination, soaked by the rain and frozen by the cold, and our guests do not recognize us, but make us stand outside cold and hungry, and even if they grow angry when we continue to knock, so that they throw us to the ground, abusing us with words and their fists and we endure this with patience, then we would have remembered how we, too, must accept suffering as did our Blessed Christ. And in that is perfect joy!”1
I think St. Francis was perhaps too quick to link joy with personal suffering. It’s true that Christianity thrives on paradox: The first shall be last and the last first; when I am weak in the world’s eyes, then I am strong. Or as the Apostle Paul writes, May I never boast of anything except the cross of our Lord (Gal 6:14). This same pattern carries over to how we think about Palm Sunday. We see it as an ironic event in which the people one day shout for joy, but soon thereafter shout in anger “Crucify him! Crucify him!” So, while there is a paradoxical link between joy and suffering, my goal for the sermon today is to focus just on joy and try to capture this elusive emotion in words.
I assume we can agree that joy is not the same thing as happiness. Charles Schulz wrote an entire book telling us that happiness is a warm puppy, an A on your spelling test, or a smooth sidewalk when you’re roller skating. Julie Andrews sang about the happiness found in raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, and other “favorite things.” Author Frederick Buechner has said that “happiness turns up more or less where you’d expect it to – a good marriage, a rewarding job, a pleasant vacation.”2 Speaking personally, I can say that I find much happiness in my family and in watching my kids grow up into teenagers. There is something wonderful about the four of us driving around in our car when a song comes on the radio that we all know and can sing together. Sometimes it’s a Broadway song from “Les Mis” or an old Beatles’ tune. Sometimes the kids have expanded my musical vocabulary and taught me to appreciate the Shakespearean, iambic pentameter in today’s pop music, such as: I wear your granddad’s clothes, I look incredible; I’m in this big coat from that thrift shop down the road. (And a word to all you teens, make sure your parents download the clean version of this on their iPods. You need to protect their sensitive ears.)
Happiness and joy may not be the same thing, but happiness begins to merge into joy when two things happen: a) when the experience involves others, and b) when the experience becomes a story that is told and remembered. A recent New York Times article by Bruce Feiler stressed that children who know their family’s story, both the good times and the bad, are happier and have a greater emotional health. Knowing the story of your own birth, knowing where your parents and grandparents grew up, or honestly knowing how your family dealt with an illness or a tragedy can provide the narrative tools for a life that is grounded and makes sense.3 For happiness to take root as “joy,” two things must happen: the happy event needs to be other-focused, not self-centered; and it needs to be part of a story that connects with a deeper, richer, life story. Let’s flesh out those last two points by looking at some intriguing details in today’s gospel lesson.
Doesn’t it seem a bit odd that half of the Palm Sunday passage involves details about getting a colt for Jesus to ride? Some of this “colt information” is because of a prophecy in the book of Zechariah, that the future king of Israel would come into the capital city in humility, reading on a young donkey.4 But there’s another point to these “donkey details.” Since Jesus was obedient in a large thing (namely entering into Jerusalem as a Passover lamb to be sacrificed for his people), so we, as his disciples, are to be just as obedient in the small things of life (such as taking the initiative to borrow a colt from a villager). This is an example of how the small strands of our lives are woven into the great tapestry of Christ’s redemption story.5 Small acts of obedience led to a time of joy when Jesus rode the colt through the gate of Jerusalem; and in a very real way, deep joy is linked to human beings whenever we are willing to serve and act obediently for the glory of God.
Second odd detail: What do the people put on the ground when Jesus rode by? Although today is Palm Sunday, no palms are actually mentioned in this passage – only cloaks. Think about what cloaks are good for. They can be wrapped around us for our protection; they can be a type of shelter or refuge; and if they’re fancy, they can be a sign of status to set us apart from others.6 But all of that “cloak stuff” – our need for protection, refuge, and status – we are asked to remove and lay down before Christ. His presence before us, treading on our cloaks and the self-centered habits we humbly lay before him, is what heals and redeems us. The good news here is that this act of other-focused, humble obedience leads to real and lasting joy.
One last odd detail: the Pharisees witnessed all this joyful exuberance and they were not amused. They didn’t want this crowd to provoke the Roman soldiers. Neither did they like how this small-town rabbi appeared to have more authority with the people than did the temple elders. So they shouted at Jesus, “Teacher, order your followers to stop this right now.” To which Jesus said, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.” I love the focus of Jesus’ comment. If he had said, “If these were silent, the heavens will break forth in praise,” the Pharisees would have rolled their eyes at such over-the-top, end-of-the-world talk. If he had said, “If these people were silent, hundreds more will take up their songs of praise,” the Pharisees would have had him arrested as a dangerous revolutionary and troublemaker. But when he said, “If these were silent, the stones would shout out,” Jesus focused on the ground – to the foundations of the city walls and Jerusalem temple, to the rocks of the road and the earth beneath their feet. That Palm Sunday moment had to do with the fundamentals of life and faith, and both the Pharisees and the crowd knew it.
And that’s why joy is a real part of this Palm Sunday story. It’s there in the details. Joy was present in the acts of obedience to Christ’s commands. Joy was present in the laying down of the cloaks – letting go of earthly security and status and setting it humbly before Christ. Joy was present in the shouting of the crowds – when “me prayers” became “we prayers” and the people praised God with one voice. And joy was there in the very stones themselves – the foundational stories of their lives and the big story of life on earth, and how in Christ it all now makes sense.
All this set the stage for what happened just a few days later. When the disciples were clustered around Jesus in the Upper Room, he said the incredible words recorded in John 15: I am the vine, you are the branches. Apart from me you can do nothing. So abide in my love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete. (Jn 15:5,9,11) Happinessis this-world stuff, and it is real and wonderful and important, but hard to sustain and fleeting as the wind. Joy is heaven-sent stuff; and it too is real and wonderful and important. But it is also God-grounded, other-directed, and life-sustaining. It is fetching a colt or a cup of water for a thirsty soul. It is focused on Christ riding by on a colt, for whom we are willing to take off our masks and cloaks and set them before Him. And it is as solid as the stones themselves, which are anxious to join in our joy and praise. For when your life story, no matter how chaotic and jumbled it may appear, is grounded on something strong – Jesus-strong, rock-hard strong, even stronger than death itself – then your story will be one of faithful joy. And that, my friends, is not something we can create. That joy is Christ-given and Christ-completed.
This day ask yourself, “What is joy? Where is joy in my life?” I’ve suggested joy is God-grounded, other-directed, and life-sustaining. Find your own words for your definition. And through it all, abide in Christ – for he is the giver of true joy, and the one who makes all our stories, all our lives, all our joy complete.
AMEN
2 Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking, 1973, pp. 57-58.
3 Bruce Feiler, “The Stories That Bind Us,” New York Times, March 17, 2013, p. ST 10.
4 Zechariah 9:9
5 Thomas Long, “Season’s Greetings,” The Christian Century, March 21-28, 2001, p. 13.
6 Katie Munnik, “If Anyone Asks,” Presbyterian Record, March 18, 2013.