Faithful Paradox

If I were to give an honest assessment of my natural temperament, I would say I tend to be a glass-half-full type of gal. My native bent would be like that of a Puddleglum or maybe a slightly more refined Eeyore. Were I to choose, I’d much prefer to have the natural countenance of say a Tigger or Chris Traeger (with slightly less hyperactivity), always seeing the world through a hopeful, starry lens.

Since losing my son almost 4 years ago, on top of battling a natural Puddleglumish countenance, I find most days, a low-level depression walks with me. It seems when my son died, there was something within me that also died. I hoped in the first several years it might prove to just be a dormant part of my heart; that it would eventually resuscitate. I am now trying to embrace the reality that this may be the new state of my heart. I don’t despise it. I am simply trying to learn how to live with its always present, although often quiet, sorrow.

Between my natural countenance and the present low-level depression, the concept of joy has proven to be a point of wrestling for me.

Growing up, I struggled to understand how to engage the challenges of life in a way that both made space for the sorrows, but also allowed joy to exist. I was often exhorted to choose joy, but my understanding of joy caused this to feel deeply disingenuous.

I viewed joy as a formula; the sum of happy thoughts. My understanding of joy was that it was the thing good Christians had to do in order to come across as happy. It was behavior modification. Joy was the opposite of sorrow. It was “fake it until you make it.” We’re commanded not to grumble. There was no room to struggle. No space for sorrow. Put on a happy face. Don’t let your negativity be a burden to others, or even worse, reflect poorly on Christ. Just choose joy.

I believed if I could figure out how to choose joy, then I should feel happier. If I had joy, it would mean that I wouldn’t wrestle with grief and sadness. The problem was, no matter the amount of trying to choose joy, the sorrow didn’t always lift. The sadness still insisted on making itself known. Joy was not the formula to undo hardship. It was not the solution for my Puddleglummed heart.

The concept of joy can, at times, feel deeply confusing. What is meant when Scripture exhorts its readers  to, “be joyful always,” (1 Thes. 5:16)? Is joy a superficial smile and a trite, “God is good all the time”? Is it a formula for happiness? Is it grinning and bearing the sorrows of life, ignoring the pain? Is joy an emotion? Is it shoving down sadness? Do I just fake happiness, hoping that somehow my emotions will follow?

In all this wrestling, as I have tried to drill down on what Christian joy truly is, I have found joy is a practice which takes discipline. It’s a promised fruit of the Spirit, but one that requires intention. It’s a conscious and oftentimes daily decision to believe the promises of God, allowing those promises to buoy hope. And much like working out at the gym, the more consistent and disciplined I am in my exercise of choosing joy, the stronger the muscles become.

Joy is not a formula. It’s not a solution to make things feel okay. It’s not a system to make sorrow lift or grief abate. Joy is the discipline of pointing my gaze toward the promises of God, even in the midst of the sorrows of life. It’s hopeful lament married to faith in Christ. It’s giving thanks for the good, even as what has been lost is mourned. It’s a battle of believing God’s word is true, even when sadness tells a different story. It’s a deep and abiding trust in the character of God, not because of my circumstances, but often despite them.

The paradox of true joy is that it is not simply an emotion of happiness, but it’s a discipline which can hold both the good that God has next to the sorrow. Joy is both steadfast hope in what God has said will come to pass while patiently enduring the pain of today. It’s training our eyes to see God’s kingdom coming and his will being done on earth as it is in heaven. It’s clinging to the promise that for God’s children, suffering will always be redemptive. It’s a discipline of hope, remembering that because of Christ, sorrow, pain, and weeping are not the end and even now, there is blessing to be found. It’s the practice of looking for glimpses of God’s promises and movements in the middle of the chapter, even when the story is unfinished.

Joy recognizes that, like Jesus, we can endure what is in front of us for the joy set before us. True joy does not mute the reality that life is often wrought with pain, but acknowledges beauty can be found in the midst of it all. Joy knows God has promised he is with us as we journey, and his nearness is our good. Joy clings to the promise that one day, because of Christ, all will be made right and even now, there are glimpses of redemption in the midst of the sorrows.

Joy remembers that God has promised tears will cease and morning will dawn, but inherent in that promise are tears and darkness. The discipline of joy doesn’t ignore the night or hold back the weeping. It both acknowledges them yet reminds them, “It won’t always be this hard. You have a good Father who has promised good and even now, there is good to be found.” 

If I’m honest, even as I discipline my mind toward joy, I find I often still feel sad. I still feel the weight of loss. I still grieve and mourn. I find I wish the discipline of joy would cause my emotions to change as well. Often, this is not the case. Joy is not a remedy for sorrow, rather joy and sorrow live side by side; coexisting. The discipline of joy reminds my heart there is weeping now, but it won’t last forever. Even today, God is at work. The discipline of joy directs my heart to look for the ways God is moving right now for my good and his glory.

True joy holds both delight and sorrow. It does not erase sadness; it is not a formula. Joy comes alongside sorrow and walks with it in a way that helps point our eyes toward more than what this moment offers. The discipline of joy is the practice of looking beyond what we can see and understand, beyond what we can feel, knowing that, “the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal” (2 Cor. 4:18).