Protesting Happiness

Sunday, October 12, 2014
Pentecost 18, Proper 23, Year A
Philippians 4:1-9

Every Wednesday morning at 9:30, John and I are in here doing Chapel with the Day School kids. I love greeting all those wiggly little people on their way in.  I love watching them light up as they shout out the songs John teaches them.  I love telling them Bible stories and hearing their giggles when I pull out an unexpected prop.  I love when we celebrate birthdays and the kids come up to be sung to.  I love our familiar prayer together, when they repeat the words back so reverently. 

But there is one part I do not like about Chapel.  There is one part I have trouble participating in.  And that is the tradition of closing chapel with the Day School song. 

 

“I’m downright, upright, inright, outright happy all the time.

I’m downright, upright, inright, outright happy all the time. 

Since I came to St. Aidan’s, I’ve made a lot of friends. 

I’m downright, upright, inright, outright happy all the time.”

 

They’ve probably been singing this song since the beginning of the Day School.  And it’s based on a religious kids’ song, that instead goes:  “Since Jesus Christ came in / and took away my sin / I'm downright, upright, inright, outright happy all the time.”

I have a serious theological issue with either version of this song.  I do not believe that we as Christians are called to be happy all the time.  I think it would be not just impossible but actually psychologically and spiritually damaging if we tried to be happy all the time.  And we can see in scripture that that is not the standard to which we are called.  Jesus was not happy all the time.  He was sad, weeping when his friend Lazarus died.  He was angry when the Temple was being used to take advantage of people.  He was disappointed when his disciples bickered amongst themselves.  He had all kinds of human emotions because he was human.  Being a Christian does not dispel those emotions.  Being a Christian does not require us to hide those emotions or pretend they are something other than what they are.  And so I worry that because we sing these words from the Day School song here in the Church it might stick in the kids’ heads that being a Christian means they should be happy all the time.  And so I have my silent protest, quietly keeping my mouth shut when we sing that song.

            At first, I heard Paul’s words from our Philippians reading that way too.  “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice!” “The Lord is near.  Do not worry about anything!” He sounded unreal, Pollyanna-ish, my mom would have said.  He sounded like someone who has either not experienced real pain or has somehow papered over it.  He did not sound like someone I’d want on our pastoral care team, certainly, sitting next to someone in grief and telling them to stop worrying and rejoice.

            It sounded like that old Bobby McFerrin song – “Don’t worry be happy.”  And for me, anyway, it rang hollow.  Happiness is what I feel when things are going well; it’s pleasure, glee, lightheartedness – a pleasant emotion.  Happiness is something we Americans think we can make happen if we work hard (its pursuit is one of our enumerated inalienable rights, after all).  And sometimes we achieve it; maybe even often if we’re lucky.

            But in this place in particular, sometimes I am struck instead by the enormity of our pain and struggle. Sometimes when I stand in the back of the church at the 5:30 service waiting in case someone wants healing prayers, or when we are all gathered up here around the table for communion, the hurts and disappointments are so palpable I can feel their heaviness. I think about the unique burdens each of us is struggling with.  We’re grieving the loss of a loved one.  We’re watching helplessly as spouses and parents change with dementia.  We’re feeling our bodies weaken with disease.  We’re trying to start families.  We’re looking for jobs.  We’re struggling in marriages.  We’re lonely in divorce.  We’re terrified of the things we cannot control in the lives of our children.  We’re exhausted by our responsibilities.  We are wracked with guilt and things that cannot be undone.  Our hearts are breaking.  And we see those things and much worse in the newspaper, so we know that pain is echoed and amplified around the globe.      

            It isn’t immediately obvious, but I think that is actually closer to where Paul was when he wrote these words.  Paul writes this letter to the church at Philippi from prison.  He is locked up in dismal circumstances.  If our prison system seems scary, dirty, overcrowded and inhumane today, just imagine what it must have been like almost 2000 years ago without heat, a/c, running water, and the ACLU.  So here is Paul wasting away in prison.  He is separated from the beloved communities of new Christians he has formed.  He is unable to pursue his mission the way he expected to.  He is getting reports that the churches he has built are shaky and bickering, that their leaders are at odds.  He knows his death is imminent.  These circumstances would hardly seem to instill joy or inspire rejoicing.  Yet here is Paul, shouting from the mountaintops with such certainty that the Lord is near, that rejoicing is possible, even in the midst of darkness and pain. 

This isn’t happiness Paul is talking about.  Happiness is too fleeting to sustain us.  Too shallow to rely on.  Paul is talking about something deeper and more lasting.  Something that has nothing to do with the emotion you feel at the moment or the circumstances in which you find yourself.  Paul is talking about a joy that can be rooted even in uncertainty and darkness and pain.  A joy that is something real, something worthy.  Because, as Paul knew, as Jesus knew, as each of us know, being a human is hard work.  Painful work. 

            Karl Barth talks about this Christian joy as being our defiant “Nevertheless!” to the world and to our circumstances.  Not a feeling, but the deep abiding ground of our being.  This is something I long for.  Something I deeply want for myself, for my children, for all of us.  And something Paul wants for himself and for the church in Philippi and all the other communities of faith that he is connected to.  In the midst of persecution and imprisonment and uncertainty, Paul offers suggestions to his beloved church at Philippi that might just work for the rest of us.

            “Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.”

            This isn’t “don’t worry be happy.”  This is “don’t worry, pray.”  We can’t banish our worries through human achievement.  All we can do is lay our burdens on God.  The best thing I did in seminary was take a prayer class taught by some of the monks from the Society of St. John the Evangelist.  They talked about sitting in silence, breathing slowly and deeply, consciously breathing in the peace and love and warmth of God, and breathing out our worry and stress.  If you ever need a community in which to try that, join us in here on the 1^st and 3^rd Tuesday evenings when we sit together in silence.  It doesn’t change the circumstances of our lives, but does, at least for those moments and for a while afterwards, change our perception of those circumstances.

            “Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”

            I think the modern word that might summarize Paul’s sentence here is mindfulness.  Trying to be in the moment, whatever and wherever that moment might be.  Whether you are cutting the lawn, or petting your dog, or taking a walk, or doing dishes, or having coffee with a friend, or waiting for a doctor’s appointment, find a way to savor that experience.  Discover and wonder and be delighted and amazed with the world around you.  Look for signs of love, for things to be grateful for.  Presume that God is present right there with you.  And remember to look for God, to wait for God.  The monks teaching my prayer class recommended taking time to just gaze at something that catches your eye in nature – a leaf, a flower, a ripple in the water – gazing long enough until you can see through it to its source: our creative and generous God.

            “Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me.”

            So we pray, we live mindfully, and we try to fill our days with the small and ordinary acts of kindness, generosity, forgiveness, encouragement and love that may not seem like much but are part of how we act as partners of spreading God’s love and grace.  Bringing a meal to someone who needs a hand, making a phone call to someone lonely, taking time to encourage a child.  Or whatever small opportunities might cross our paths.

I don’t think I will ever sing with confidence even: “I’m upright, downright, inright, outright joyful all the time.”  Although I’d be much more comfortable teaching those words to the kids in Chapel. 

I’m a work in progress.  We all are.  But I think half the battle is accepting that joy isn’t a feeling that we are striving for but the result of a deep grounding in the One who strives for us.

So maybe we just sing whatever song comes from our heart.  Pray the words that break forth from our pain.  And live our complicated lives as beings created and loved by God.  Amen.