The shepherds kept watch over their flocks by night. I am keeping watch over myself, confident that I will soon transform into a Grinch with “all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile.”
I didn’t start the day as cuddly as a cactus. In fact, I woke up feeling accomplished and free, having completed the last of my semester’s coursework the night before. I made satisfying progress on several ministry projects throughout the morning while hitting 10,000 steps on my under-desk treadmill. Then, off to a relaxed lunch with a colleague.
The afternoon occasioned a lovely drive through the Iowa countryside. Bright sun, blue sky, and glimpses of wildlife gleaning harvested fields. Gospel-rich phone conversations with pastors to pass the time. A college friend and I caught up over coffee, reflecting on the gracious faithfulness of Jesus.
I drove home singing along to Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb of God album. I even shed some happy tears, thinking about the brave little boy “who was God, but he made himself nothing.”
I sat down to dinner encouraged, not just because we were having tacos. I eagerly shared updates from the day with Jenny. We discussed the future with optimism. I almost finished the day as happy as a Who on Christmas morning.
But as the night progressed, I could feel myself turning into a Grinch. My heart shrank two sizes. I could smell the garlic in my soul. I half-expected tufts of green fur to sprout from the cuffs and collar of my shirt.
The reason for my metamorphosis was as ridiculous as it is embarrassing to admit. I had to write an article, a meditation on the third Sunday in Advent, commonly known as Gaudete Sunday. Gaudete is the Latin word for “rejoice,” the first word in the day’s introit: “Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!” (Phil 4:4).
Writing meditations for the first two Sundays in Advent was no problem. Those Sundays focus on what is the future — the hope to be realized at Christ’s appearance, the peace foretold by prophets. I can write about the pain of living in the “not yet.” That’s easy for a Grinch like me.
But the third Sunday of Advent turns to the present. It calls us and commands us to respond to what is here, right now. “Rejoice in the Lord always,” Paul says. In case we missed it, he repeats the exhortation: “I will say it again: Rejoice!”
“Rejoice!” is a command to be glad, to have joy, to feel joy, to express joy now. It cannot wait until tomorrow. And, “Rejoice in the Lord always” commands us to never stop. That idea — experiencing and communicating present and unending joy — goes against every Grinchly inclination inhabiting my flesh.
What is it, I wonder, that I have against joy and the command to experience it right now? It’s not that I don’t want joy. Not at all. I really, really want joy. I long to enjoy life. A hunger for happiness underlies my ability to grieve today and look longingly at tomorrow.
Truth be told, I’m terrified of delight, afraid of elating in this world. I’ve been burnt by joy too many times. Happiness is like humility and holiness — as soon as you realize you have it, it vanishes. Joy makes everything better, and then it is gone. Knowing a moment of joy and being unable to keep seems worse than never experiencing it at all. You now know what you’re missing.
The green, grisly physiognomy of the Grinch protects me from pain (or so I think). Avoid happiness, avoid hurt. So long as I never rejoice, I’ll never be disappointed.
Thus, “Gaudete!” is a death sentence for a Grinch, to whom gladness is a communicable disease. Exposure induces cardiomegaly. (They say one Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes in one day!) When joy arrives, the old man must die.
So, I find myself protesting. Rejoice? Why should I?
Paul answers, “The Lord is near” (Phil 4:5). That’s the same reason for joy given to the shepherd out in the fields keeping watch over their flocks at night. “I proclaim to you good news of great joy that will be for all the people,” said the angel. “Today in the city of David a Savior was born for you, who is the Messiah, the Lord” (Luke 2:10–11).
Jesus is Immanuel, “God with us” (Matt 1:23). In him, God came to dwell among his people. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14). The Lord is here — and that is a reason for all people to have great joy.
But Grinches die hard, and so the objections snowball. Surely, something will separate me from the Lord, and then rejoicing will die and I will be disappointed (again).
What about my sin? He “put away sin by the sacrifice of himself” (Heb 9:26).
What about death? “To be away from the body” is to be “at home with the Lord” (2 Cor 5:8).
What about affliction or distress or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? “Neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Rom 8:38-39).
But what about my imperfect rejoicing? What if, when I want to rejoice, despair is present with me? Who will rescue me from the body of death? “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (Rom 7:25)
“Joy to the world,” we sing with the angel. “The Lord is come.” The Grinch must go. Those who believe in the Lord will never be disappointed (Rom 10:11).
That’s good news and a reason for great joy. And, for the moment, I’m glad I got to write about it, even if I know I’ll wake up and face the fight again — and again and again and again until the Lord comes and makes me stand in the presence of his glory (Jude 24). What a day of rejoicing that will be.
