Restoring Joy
Rejoice in the Lord always, I will say again: Rejoice!
Philippians 4:4
The other day I observed a large group of people and noticed a general gloominess of attitude. It bothered me because I was fairly sure that my attitude was in the same neighborhood. One of the core convictions of our church is that we all have issues that require tissues. I know that’s true but I’m usually a fairly joyful person, until lately that is. There seems to be a thief at my door these days who would love to snatch my joy from me, who has unfortunately been fairly successful. That has put me in prayer, asking why? I know the problem is never with our loving and unchanging God. That means the problem is me. A day ago I would have told you that God was not answering any of my questions. It seemed as if He wasn’t even hearing those queries. Then in the simplest way, He got my attention.
Yesterday our pastor, Sam, shared a tiny bit of information about his childhood church. He said that though they stressed the importance of joy, it didn’t seem terribly joyful to him. I was raised Roman Catholic. I was a child in that church when the priest still had his back to us and spoke in Latin, which at the time I hadn’t learned. Talk about a lack of joy! And yet, that was not the image that came to mind.
As Sam spoke I felt myself thinking about the nuns I knew as a small child. From first grade to twelfth I was taught by the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet. Before they were my teachers many of them were my friends. My mother was the housekeeper at the convent and before I started school she took me there with her. I started my days seeing the sisters off to school and in the afternoon, after going home for a nap, I was there when they arrived home. I saw them in an environment most children don’t see. When they came in, the ones who had chores went to their chores and the ones who did not, went to the chapel, a.k.a., my favorite place in the whole house. I watched the sisters interact with each other and with my mother. They smiled and laughed. They spoke to each other with love. There may have been arguments among them but I never heard them.
Years later, many years later, a nun shared a story with me that I have never forgotten. She told me that each night as she was getting into her bed she felt the presence of her dearest friend, the most beloved person in her life, enter her room. She said that he came to her, bid her goodnight and tucked her in, wishing her sweet dreams. “I can’t see him,” she told me, “but I know he’s there. Every night he comes, my Jesus.” To be honest I found her, and her nightly routine, a bit odd at the time. I was barely in a relationship with Jesus then, still more church less Christ of a Christian.
When Sam’s words reminded me of the nuns all that came back to me, their joy, their profound love of Jesus and the calm in the convent and something clicked. The grim faces I saw, my own lack of joy, the sad state of too many churches, finds their origins in the same place, by giving Jesus a spot in our lives instead of making him the center. The sisters’ lives at home, at school, weekdays and weekends were devoted to the service of their Lord. Nothing they did was separate from their love of God. Most of us do not live that way. Jesus needs to be, as we sing in church, our all in all. He is that. He is our comfort, our strength and our joy, even when things look really bad, Jesus is pure good.
I’ve learned so much from Sam over the years that it seems fitting that with a few words, tossed in his sermon without any real purpose, he could remind me, that when the gloomy days come it is faith, trusting in God’s love for us, that will restore our joy.
Philippians 4:4
The other day I observed a large group of people and noticed a general gloominess of attitude. It bothered me because I was fairly sure that my attitude was in the same neighborhood. One of the core convictions of our church is that we all have issues that require tissues. I know that’s true but I’m usually a fairly joyful person, until lately that is. There seems to be a thief at my door these days who would love to snatch my joy from me, who has unfortunately been fairly successful. That has put me in prayer, asking why? I know the problem is never with our loving and unchanging God. That means the problem is me. A day ago I would have told you that God was not answering any of my questions. It seemed as if He wasn’t even hearing those queries. Then in the simplest way, He got my attention.
Yesterday our pastor, Sam, shared a tiny bit of information about his childhood church. He said that though they stressed the importance of joy, it didn’t seem terribly joyful to him. I was raised Roman Catholic. I was a child in that church when the priest still had his back to us and spoke in Latin, which at the time I hadn’t learned. Talk about a lack of joy! And yet, that was not the image that came to mind.
As Sam spoke I felt myself thinking about the nuns I knew as a small child. From first grade to twelfth I was taught by the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet. Before they were my teachers many of them were my friends. My mother was the housekeeper at the convent and before I started school she took me there with her. I started my days seeing the sisters off to school and in the afternoon, after going home for a nap, I was there when they arrived home. I saw them in an environment most children don’t see. When they came in, the ones who had chores went to their chores and the ones who did not, went to the chapel, a.k.a., my favorite place in the whole house. I watched the sisters interact with each other and with my mother. They smiled and laughed. They spoke to each other with love. There may have been arguments among them but I never heard them.
Years later, many years later, a nun shared a story with me that I have never forgotten. She told me that each night as she was getting into her bed she felt the presence of her dearest friend, the most beloved person in her life, enter her room. She said that he came to her, bid her goodnight and tucked her in, wishing her sweet dreams. “I can’t see him,” she told me, “but I know he’s there. Every night he comes, my Jesus.” To be honest I found her, and her nightly routine, a bit odd at the time. I was barely in a relationship with Jesus then, still more church less Christ of a Christian.
When Sam’s words reminded me of the nuns all that came back to me, their joy, their profound love of Jesus and the calm in the convent and something clicked. The grim faces I saw, my own lack of joy, the sad state of too many churches, finds their origins in the same place, by giving Jesus a spot in our lives instead of making him the center. The sisters’ lives at home, at school, weekdays and weekends were devoted to the service of their Lord. Nothing they did was separate from their love of God. Most of us do not live that way. Jesus needs to be, as we sing in church, our all in all. He is that. He is our comfort, our strength and our joy, even when things look really bad, Jesus is pure good.
I’ve learned so much from Sam over the years that it seems fitting that with a few words, tossed in his sermon without any real purpose, he could remind me, that when the gloomy days come it is faith, trusting in God’s love for us, that will restore our joy.
Comments
Post a Comment