Longing for Joy
Joy Makes Music
But the angel said to them, “Don’t be afraid, for look, I proclaim to you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.” — Luke 2:10–11, CSB
The first advent left in its wake a trail of songs. From Mary’s magnificat to the herald of angelic hosts, from the shepherds to Simeon’s praise, songs poured forth from the hearts of those who witnessed the birth of Christ and considered all its implications. Joy made music.
It was less the poetic instinct of those particularly inclined, and more a natural human response to the reality of what these people had seen. Confirmation of what had long been only a whisper. In spite of the centuries of silence, God’s people had not been forgotten. The Lord was not distant or indifferent. In his perfect timing, God the Son showed up as Mary’s son and was glad to be there.
In Joy Starts Here, Dr. Jim Wilder defines joy as a relational experience where someone is glad to be with us. Seen in this light, the Gospel is the ultimate announcement of joy. God’s salvation includes the affirmation of his unchanging, insistent delight to be with his people. The Divine possibility for unending joy for all was at hand. This was a reality so full and inexpressible, people took to song.
Think of the last time joy birthed in you an act of faith or devotion that could only be attributed to the inspiration of the Divine. More than likely, it felt closer to being swept up in a symphony or participating in a dance that was already underway than a well-executed, tactical plan.
What in your life feels like it’d be better served by Divine activity flowing from joy—a sense of God’s gladness—than by the decision flowchart we’re turning over in our minds and hearts for survival?
What in your life feels like it’d be better served by Divine activity flowing from joy—a sense of God’s gladness—than by the decision flowchart we’re turning over in our minds and hearts for survival?
In my own life, I’m longing for this kind of songwriting joy in fraught relationships, patterns of unbelief that have me feeling stuck, misunderstanding in my faith community, and complex work challenges where what’s best feels unclear.
Can you relate?
Joy is Consequential
“… because the joy of the Lord is your strength.” — Nehemiah 8:10, CSB
It’s consequential for us to long for joy because we need the same kind of creative outburst that results in song.
If joy served only to enrich our inner lives, it would be worth longing for. Knowing God’s gladness in light of setbacks and sufferings invites us into creative ways of taking hold of peace. It offers us resilient joy that yields a confidence in God’s love and an eagerness to share the burden of our fears, doubts, and worries in prayer (1 Peter 5:7).
But when we sense God’s deep gladness, Advent joy overflows and gives birth to the kind of courageous and creative energy that inspires us to activity that bears witness to God’s abundance. When this kind of joy inspires in us the decision to initiate a merciful and reconciling conversation in the breakroom or risk the awkwardness of inviting a lonely neighbor for a walk, it produces a kind of beauty that bears witness to Advent and Gospel realities. At great cost, God the Son drew near and for the joy set before him, Christ endured great pain for the treasures, feasts, and songs to come in his Second Advent.
This kind of joy, which sees beyond human constraints to inspire the music of sacrificial service and restoration, is consequential and worth longing for. This kind of joy is infectious—even if it’s a subtle toe tap, it’s hard not to join in when you’re swept up in a chorus of song. In this way, joy is less a luxury for the extroverted optimists among us, and more oxygen for our souls and balm for tired bodies and fractured communities. The communities we’re a part of and the spheres of influence we steward are longing for us to have this kind of joy.
How might this kind of intention—this mustard seed faith—shift, ever so slightly at first, the tenor of our tables, pews, schools, and board rooms?
When Joy Feels Elusive
How can we sing the Lord’s song on foreign soil? — Psalm 137:4, CSB
Whether our neighbors know it or not, there is a God who longs for them to know that he is glad to be with them, also.
But the Second Coming of Christ, along with its promises to render a reality void of brokenness and rich with goodness to match this gladness, can feel far off. Loneliness remains epidemic in our country and is a stated public health crisis. In a report by the CDC that’s now widely known, social isolation is linked to increased risk for heart disease, dementia, and premature death. A recent FAU study found that “deaths of despair” have doubled in the last twenty years.
From devastating headlines to our own personal traumas, none of us is a stranger to suffering. In my own community, we pray especially for those enduring their first holidays without the loved ones whose lives were lost during the Texas Hill Country floods. Personally, my family has been in a season of prolonged, major transitions stacked with disappointments, uncertainty, grief, and strained and lost relationships. On many days, joy—God’s gladness to be near—can feel distant and implausible.
How long O Lord?
Joy can feel like a stranger, and for some of us, Advent’s carols feel like an ill-timed song. The curse of sin offers plenty of reasons to doubt that our Creator is glad to be in our presence. The suffering we see and the suffering we carry tempt us to believe that we are barely tolerated, if not outright disdained by God. To embrace a longing or a desire for something that seems unlikely is a step toward vulnerability that feels natural to resist.
Yet, the story of the shepherds invites us to long and hope for joy nonetheless. In an act of Divine Waste, a ‘ multitude of heavenly hosts’ were sent to sing not over royalty or influencers, but forgotten night-shift laborers, unclean with the scent of livestock and likely clamoring for warmth under a cold night sky. This story reminds us that Advent joy is perhaps especially for us when earthly joys feel distant. That it is worth longing for.
In an act of Divine Waste, a ‘ multitude of heavenly hosts’ were sent to sing not over royalty or influencers, but forgotten night-shift laborers, unclean with the scent of livestock and likely clamoring for warmth under a cold night sky.
Psalm 126 carries a similar reminder:
Those who sow in tears
shall reap with shouts of joy!
He who goes out weeping,
bearing the seed for sowing,
shall come home with shouts of joy,
bringing his sheaves with him. (Psalm 126, CSB)
It’s those who mourn who shall be comforted.
How do we persist in longing for joy in this life? Advent itself is a part of the answer. Remembering the first coming of Christ and holding in view the promises of the second coming produces a worshipful longing in us and trains us to hold both realities: the tears of sowing and the joy of reaping together. This means we long without despair and rejoice without denial.
Joy in Advent is not naive. It doesn’t ignore the ache; it sings despite it. Because Advent knows the end of the story: the glad presence of God will one day fill every place and person.
Joy in Advent is not naive. It doesn’t ignore the ache; it sings despite it.
Singing on Foreign Soil
As Taiwanese immigrants, my parents especially longed for home. This was evidenced in how we decorated our house, the food we ate, and in our rituals. Weekly, we drove across the metroplex to eat food and buy groceries that were reminders of home and provided comforts to endure all the ways we felt out of place.
As citizens of a foreign kingdom and reality, the local congregations we belong to offer us reminders and recommended rituals to affirm that we are not yet home, and to endure in rehearsing our citizenship while we are sojourning. Consider the practices below as ways to nurture a life of joy in all areas of life, but especially on “foreign soil”—the places of enduring brokenness that are still under the influence of an evil one, hell bent on propagating the lie that God has abandoned us and there is no reason to hope.
These aren’t quick fixes or seasonal resolutions. They are slow, ordinary acts of faith—ways of tuning our lives to the music of the first Advent so that it keeps playing in us and through us.
- Sometimes it starts with a smile.
A recent psychological study found that a forced smile could be mood-boosting. Choosing to act in joy before we feel it can be more than a life hack toward shallow optimism; it can be a quiet act of faith. A smile that says, “I’m glad you’re here,” can be the first note of joy someone hears all day. In a cubicle row, on a factory floor, in a classroom hallway, a smile can make foreign soil feel just a little more like home. - Take stock of God’s gladness.
Each day there are faces that light up when they see us—sometimes we just haven’t noticed. And each day there are gifts, large and small, conspiring for us to know we are beloved: a text from a friend, a crisp morning breeze, a shared joke over lunch, the scent of bread baking in the kitchen. Advent invites us to treat these as evidence of God’s joy in us. Close your day by naming them, out loud if you can. Let your heart be trained to notice that you are not merely endured, you are enjoyed. - Practice and receive hospitality.
Joy flourishes in places where people feel welcome. Sometimes that means setting a table for others; sometimes it means letting someone else set it for you. Both require humility. Advent hospitality could be as simple as inviting a neighbor for a walk, making an extra pot of coffee for the team working late, or accepting an invitation you might otherwise decline because you “don’t want to be a bother.” In giving and receiving hospitality, we make visible the God who makes his home with us. - Serve with others.
There is a unique kind of joy that comes from shared work, especially work that blesses someone else. It’s the warmth in a church kitchen after cooking a meal for a grieving family. It’s the camaraderie of building a wheelchair ramp on a Saturday morning, or packaging food at the local pantry. Serving together turns individual joy into communal, harmonious strength.
The music of the first Advent wasn’t a commercial jingle—it was the beginning of a song that will never end. It began in Bethlehem, and it keeps being written in every act of creative service, every table set in welcome, every conversation where dignity is restored.
Minor or major chords, we need more of that music because the refrain is still the same: Good news. Great joy. For all people.
It’s still true. Joy makes music.
Steve Teng
Author
Steve Teng is a member of Church of the Cross in Austin, Texas. He serves with Kingdom Capital Network, where he supports small business owners proximate to under-resourced communities in advancing red...