On this “Gaudete” or “Rejoice” Sunday, I would like start with a humorous story. It is about a famous preacher who was trying to teach his students to make their facial expressions harmonize with what they are speaking about. “When you speak of heaven,” he said, “let you face light up, let it be irradiated with a heavenly gleam, let your eyes shine with reflected glory. But when speak of Hell – well, then, your ordinary face will do.”

I hope I have a smile to match the theme of this Sunday’s readings. Isaiah says:

I rejoice heartily in the LORD,
in my God is the joy of my soul;

St. Paul, for his part, gives us this command, “Rejoice always.” It might seem strange that Paul orders us to be joyful. We tend to think that our happiness depends on external circumstances. If things are going well, we feel good. But if not, it seems hard to be joyful. That is true, but not completely true. It is possible to feel a certain kind of joy even when things are going badly.

I think of my dad in this regard. I will never forget when we took him to the hospital on account of a stomach pain. He had been unable to eat anything except broth for several days and he was feeling quite a bit of distress. The doctor examined him and afterward she told us that he had an intestinal obstruction. In the presence of my mom, my sister and me, she explained to my dad that he basically had two options. He could undergo an operation which could prolong his life for a number of months or she could administer palliative care which would give him three or four relatively pain free days that he could spend with his family. My dad looked at the doctor, then at us and said, “I guess this is it.”

My mom and my sister started crying. I did as well. Then my sister looked at my dad and said, “Look, Pa is smiling.” He was smiling. It may have been a special grace, but it was also that in times of crisis, my dad had learned to calm things with a small smile. This of course was the final crisis. Shakespeare spoke about “the dread of something after death, the undiscover'd country from whose bourn no traveler returns.” My dad, like almost every human being, experienced that dread, that awe in the face of death: what or who we might meet after we take our last breath. Yet at the same time, my dad was able to focus on the present moment, to feel a certain joy.

I am sure that you know people like my dad. He was part of a generation (and a social class) that did not make excessive demands on life. Rather, he had a way of gratefully accepting small gifts. And when things did not go well, he drew upon unexpected inner resources. It was not resignation or (God forbid) cynicism. It was a kind of humility like we see in today's Gospel where John could say plainly, “I am not the Christ.” I am not able to save you or even myself, but there is Someone who can. For Him we wait in joyful hope.

The great French novelist, Leon Bloy, said, “Joy is the most infallible sign of the presence of God.” The joy in question is not necessarily a bubbly feeling. In the ancient world, they understood happiness differently than we do today. For Aristotle happiness referred not so much to a passing emotion as to a whole quality of life: being in a right relationship with other human beings, with the world and ultimately with God.* Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” expresses this view of happiness. One of the lines says, “Even a worm has contentment.” That is, the lowly worm is in correct relationship with its world. For the worm it comes naturally. For us, we need to work at it – and to receive help from above. But we can find the happiness which St. Paul speaks of when he commands us, “Rejoice always.”**

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