Introduction
Every December, the word joy shows up everywhere. It’s printed on ornaments, stitched into pillows, sung in carols, and lit up in store windows. Joy becomes part of the scenery of the season—bright, familiar, expected. And yet for many people, the word doesn’t quite land the way it’s supposed to. It’s not that we don’t want joy. It’s that joy often feels harder to access than the season promises.
That’s because most of us have been taught to confuse joy with happiness.
Happiness comes in moments. It rises when something good happens and fades when it doesn’t. It’s tied to circumstances, schedules, and seasons of life. Happiness is real, and it’s a gift—but it’s also fragile. It depends on what’s happening around us. And when the moment changes, happiness often goes with it.
Advent never pretends otherwise.
Scripture is remarkably honest about the world Jesus enters. It doesn’t describe a calm or easy season. It names fear, exhaustion, grief, exile, loss, and uncertainty. And yet, right in the middle of that reality, the Bible speaks boldly about joy—not as a feeling we’re supposed to generate, but as something God gives.
Advent joy is not shallow optimism. It is not denial. It is not pretending everything is fine.
Advent joy is something sturdier. Something steadier. Something that doesn’t evaporate when the moment passes.
That’s why I’ve titled this message “Joy: The Gift That Outlasts the Moment.”
Because biblical joy is not something you hold onto for a season—it’s something that holds you. It doesn’t rise and fall with your circumstances. It doesn’t depend on how the year has gone or how the next one looks. Joy, in Scripture, is rooted in God’s action, God’s presence, and God’s faithfulness.
And that means joy has a shape to it. A movement. A journey.
In the story of Advent, joy doesn’t appear all at once in its fullest form. It arrives, often unexpectedly. Then it strengthens people who are weary and rebuilding. And finally, it endures—even when everything else has been stripped away.
That is the journey we’re going to walk together today.
We’re going to start in the fields outside Bethlehem, where joy breaks into the night not because anyone was ready for it, but because God chose to give it. Then we’ll move to the streets of Jerusalem, where joy becomes strength for people who are exhausted, grieving, and trying to begin again. And finally, we’ll stand with a prophet in a barren land, where joy remains even when happiness has completely run out.
This is not a sermon asking you to feel joyful.
It’s a sermon inviting you to receive joy as grace,
to lean on joy as strength,
and to trust joy as something that endures.
POINT ONE — Chara (kha-RAH) Joy Is Received, Not Achieved
Luke 2:8–14 (NLT)
“That night there were shepherds staying in the fields nearby, guarding their flocks of sheep.
Suddenly, an angel of the Lord appeared among them, and the radiance of the Lord’s glory surrounded them. They were terrified,
but the angel reassured them. ‘Don’t be afraid!’ he said. ‘I bring you good news that will bring great joy to all people.
The Savior—yes, the Messiah, the Lord—has been born today in Bethlehem, the city of David!
And you will recognize him by this sign: You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.’
Suddenly, the angel was joined by a vast host of others—the armies of heaven—praising God and saying,
‘Glory to God in highest heaven, and peace on earth to those with whom God is pleased.’”
If you want to understand biblical joy, you have to start here—not with a feeling, not with an instruction, but with an announcement. Luke tells us the shepherds were simply doing what they always did, guarding their flocks through another cold, dark night. Nothing in their world suggested that joy was near. They weren’t searching for it. They weren’t expecting it. They weren’t preparing their hearts for it. They were just getting through the night.
And that’s exactly where joy shows up.
The angel doesn’t arrive because the shepherds are especially faithful or spiritually impressive. He arrives because God has decided the time has come. Before the shepherds can react, before they can gather themselves, before they can even understand what they’re seeing, heaven breaks open and the glory of the Lord surrounds them. Their first response isn’t joy—it’s fear. And that matters, because it tells us something important: joy does not begin with the right emotional posture. It begins with God’s initiative.
That’s why the angel’s first words are not “Rejoice,” but “Don’t be afraid.” God does not demand joy from frightened people; He gives joy to them.
When the angel says, “I bring you good news that will bring great joy,” Luke uses the Greek word chara (χαρά — kha-RAH). And that word choice is intentional. Chara is not about surface happiness or emotional excitement. It is joy that flows from grace. In fact, chara shares its root with charis, the New Testament word for grace, gift, and unearned favor. This is joy that comes not because something went right, but because God gave Himself.
In other words, chara is joy that arrives before anything changes.
The shepherds’ circumstances are exactly the same before and after the angel speaks. The sheep still need watching. The night is still dark. Their lives are still ordinary. But something decisive has happened—joy has entered their world, not as a mood, but as a message. Not as something they feel their way into, but as something God announces over them.
This is the first step in the journey of Advent joy:
Joy arrives as grace.
It is not achieved.
It is not earned.
It is not worked up from within.
Joy comes because God has acted.
The angel does not say, “If you change your life, you’ll find joy.”
He does not say, “If things improve, you’ll feel joy.”
He does not say, “If you believe hard enough, joy will follow.”
He says, “I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people:”
Joy, in Scripture, always begins with good news—news about what God has done, not instructions about what we must do. The good news here is not simply that a child has been born, but that the Savior has come near. God has stepped into human history. God has entered the darkness. God has drawn close to ordinary, overlooked people. And because of that, joy is now possible in a way it never was before.
This is why the shepherds matter so much in the story. They represent people who have nothing to offer God but their availability. They aren’t cleaned up. They aren’t prepared. They aren’t expecting a holy moment. And yet they are the first to receive the announcement of joy. Grace always goes first to people who know they need it.
That’s what makes chara such a powerful word. It reminds us that joy is not something we summon—it’s something that finds us. It comes to us in the middle of our fear, our fatigue, our ordinariness. It comes before we’re ready. It comes because God is generous.
And notice where this joy is announced. Not in the temple. Not in the palace. Not in the center of religious or political power. Joy arrives in a field, in the dark, on the night shift, among people who feel small and unseen. God does not wait for ideal conditions to give joy. He brings joy precisely where it is most needed.
That’s why Advent joy is so different from happiness. Happiness depends on conditions. Chara depends on Christ. Happiness comes and goes with the moment. Chara comes from God’s decision to be with us.
The shepherds do eventually move. They go to Bethlehem. They see the child. They return changed. But none of that creates joy—it flows from joy already given. Joy arrives first, then it begins to reshape how they see the world.
This is where the journey begins for us as well. Before joy strengthens us, before joy sustains us, before joy endures through loss, joy must first be received. Advent does not ask you to feel joyful. It announces that joy has already come near in Jesus Christ.
You don’t climb your way into joy.
You don’t perform your way into joy.
You don’t fix your life to earn joy.
Joy arrives as grace.
And grace always comes first.
“Joy doesn’t begin with how you feel — it begins with what God has done.”
POINT TWO — Joy Is Rooted, Not Reactive
Chedvah—חֶדְוָה (KHEHD-vah).
Nehemiah 8:9–10 (NLT)
“Then Nehemiah the governor, Ezra the priest and scribe, and the Levites who were interpreting for the people said to them, ‘Don’t mourn or weep on such a day as this! For today is a sacred day before the Lord your God.’ For the people had all been weeping as they listened to the words of the Law. And Nehemiah continued, ‘Go and celebrate with a feast of rich foods and sweet drinks, and share gifts of food with people who have nothing prepared. This is a sacred day before our Lord. Don’t be dejected and sad, for the joy of the Lord is your strength!’”
By the time we arrive in Nehemiah 8, joy is no longer arriving from the outside. It has moved deeper. It is no longer announced by angels in the night sky; it is spoken gently to people who are exhausted, emotional, and unsure how to begin again.
Israel is home—but just barely.
They have returned from exile after decades of displacement, and what they find waiting for them is not a triumphant restoration, but rubble. The walls are broken. The city is scarred. Their identity as God’s people feels fragile. They are trying to rebuild a life that no longer looks the way they remember. And when Ezra opens the Book of the Law and begins to read, the words don’t spark celebration—they spark tears.
These are not tears of happiness. They are tears of recognition. Tears of regret. Tears of grief for what was lost and fear over what still lies ahead.
This is the moment when Nehemiah steps forward and says something that feels almost surprising: “Don’t mourn… for the joy of the Lord is your strength.”
That sentence only makes sense if we understand the Hebrew word Nehemiah uses for joy. It is chedvah—חֶדְוָה (KHEHD-vah). This is not the common word for joy. It is a rarer, more specific word, and it carries weight. Chedvah does not describe cheerfulness or emotional brightness. It describes strengthening joy—joy that restores energy to weary people and gives stability to those who feel undone.
In other words, chedvah is joy that holds you up.
Nehemiah is not telling the people to stop crying because their pain doesn’t matter. He is reminding them that their pain does not get the final word. Their strength was never going to come from fixing the past or rushing the future. Their strength comes from the Lord who has already proven Himself faithful.
That’s why Nehemiah can say this joy belongs to the Lord before it belongs to them. “The joy of the Lord is your strength.” This joy does not originate in their emotions, their obedience, or their progress. It flows from God’s character. God is the source of it, and because God does not change, this joy is stable enough to become strength.
This is the next step in the journey of grace.
In Point One, joy arrived as grace. Here, joy becomes strength.
Grace does not stop at announcement. Grace sustains. Grace supports. Grace carries people who are too tired to carry themselves.
Nehemiah understands something deeply pastoral here. He does not shame the people for their tears. He does not rush them through their grief. Instead, he reframes the moment. He reminds them that even in their weakness, God is present. Even in their unfinished rebuilding, God is faithful. Even in their sorrow, joy is doing a quiet, strengthening work inside them.
And then Nehemiah gives them instructions that feel almost tender. He tells them to eat something good. To drink something sweet. To share with those who have nothing prepared. This isn’t denial—it’s care. He knows that joy grows when people are nourished, when burdens are shared, when no one is left alone.
- Chedvah is not loud joy. It is not dramatic joy. It is not joy that demands celebration before people are ready.
- Chedvah is the kind of joy that steadies trembling hands. It is joy that becomes a place to stand.
This is why Scripture can say joy is strength. Not because joy makes life easy, but because joy keeps life from crushing us. Joy does not erase hardship; it gives us the resilience to face it. Joy does not rush healing; it makes healing possible.
John Wesley spoke of it as “the calm, beautiful brightness of a soul at peace with God.” He was describing chedvah—joy that is not reactive, not fragile, not dependent on the moment, but deeply rooted in the faithfulness of God.
Happiness reacts to circumstances. Chedvah holds steady within them.
And that’s why Nehemiah can say, without hesitation, “This joy is your strength.” Not after the walls are finished. Not after the city is restored. Not after the people feel confident again. Now. Right here. In the middle of rebuilding.
Grace has arrived. Now grace becomes strength.
“This joy doesn’t erase your tears — it gives you the strength to stand while you’re still wiping them away.”
POINT THREE — Joy Endures When Happiness Runs Out
Habakkuk 3:17–18 (NLT)
“Even though the fig trees have no blossoms,
and there are no grapes on the vines;
even though the olive crop fails,
and the fields lie empty and barren;
even though the flocks die in the fields,
and the cattle barns are empty,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord!
I will be joyful in the God of my salvation!”
And now as our journey through grace reaches the prophet Habakkuk, joy has traveled a long way. It has arrived as grace. It has become strength. Now we see what happens when even strength feels thin—when circumstances strip life down to its bare essentials and happiness is no longer available as an option.
Habakkuk speaks at a moment when nothing is left to prop him up. The land is failing. The systems that sustained daily life—food, economy, security—are collapsing. There is no harvest to look forward to, no visible sign that things will turn around soon. From a human perspective, this is the end of optimism. There is nothing left to point to and say, “This is why I can still be okay.”
And yet, joy remains.
Not because the situation improves.
Not because answers appear.
Not because suffering is minimized.
Joy remains because grace endures.
Habakkuk’s declaration is not rooted in circumstances at all. It is rooted in God Himself. And the Hebrew word that carries that truth is gil—גִּיל (geel). Gil is not quiet contentment or restrained optimism. It is joy that moves. Joy that lives. Joy that rises from deep within a person even when everything external has been taken away.
Gil is the joy of someone who has lost every visible reason to rejoice and yet refuses to let go of God.
This is not emotional denial. Habakkuk is not pretending the fields are full or the barns are stocked. He names the loss honestly. What gil shows us is that biblical joy does not require pretending things are better than they are. It requires trusting that God is still who He has always been.
That’s the heart of enduring grace.
Grace that arrives tells us God is near.
Grace that strengthens tells us God will hold us up.
Grace that endures tells us God will remain with us even when everything else falls away.
Gil is joy that no longer depends on outcomes. It is joy that has been weaned off circumstances and anchored fully in the character of God. Habakkuk is not rejoicing in what he has; he is rejoicing in who God is. His joy survives because it no longer draws life from the moment—it draws life from the faithfulness of God.
When Habakkuk speaks of God as “the God of my salvation,” he is not referring to a single event in the past. In Hebrew thought, salvation is ongoing. It includes rescue, protection, provision, and presence. It is God’s steady commitment to remain with His people through every season. Habakkuk is saying, in effect, “Even if nothing else saves me, God still will.”
This is why joy can endure when happiness cannot.
Happiness needs something to point to.
Joy anchored in grace needs only God.
Happiness requires light.
Grace-filled joy can survive the dark.
Happiness fades when the moment collapses.
Joy rooted in God remains standing when the moment is gone.
Protestant voices across history have recognized this truth. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, writing from prison, insisted that joy is not the absence of suffering but the presence of Christ. Charles Spurgeon taught that joy in God shines brightest when earthly comforts are stripped away. Neither man believed joy was fragile. They believed joy was revealed most clearly when everything else failed.
That is exactly what happens in Habakkuk.
The darkness does not erase joy.
It clarifies it.
Pain does not disprove joy.
It exposes where joy is truly rooted.
This is why gil is such a powerful word for Advent. Jesus did not enter a world that was thriving. He entered a world marked by oppression, fear, and uncertainty. God did not wait for ideal conditions to send His Son. He sent Him into the darkest moment because that is where enduring joy was most needed.
If joy only belonged to people with stable lives and full barns, Advent would have nothing to say to most of us. But Advent proclaims something far better: that grace endures, and because grace endures, joy can remain even when everything else falls away.
This is not joy that ignores grief.
It is joy that walks with you through it.
This is not joy that demands celebration.
It is joy that quietly steadies the soul.
This is not joy that fades when happiness is gone.
It is joy that survives precisely because happiness is no longer holding it up.
Habakkuk’s joy endures because it has finally let go of every false support. It rests completely in God. And that is the final movement of grace: not joy that depends on the moment, but joy that remains because God remains.
Grace arrives.
Grace strengthens.
And grace endures.
And when grace endures, joy remains—deep, steady, and unshaken—no matter what falls away.
“When everything else falls away, grace remains — and joy remains with it.”
CONCLUSION — Joy: The Gift That Outlasts the Moment
As we step back and look at where this journey has taken us, we can see that Scripture has been quietly reshaping our understanding of joy the entire way. Not redefining it all at once, but leading us deeper—step by step—through grace.
First, joy arrived.
Out in the fields of Bethlehem, joy came without warning and without conditions. It wasn’t summoned or earned. It wasn’t the result of spiritual preparation or emotional readiness. Joy arrived because God chose to come near. Before the shepherds felt anything at all, joy was already present—announced as good news, rooted in grace. That’s where joy always begins. Not with us, but with God’s decision to move toward us in love.
Then, joy became strength.
When the people of Israel stood in Jerusalem, surrounded by unfinished walls and unfinished lives, joy didn’t disappear. It settled in. It became something they could lean on. The joy of the Lord did not erase their grief, but it gave them stability inside it. Grace that arrived now became grace that sustained—joy that did not react to circumstances, but rooted them while they rebuilt. This is where many of us live: in the long middle, where life isn’t falling apart completely, but it isn’t fully restored either. And here, joy becomes strength—not excitement, not cheerfulness, but resilience.
And finally, joy endured.
With Habakkuk, joy reached its deepest place. When everything external was stripped away—when there was no harvest, no security, no reason for optimism—joy did not vanish. It remained. Not because life improved, but because grace endured. Joy was no longer leaning on circumstances or even on strength. It was anchored completely in God Himself. This is joy that survives loss. Joy that stands when nothing else can. Joy that remains because God remains.
This is the full journey of Advent joy.
Joy that arrives as grace.
Joy that becomes strength.
Joy that endures when everything else falls away.
And the beauty of this journey is that it doesn’t ask where you should be—it meets you where you are. Some of you may be in the first stage right now, discovering again that joy is something God gives, not something you have to produce. Some of you may be in the second stage, leaning hard on joy as strength while you rebuild something broken or uncertain. And some of you may be in the third stage, where happiness has long since run out, and all that remains is a quiet, stubborn trust that God is still faithful.
Wherever you are, Advent speaks the same promise: joy is not fragile.
Joy does not depend on the moment.
Joy does not disappear when circumstances change.
Joy is not something you hold together by effort or emotion.
Joy is the gift God places within you because Christ has come.
And that is why this joy outlasts the moment. It outlasts the night. It outlasts the grief. It outlasts the uncertainty. It outlasts even the seasons where happiness is nowhere to be found. Because joy’s source is not the world—it is Jesus Christ.
So as we light the candle of joy, we are not claiming that life is easy or pain is absent. We are proclaiming something far deeper: that grace has come, grace is holding us, and grace will not let us go.
Christ has come.
Christ is with us.
Christ will come again.
And because of that, joy will always have the final word.
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