Shine Like Stars | Live in Joy (Philippians 4:1-9)

Life isn’t always easy here. And it isn’t hard for friction to happen between people. If it keeps happening, it can start causing pain, and then start creating bitterness. And when bitterness has built up, a single spark can cause an explosion. There is a joy we are given as a gift through Jesus. This means we can rejoice together no matter how hard things get. This joy can help us live together with other imperfect people like us. And this is so important… because those who will spend an eternity in joyful unity might as well start living in that joy now. Life is just better that way. So let’s focus on the good gifts God has given us, and let that overflow with joy into not only our lives, but the lives of those around us.

Transcript

There’s a young man I’ve been counseling for a while now. He told me once, “Pastor, being around negative people—it just drains me. Like, what is their problem? There’s so much to be happy about, but they choose to live in pessimism.” That got me thinking about the wide spectrum of pessimism and optimism. It seems like in our world today, we’re stuck in a tug-of-war between two extremes. On one end is the divisive pessimist—the person who is almost energized by misery, the twisted solidarity of despair. I learned a new word this week: Doomscrolling. When you scroll your phone for bad news. But seriously, watch the news for 15 minutes. Sit with a friend going through a divorce. Look a teenager in the eye and ask if they’re excited for the future. Our culture is anxious, deeply fractured, frantically distracted, and increasingly despairing. And we know too much to just “think happy thoughts.” Then there’s the other extreme—the naive self-optimist. This person believes that if you just focus hard enough on the positive, if you manifest the right vibes, if you protect your energy and surround yourself with only uplifting people, you can create joy. But it’s shallow. It denies the pain of the world and pretends that you, on your own, are strong enough to push through it. And then, there’s the Christian. The Christian is neither naive nor despairing. The Christian is what we might call a pessimistic optimist.

We see the crumbling of the world more clearly than anyone—because we believe in original sin. We know how deep evil goes. We lament. We groan. We grieve. We’re not immune to sadness, to suffering, or even to cynicism. But we’re also filled with a hope that outlasts every empire and ideology. We are people of joy. Real joy. “Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!” Did you catch the critical phrase? “In the Lord.” This is not just some vague mindset. It’s not telling yourself to smile more. It’s not pretending things aren’t that bad. It’s not finding a silver lining. This is rejoicing in something—or rather, in Someone—unchangeable. Way back when we started studying Philippians, we defined joy this way: Jesus Owns You. That's what gives you joy. You belong to him. You are not your own. You were bought at a price. And because of that, your joy is not circumstantial. It’s not rooted in your performance or your positivity or your power to change things. It’s rooted in the crucified and risen Christ. As scholar N.T. Wright captured, “Our task in the present… is to live as resurrection people in between Easter and the final day.” And that changes everything. 

See, pessimism sees that things go wrong. And not just a little wrong. In the words of psychologist Jordan Peterson, if you reflect for even a moment on human suffering, “It should leave you trembling.” No amount of technological progress or self-actualization has removed the curse of sin: children still get cancer, spouses cheat, nations go to war, families fall apart, bodies decay, and people die.
Christianity, at its core, agrees. In fact, it tells the truth even more starkly. The Bible doesn’t teach that we’re all getting better and better if we just vote right or eat clean or manifest the good. No, it says: “The wages of sin is death.” The world is dying because we are dying. Humanity’s default setting is not “neutral.” It’s rebellion. It’s despair with a smile on. So if you’re tempted to be pessimistic, I get it. Jesus gets it too. He wept over Jerusalem. He sighed over the crowds. He agonized in Gethsemane. He didn’t pretend the world was fine. He knew it wasn’t. He felt the full weight of it. But here’s the twist: Jesus didn’t stop there. The cross and empty tomb happened and the Church has been sent!

Today is Pentecost—the birthday of the New Testament church. But really, it's not a new beginning. It's a reversal. Remember the Tower of Babel? That ancient attempt to climb up to God through human achievement? That was self-optimism at its worst. “We’ll make a name for ourselves,” they said. And God scattered them—divided language, fractured unity. But on Pentecost, he reversed it. Now, through the outpouring of the Holy Spirit, people from every nation under heaven heard the gospel in their own tongue. The message wasn’t climb your way up to God. It was God has come down to you. The Lord entered has entered your story, and resurrection joy never leaves you the same. That’s the gospel. And that gospel joy cuts through every lie—just like Peter’s Pentecost sermon did. Imagine him—Peter—who had denied Jesus three times, now standing in front of the very people who killed Christ, declaring, “This Jesus, whom you crucified, God has made both Lord and Messiah.” And what happened? They were cut to the heart. That’s what Spirit-filled preaching does. It wounds—and then it heals. And it still does.

That’s why with tears and undying grip we hold to the Word of God and we don’t romanticize optimism. The kind that says, “The universe has a plan.” “Don’t worry be happy.” It’s not just unhelpful—it’s a lie. What if the biopsy is positive? What if your kids don’t come back to church? What if your dreams die slowly, not dramatically, but in a thousand small disappointments? Naïve optimism can’t answer that. It just pastes a motivational quote over the gaping wound. “Live, laugh, love” doesn’t hold up in the ICU. But the Word does. The Word still cuts through the chaos and carnage of evil and shows us Jesus. The Word places his hands in ours, and wipes every tear of tragedy away. That’s the real power of Pentecost. Not just fiery tongues and dramatic conversions, but the deep and abiding love of God. The Spirit takes pessimists and turns them into proclaimers. He takes cowards and turns them into confessors. He takes sinners like us and says, “Go. You’re mine now. Be my witnesses.” And we go. Often stumbling. Often afraid. But we go. We follow Him. We have real joy.

The Christian faith is not sentimental escapism. It’s not shallow optimism. It’s gritty. It’s bloody. It’s full of tears and martyrdom and sacrifice, and hope unleashed. The story of the church is filled with failure and triumph, corruption and reformation. But through it all, one thing remains: the gospel is preserved. The Lord’s hands hold it so. I’ve been reading Tom Holland’s Dominion: How the Christian Revolution Remade the World. Holland is not a Christian himself, but he’s captivated by how this little band of misfits changed history—not with power, but with preaching. Not with swords, but with the cross. Not with mere emotions, but with truth and hope to die for. It’s important to remember this: Christianity is a faith of assurance. You're not on some emotional rollercoaster wondering every day, “Am I saved? Am I good enough?” No. You are saved because Jesus is enough. The same Spirit who came at Pentecost now lives in you. You’re his. So, we don’t give up. How can we, when we belong to God himself?

Instead…we rejoice. We rejoice in the One who took on our pessimistic hopelessness and bore it in his own body. We rejoice in the One who faced the worst the world had to offer—the betrayal, the beating, the cross—and triumphed. Remember what Pentecost really is! It’s the arrival of joy into a weary world. When the Holy Spirit came like wind and fire, he wasn’t handing out spiritual confetti. He was injecting courage and clarity into people who were once scared and scattered. Cynics became singers. They didn’t rejoice because Rome got nicer or life got easier. They rejoiced because the Spirit had rooted their lives in a reality that suffering couldn’t undo: Christ is risen. Christ is reigning. Christ is returning.
Even when society mocks us, even when the church is in decline, even when the culture grows more hostile to our faith—we don’t despair. Why? Because “The Lord is near,” as Paul tells us! Near to return, yes. But also near to you—personally. His Word is near. His promises are near. He is not far off, watching from a distance. He is with you. In you. That’s Pentecost power. That changes everything. If he’s near, you’re not alone. If he’s near, this pain isn’t forever. If he’s near, every tear will be wiped away. This is why Christians can live in that strange tension: eyes wide open to suffering… and hearts full of joy. It’s not denial. It’s death defiance. It’s not shallow. It’s Spirit-filled. It’s not naive. It’s rooted in the deepest truth the world has ever known: our Savior lives, and he’s coming back. This is joy. And it shows up in the most ordinary, beautiful ways.

Pentecost joy looks like a mom folding laundry at 11:30 p.m., unseen and unthanked, but holding onto her Savior’s promises in the silence. Pentecost power looks like the elderly woman who can barely make it to church, yet she comes—because she knows this gathering of saints is a foretaste of heaven. It looks like the college student who lives out his faith quietly, boldly—at the cost of popularity, friends, maybe even dreams. He falls asleep wondering if he belongs—and the Word whispers back, You do. Not to this world. To me. It looks like you—still being kind to the difficult neighbor. Still forgiving. Still speaking words of life. Even when it seems pointless. Even when all you get back is a huff and a door slammed in your face.

It looks like the Christian who sees the world falling apart—but doesn’t look away in defeat. Instead, they look up. When Paul says, “Don’t be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God,” that doesn’t mean you’ll never feel anxious. But it means anxiety doesn’t get the last word. When the weight presses in, you go to God. Not to the bottle. Not to the feed. Not to your own “grit.” You go to the One who’s already been to the cross and back. You pray. You pour out your fears and your failures. And then, you give thanks. Not for the pain, but for the presence of Christ in the midst of it. Because we know something the world forgets: Resurrection always follows death. The church has always grown through suffering. The seeds of the martyrs become the soil for revival. When the gospel is under fire, it flourishes. When it’s buried, it rises. That’s your story. That’s our story.

Let me say this plainly: the world doesn’t need more chipper people with coffee mugs that say “Too blessed to be stressed.” But the world desperately needs more Christians whose joy is so rooted in Jesus, it looks suspicious. The world needs believers who cry at funerals but sing resurrection songs through their tears. The world needs believers who look at the sin’s evil in our cities, our schools, our families—and don’t sugarcoat it—but who refuse to believe that evil wins. The world needs believers who are suspicious of slogans and campaigns and political saviors… but who kneel before the Crucified One and say, “You alone are my hope.” The world needs pessimistic optimists. Christians who know how dark it really is… and still light a candle. Because the light shines in the darkness. And the darkness has not overcome it.

There’s a moment in the movie Shawshank Redemption where the main character, Andy, risks punishment just to play music over the prison loudspeaker. A soaring duet from Mozart fills the yard. Every prisoner stops. No one speaks. And the narrator says, “For the briefest of moments, every last man at Shawshank felt free.” That’s what Pentecost is. Not Mozart in a prison, but the gospel of Christ breaking into a sin-shattered world and whispering: You’re free. You’re loved. You’re mine. So, rejoice. Not because life is easy. Not because you’re immune to sorrow. But rejoice because Jesus is better than you can even imagine. Amen.