Rejoice, Dammit: How to Keep a Perfectly Unreasonable Command

 “And, Paul was not very well-liked,” Father Bill said, matter of factly.

I had to chuckle. He was right. Father’s homily was on our second reading, Philippians 4 verses 4-7. He spoke on the Apostle Paul’s words, “Rejoice in the Lord always.
I shall say it again: rejoice!” Father Bill reminded us that Paul wasn’t just making the suggestion that we rejoice, but really “demanding” us to do it.

Yesterday was Gaudete Sunday, the third Sunday of Advent. It’s funny because that’s usually when I wake up and realize there is basically only one week of Advent left, and dangit if I haven’t missed the whole thing. So I was paying “extra” attention this time.

The command to rejoice in Philippians was coming from a guy who was imprisoned multiple times, beaten a bunch, shipwrecked, and was pretty much in danger of death at any moment. So, no, he wasn’t very well-liked. But Paul had something to teach us about the nature of rejoicing, and this was what Father Bill was focused on.

In his homily, Father Bill said that Paul had found a way to “go deep” to where the joy is steady. The surface of the ocean can be turbulent, choppy, even scary. But deep beneath the surface, it becomes calm. This is where he suggests we need to strive to be in our relationship with God the Father and with Jesus.

Rejoice, he said. And he said it again: rejoice.

I notice that often, for me, taking delight in something can be very surface-level. I rejoiced that my neglected plant didn’t die. I rejoiced that the soy sauce stain came out of Bob’s nice quarter-zip. I rejoiced that our heat bill wasn’t double what it was even though it had been bitter cold.

But rejoicing, as Paul demands, isn’t just about the quick hits of relief we get from life’s small victories. It’s about something deeper—joy that holds steady, no matter what’s happening at the surface. Paul’s joy wasn’t tied to his circumstances—he had every reason to despair. But like the calm beneath turbulent waves, his joy came from being anchored in God.

So all day I was thinking about the mandate to us as Christians to rejoice. And for some reason, I started a mental list of things that have recently made me feel a deeper level of joy.

Someone recently mentioned that he was spending time meditating. It took me by surprise because, even though I know this person to be a believer, I didn’t know that he was setting time aside to meditate. This brought me joy. I absolutely rejoice when someone even takes a small step toward God. He is always there waiting and ready.

I have mentioned here my pre-dawn walks outside, and those are moments of rejoicing for me. I might be a sleepy, uncaffeinated, disheveled mess, but I’m awake, and alive, and alone with God. Some days I don’t talk much, I just look at the stars or the moon (or the clouds). Other days I hit the street with a lot to talk to God about. This, I guess, is my version of “the deep,” where regardless of what happens when I go back inside the house, I’m rejoicing that I have a friendship with God.

And then there’s this: it’s nearly impossible not to rejoice when a baby smiles. I got the chance to spend a little time with our latest 10-month-old family member. And besides being adorable, she is just a precious little soul. When she smiles I imagine what it would have been like to see little Jesus smile—how Mary and Joseph and those shepherds must have rejoiced at the sight of him. A baby’s toothless grin (so often with a few remaining tears) is so vulnerable and so present. It feels almost like a glimpse of the Incarnation himself: the Word made flesh, God’s promise to be with us.

As we move through these last days of Advent, I’m trying to remind myself to rejoice, dammit. Not because everything is perfect, but because the perfect Word became flesh for us. Rejoice, because God is waiting in the quiet depths, ready to fill us with joy that lasts.