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Recently I’ve been irked by the phrase “choose joy,” if you can believe it.

 These two words have rubbed me the wrong way for the past few years and, for a while, I couldn’t understand why.

 There was a time when I didn’t think much of them. Maybe I even agreed with them.

I have probably posted a few poems with the hashtag #choosejoy or quietly reminded myself to choose joy while frustrated or sad or lost in a season of uncertainty. 

I see these words everywhere I go.

I’ve seen this phrase on sweatshirts, bumper stickers, social media posts, and even as the title of a sermon series.

 Now, before I go any further, I think it’s important I state that this writing is not an attack on those who say or write or wear these words. Perhaps these words serve as a helpful and healthy reminder or maybe they meet your cynicism with a better alternative. Perhaps we are even saying the same thing just with different words. However, I've started to see that if a phrase like this bothers me, maybe it bothers someone else, too. But I think there's power in words and it's worth examining the ways that we use them.

And so here I am writing about it.

A verse that has always stuck out to me is 1 Thessalonians 5 which says, “Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”

I have loved this verse for many years.

It centers my thoughts and invites me to rest in the overwhelming kindness of God’s goodness.

Yet, for a long time I thought to rejoice always meant I always had to be joyful.
 
As I thought about this verse the other day, I wondered if Jesus was always joyful.

I can’t imagine He was while on the cross or while mourning the death of Lazarus.

I know I am not always rejoicing or joyful.

Death, traffic, taxes, spilt coffee, and brokenness do not often invite or remind me to rejoice.

 Something has become clear to me: we, as humans, are quite beautiful and quite complex.

 We are as complicated as we are simple; as intricate as we are boring.

We are constantly being pulled in different directions as we experience the world and become who God created us to be.

When I read through the stories of the Bible I can see how this Thessalonians verse is reflected in characters throughout scripture. 

I see how David wrestled with issue after issue and yet he rejoiced in the goodness of God - even while He was crying out in pain, struggling with depression, and aching for change.

I see how the Disciples were all over the place.  

We see how Jesus himself wept and mourned.

I guess what I keep coming back to is that we can feel more than one emotion at once. 

For years, I thought I could either feel only this or that.

Happy or sad.
Overwhelmed or free.
Hurt or whole.
Peaceful or chaotic.
Joyful or depressed.

I didn’t think I could be both.

But I can.

And often I do feel more than one thing at a time.

We can hold joy and sorrow at the same time.

 Today I am holding the joy of freedom in Jesus, while feeling sorrow for the brokenness in the world.

 We can hold the hope of forever and the pain of today.

We can rejoice while being sad.

 Holding two emotions at once is some of the heaviest lifting we do.

 And I have to believe, as a follower of Jesus and a lost human being who has been found by grace, that joy is in every situation, but it is not always the leading character.

To me, the words "choose joy" don't capture all of that. Personally, they're not going to become my mantra or tumble out of my mouth when a friend asks for advice or support. In all honesty, to me, "choose joy" sounds a lot like "rub some dirt on it."

Someone once shared with me that the theme for their life is “no bad days.”

“How’s that working for you?” I asked.

The words choose joy aren’t working for me and maybe that’s why I’m writing about this. 

How do these two words come across to the one who is mourning?

The individual who desperately wants to be married …

The healthcare worker exhausted from the pandemic or another shift that went too long …

The human exhausted by the pandemic …

The child who comes home crying …

The couple who can’t get pregnant …

The parent who has to bury their child or spouse or pet … 

The family who is saying goodbye to a community they love …

To the one who is depressed or anxious …

To the one who is at their end … 

I believe, like hope, joy is beautiful and unending.

It’s hard to define, but you know it when you see it or feel it or know that it’s holding onto you. 

I have to believe joy makes room for other emotions. 

Joy gives space to sadness and fear and longing and depression.

Joy invites melancholy and frustration and grief and uncertainty to the table.

Joy doesn’t need the spotlight or microphone.

Joy is not a cheerleader or judge or influencer. 

If anything, joy is more like a grandmother.

A grandmother who has seen and hurt and loved and endured and celebrated and grown.

A grandmother who has been more than who she is today for more people than she can count.

But she is there. 

Present and willing.

Just like Jesus and the joy He gives to us.

I was at the airport the other day and a girl across the aisle had on a sweatshirt that said choose joy.

Maybe what I wish her sweatshirt said was, “There is joy in this.”

Instead of telling me to choose joy, remind me that joy has already shown up.

Remind me that joy has chosen me.

Remind me how Jesus never said, “Choose joy,” but He did say, “Come to me.”

An invitation to be with the One who gives joy, but doesn’t force it on you.

You do not always have to choose joy.

Joy has chosen you.

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