This sermon was preached at Ossian Lutheran Church on May 5, 2024.
John 15:9-17
As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.
‘This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you. I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father. You did not choose me but I chose you. And I appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last, so that the Father will give you whatever you ask him in my name. I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.
Beloved of God, grace and peace and joy to you in the name of Jesus. Amen.
Let’s set the scene here. Chapter 13 of the gospel of John: Jesus shares a last meal with his disciples and then kneels to wash their feet. Chapter 17: They go out from the sanctuary of that upper room, and Jesus is betrayed by Judas, bound and arrested–the beginning of the end.
In between those bookend scenes, Chapters 14-16, Jesus has a lot to say to his disciples before they enter a new chapter of life together, before he suffers and dies, before they scatter and grieve. We might expect Jesus to focus on love–God’s love for him, his love for them–and he does. But he also talks a lot about joy.
Not happiness, but joy. Complete joy. Secure joy. Joy as the outcome, the transformation, of pain. I wonder what his disciples made of that in the moment…and then, again, after his arrest and death? Did promises of joy, on the verge of great suffering, seem foolish? Out-of-touch with reality? Impossible?
Do they seem that way to us today?
We are surrounded and infused with suffering. It seeps into us as we sleep, battered by another day of violence and hatred, senseless tragedy and the sting of death. We cry, “Why?” How does this keep happening? When will we learn? What can we do? Hearts are restless; minds are working overtime, awake and anxious in the night. Moments of happiness come and go, but this chronic despair is always there–sometimes barely peeking around the curtain, sometimes center stage.
How can Jesus promise his disciples joy?
“I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.”
Jesus makes clear here that our joy is his joy in us. It is not our own to create or to manufacture. It is apart from us and yet abiding in us. It’s the joy of one who knows, at their very core, that they are secure in the embrace of God. It’s the joy of one who has been named beloved. It’s the joy that sees clearly the worst heartache and still sings praise.
Wendell Berry writes, “Be joyful though you have considered all the facts.” Jesus knew what he was about to endure, and still he knew the presence and the power of joy. That’s the joy that lives in us, the joy of Jesus, joy that does not minimize suffering but doesn’t become mired in it either. Joy that is free. Joy that rises.
“You will have pain, but your pain will turn into joy,” Jesus declares.
It’s so tempting to do everything in our power to avoid pain. We play it safe. We choose the way of least resistance. We put on the sound-canceling headphones and tune out the weeping of the world around us. We disengage from the struggles that matter most for the sake of our neighbors, for the sake of our children, for the generations that will follow us.
Jesus, though, entered fully into the pain of the world. He didn’t ignore it, or run away from it, or tune it out. He told the truth about the suffering he witnessed. He worked for justice. He brought healing. And his joy was not diminished, because his joy was not dependent on his circumstances. He did not have to choose joy. His joy was the gift of a life lived as God’s beloved child. That’s the joy that dwells in us. And it’s there to stay.
“No one will take your joy from you,” Jesus promises.
It’s a joy born of God’s love, so no one can take it from us. I’m reminded of the powerful proclamation of Martin Luther’s hymn, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God:” Were they to take our house, goods, honor, child, or spouse, though life be wrenched away, they cannot win the day. The kingdom’s ours forever!” There are times I can barely bring myself to sing this, because it’s so raw. Losing our child, our spouse, life itself…and still the kingdom of God is ours? Still the joy of Jesus is ours?
No one will take your joy from you, because no one will ever be able to separate you from God’s love.
Sometimes I wonder if we begin our lives knowing and trusting the promises of God–simple faith, outside of logic, or reason, or understanding–and as we grow, we forget, we overthink it; we try to rely on our own understanding or our own efforts; we make it so much harder than it needs to be.
I spent a fair part of Friday this week overthinking all sorts of things. There’s just a lot going on, in my own life, certainly, but also in the lives of dear friends, and family members, students with whom I work and the communities in which they serve. There’s a lot going on in this country and throughout the world. I sometimes feel like a sponge just soaking up all the grief, all the loss, all the hurt, all the sorrow.
In those moments, for me, two things help more than anything else–reading poetry and walking outside. I invite you to wonder, this week, about what most helps you in those moments when you feel overwhelmed by the pain of the world.
So, on Friday, I opened my current book of poetry that I’m reading through and turned to the poem I had read the day before, “Joy,” by Dorianne Laux. It begins like this:
Even when the gods have driven you
from your home, your friends, the tree
you planted brought down by storm,
drought, chain saw, beetles, even
when you’ve been scrubbed
hollow by confusion, loss,
accept joy, those unbidden
moments of surcease–
the quiet unfolding
around your shoulders
like a shawl, the warmth
that doesn’t turn to burning.
And then I took the dogs on a walk. And I didn’t bring my phone along. And I didn’t rush through it like I sometimes do. Every so often, when the scent of the blooming trees became impossible to ignore and spring felt like a tangible gift I could hold in my hands, I stopped momentarily, lifted my head toward the heavens, closed my eyes and soaked in the warmth of the sun, the love of God like a shawl around my shoulders.
I’ve heard joy described as “grace recognized,” and that certainly rings true. I experience the joy of Jesus within me when I pause to recognize God’s grace in the written words, and the spring wind, and the warmth of the sun overhead.
Where will you recognize God’s grace this week?
You did not choose Jesus. Jesus chose you. His joy lives in you, making it possible for you to “be joyful though you have considered all the facts.” And that joy, the joy of Jesus, is there in you–with you, for you–to stay.
So, please sing with me.
I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart
Down in my heart
Down in my heart
I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart
Down in my heart to stay.
Amen.
Poem of the Day – Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front – BookPeople (bookpeopleblog.com)
Strong’s Greek: 5479. χαρά (chara) — joy, delight (biblehub.com)