Joy to the World
Some fragmented thoughts on seasonal grumpiness, the promise of joy, crispy pork, fragrant mussels, stoppage time, and my work with Evolving Faith
Advent III
Thursday, December 15
Grand Rapids, Mich.
Partway through my sermon last Sunday, I offered the congregation a confession of sorts, which I now make to you too, dear reader: This time of year often makes me grumpy.
“Few things irritate me more than being told how to feel, and the enforced happiness of the pre-Christmas season just riles me up,” I said. “What if I don’t feel like having myself a merry little Christmas? Is it a wonderful life? I don’t know; I’ve never seen the movie, and this isn’t going to be the year when that changes. And what if it’s not the most wonderful season of all?”
That might seem like an odd thing to say on the third Sunday of Advent, which is traditionally called Gaudete Sunday; “gaudete” is Latin for “rejoice.” But here’s what I’ve been pondering: What if joy, unlike happiness, isn’t a fleeting feeling? What if joy is a habit and a practice? What if joy is actually the hard-won evidence of a spiritual discipline that acknowledges the full complexity of our human lives?
In his gorgeous new essay collection Inciting Joy, the writer Ross Gay reflects on our stereotypes of joy. “[W]e often think of joy as meaning ‘without pain,’ or ‘without sorrow’—which, to reiterate, our consumer culture has us believing is a state of being that we could buy,” he writes. “[T]his definition also suggests that someone might be able to live without—or maybe a more accurate phrase is free of—heartbreak or sorrow. Which I’m pretty sure you only get to do if you have no relationships, love nothing, are a sociopath, and maybe, if you’re enlightened.”
Then Gay asks some important questions: “But what happens if joy is not separate from pain? What if joy and pain are fundamentally tangled up with one another? Or even more to the point, what if joy is not only entangled with pain, or suffering, or sorrow, but is also what emerges from how we care for each other through those things? What if joy, instead of refuge or relief from heartbreak, is what effloresces from us as we help each other carry our heartbreaks?”
Whew!
I read that last sentence three times, just to enjoy the marvelous grace note that is his use of the word “effloresces.”
In Gay’s vision of joy, we are summoned to radical candor and bracing honesty about our lives. We surrender the idol of independence in favor of the gift of interdependence. We resist the ever-present temptation to say that everything’s fine; we allow ourselves to admit when it is not. We rebuke the urge to believe that we can successfully compartmentalize our griefs, as if we could actually box them up and stash them in the furthest corners of our emotional closets; instead, we acknowledge that our sorrows are inevitably knit into our very being. We commit, too, to recognizing goodness and beauty and to cultivating solidarity and hope. And joy might come in the midst of—maybe even as a result of—all that.
On Monday, I took Fozzie for a walk. His right hip and his eyesight have deteriorated to the point that he’s no longer able to safely go down our front steps on his own. Then there is his judgment: Despite many previous mishaps, he remains wildly overconfident. Given the opportunity or the appearance of a cat or the neighborhood husky, both of which he loathes, Fozzie will leap with abandon.
The Fozz does seem sometimes to recognize (a few of) his limitations as well as his need for help. Out on the front porch, at the top of the steps, he surveyed his domain. Seeing neither cat nor husky, he then glanced up at me: I’m ready. I picked him up, tucked him under my right arm, descended the steps, and gently set him on the grass.
Later that afternoon, I carried him upstairs to my study and plopped him onto the sofa—he can’t go up the stairs or make it onto the sofa anymore either—so that he could nap while I worked. After a little while, I went to sit with him. Fozzie has never been the snuggliest of dogs—I wonder sometimes whether that just wasn’t the culture of the home in which he lived before. But after looking up at me, he set his head back down on the blanket and nestled into my side.
Perhaps this is joy: not a passing sensation, not unadulterated pleasure, but a deep satisfaction borne of relationship and a heartfelt sense of shared contentment.
Perhaps this is joy too: not self-satisfaction, not personal success, but amidst uncertainty and pain, reminders that we are never alone and reassurance that we are accompanied.
In my sermon on Sunday, I reflected on the stories of five women—Hagar, Sarah, Manoah’s wife (what a statement that Scripture declines even to record her name), Elizabeth, Mary. All five waited. All five wrestled with complicated, even unjust circumstances. And if the ancient texts are to be believed, all five were met by God. Yet none were spared the pain of childbirth or the hurts of human relationship, and each had to reckon with the complexity of parenthood.
Sometimes I study the fragments of story that we’ve been handed down, and I want more. I wonder about their everyday lives. I’m curious about the fluctuations of their hearts. Because I’m nosy, I crave more details about all that happened off the page—all that was, for whatever reason, not deemed worthy of recording. Oh well!
What Scripture does tell us is that each of these women encountered the divine in unexpected ways, and each found new possibility through relationship. Each was given the opportunity to care for another being. Each was asked to believe in promises far beyond themselves, their own happiness, or their lifetimes. Each bore witness, down through the generations, to the reality of being human.
This, too, is Advent’s invitation: We can’t know everything. But we can name what hurts. We keep watch for glimpses of hope. We attend to the realities of this life and this world—all the griefs and all the sorrows, but also all the victories and all the happinesses. And we wait in faithful anticipation of what’s still to come—redemption and healing, justice and salvation, love and joy.
What I’m Cooking: Last week, I packed up my rice cooker and my knives, and I headed to North Carolina to cook for my friend Kate Bowler and her delightful family in their home in North Carolina. I did something that I rarely do, which is to try making a new dish: crispy pork belly (燒肉), a Chinese classic. I’ve tried versions of this before, but I’ve never quite gotten the crackling right. This recipe is by far the easiest—and the most successful, producing succulent, perfectly spiced meat and that irresistibly crunchy skin. Just make sure you make lots and lots of holes in the skin, because that’s key to getting crispy crackling, not sad and chewy rind.
Occasionally, Tristan will come across a recipe that he asks me to try. Last night, it was Melissa Clark’s mussels with white beans recipe from The New York Times. Clark creates great recipes that usually aren’t too complicated. Warmed with plenty of garlic and just a bit of crushed red pepper, this was a perfect dish for a cold winter evening. I did make one tweak: For two people, one can of beans is enough, because I don’t really think mussels make for great leftovers. But don’t cut the amount of olive oil, even though it might seem like too much.
What I’m Reading: I wrote a couple of weeks ago about my love for the World Cup and all that it stirs in me. All the teams I was cheering for (England, Morocco, Japan, South Korea) have now lost; honestly, if you want a surefire investment policy, just bet against whatever team I’m supporting. Anyway, I loved this gift of an essay from Julia Cho, who wrote in The New Yorker about what the game meant to her husband—and what it means to her. After reading her words, I will never think of “stoppage time” the same way again.
If you don’t know Ross Gay’s work, I recommend it highly. My favorite piece of his might be “Tomato on Board,” which is exactly what it sounds like: an account of him taking a flight with a tomato seedling. You can read it here.
Some personal news: I’ve stepped down as co-leader of Evolving Faith. What a privilege it has been to serve in Evolving Faith leadership since early 2019. But in the wake of our conference this year, it became clear to me that I couldn’t keep serving the Evolving Faith community well while also honoring the other commitments I have, including writing my next book, working on my PhD dissertation, teaching at Crosspointe Church, penning these letters, and trying to be a decent human. Turns out I have limits! And there are still just 24 hours in a day! And I need sleep!
To be clear, I’m not leaving Evolving Faith entirely; my role is simply changing. (The word “evolving” is, after all, in the organization’s name.) Next month, I’ll be leading an online Bible study for the Evolving Faith community; we’ll spend a few weeks exploring some psalms together. And I’m delighted and honored that the gifted Camille Hernandez and Christine Yi Suh have said “yes” to me coming alongside them to accompany our BIPoC group members. Along with Alicia Crosby, Camille and Chris have shepherded our BIPoC community so well, and I’m excited about the opportunity to work more closely with them.
Change always comes with some grief. As I’ve told a couple of friends, I do feel some grief in setting down the thing that Rachel Held Evans handed to me. Rachel invited me to speak at the first conference in 2018, and she’s the one who called a few months later to ask whether I might consider joining the leadership team. I think of the trust she had in me—a kind of belief that I often struggle to summon for myself—and I wonder, just a little bit, whether I could have—should have—done some things differently.
Along with the grief and its annoying questions, though, comes much gratitude: Gratitude for the opportunity to serve. Gratitude for the beautiful community I’ve witnessed blossoming through Evolving Faith. Gratitude for the ways in which I’ve been able to learn and grow over these past few years of hard work. Gratitude, especially, for Sarah Bessey, whom I didn’t even know before I showed up at Evolving Faith 2018 and is now among my dearest friends.
Did I do the best I could? I think I did. And now it’s time to do something else.
What’s on your hearts and minds this week?
As ever, I’m so grateful we can stumble through all this together, and I’ll try to write again soon.
Much love,
Jeff
I love what you had to say about joy. One of my dearest friends recently died. During the time I knew her, she had rheumatoid arthritis, which meant that she was in constant pain--some days worse than others--and was often confined to her apartment, which was particularly hard on her because she was an extrovert. She never pretended everything was fine and yet I think "joyful" is a word that describes her well. She had a marvelous wit and loved many things--nature, art, music, and especially people and God. Your quote from Gay about how joy "effloresces from us" describes her well. This was perfect reading as I both mourn and celebrate my friend.
I always look forward to pondering your notes. I think for many people Christmas is the sorrows and joys of life brought together. When Judy Garland sings Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas in the movie Meet Me in St Louis she is singing it through tears. Blessings to you and all you love.