Shine Like Stars | The Secret to Contentment (Philippians 4:10-23)

Some days go well and some don’t. Some days we feel like we’re on top of the world, and others like we’re on the bottom. If the value we place on our lives and ourselves is tied to how well things are going in our “everyday,” we’re going to be riding an uncomfortable roller coaster. We need something, someone we can look to for unchanging contentment no matter how our “everyday” is going. Paul had plenty of highs and lows, but learned the secret of contentment in any circumstances. His unchanging reason? Jesus. We can do everything through Him who gives us strength. If we have Jesus, we don’t need anything else. Genuine joy isn’t dictated by your changing circumstances, it is found in the unchangeable Lord.

Transcript

Back in 7th grade, my family took a trip down to Torreón, Mexico. My oldest brother Steve was serving his vicar year there (think pastoral internship), and I was just the awkward, glasses-wearing, braces-smiling little brother tagging along. And I’ll never forget one night in particular. We were sitting around a little street vendor—plastic chairs wobbling on the road, the air thick with the smell of grilled meat and jalapenos, soda in glass bottles dripping with condensation. These people had what most Americans would consider “nothing” materially. Most of these families had very little—some barely had homes with running water—but they welcomed us like it was the family reunion of the century. I remember looking around, thinking, “How do they have nothing, and yet it feels like they have everything?” There was laughter, presence, joy. No one rushed. No one scrolled. No one kept checking the time. They were content. And not content in the sense of settling. Content in the sense of fullness. And at the time, I didn’t have the words for it. But now through the Scriptures I do. Paul calls it a secret, a secret to a contentment far greater than deep community, but deep connection to the Lord himself.
“I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation,” he says. And we lean in. Because it does feel like a secret, doesn’t it? But we often come to this passage and zero in on the more well-known verse: “I can do all things through him who gives me strength.” That was my confirmation verse. And I love it. But I also misunderstood it for years because we’ve Americanized it. Turned it into a Christian motivational quote. A bumper sticker for triumph. A promise for success. A prosperity gospel mantra. The push for a CrossFit PR. You want that job? That scholarship? That goal? That body? You can do it—Christ strengthens you! And yes, he does. But when Paul says this, he’s not climbing the ladder of success. He’s not riding a wave of prosperity. He’s writing from house arrest. He’s been shipwrecked, beaten, abandoned, and yet—he says— “I have everything I need.” How? Because contentment is not a circumstantial virtue. It is a Christ-centered reality.
And here’s where it gets really interesting. The Greek word Paul uses for contentment is autarkeia – self-sufficiency. The Stoics loved this word. They believed the ideal person needed nothing and no one. They aimed for a life that could not be touched by external circumstances. Emotional invincibility. Radical independence. Don’t we hear the same influence today? We celebrate the person who carries their burden alone. The athlete who puts the team on her back. The one who doesn’t “burden others.” The one who overcomes alone. We’re shaped by a culture that admires the man who suffers silently, the woman who powers through privately. We treat independence like a fruit of the Spirit. But Paul says no.
Paul steals the Stoics’ favorite word and flips it. He says, yes, I have autarkeia, but it’s not because I am self-sufficient. It’s because I am Christ-sufficient. His strength is mine. And because of that, I can be full when I have much, and I can be full when I have little. And here’s the surprise—this secret doesn’t mean Paul is emotionally numb. It doesn’t mean he suppresses disappointment. No, it means that his joy has a different root system. It’s not growing out of the shifting soil of comfort or security or feeling. It’s anchored in Christ. So when his plans fall apart? When his support dries up? When his body aches? He can still rejoice. Not in the pain. But in the Person who hasn’t gone anywhere.

And then he says something that doesn’t get nearly enough airtime: “Yet it was good of you to share in my troubles.” Think about that. Paul isn’t just content because Christ gives him internal strength. He is content because of the love of the church. He’s not praising their independence. He’s praising their interdependence. And that cuts against everything in our culture. We don’t want to need people. We don’t want to be needed. We see other’s burdens so often as draining and fruitless. So the sin living in us says. But Paul writes that this is the Jesus-given glory of Christians. We don’t bail. We don’t retreat. We show up when it’s ugly and uncertain and costly. And that is a part of the secret.
See, we tend to think of contentment as this internal, personal peace. Me and Jesus. And there is truth to that. But too often we turn contentment into a cocoon. As if the goal of faith is to become so spiritually self-sufficient that we never need the body of Christ. That we never inconvenience ourselves with the burdens of others. But Paul doesn’t see it that way. He says, “This isn’t just about you and Jesus skipping through life. This is about being knit together with the Church. Because Jesus didn’t just die for you. He rose to make you part of something.” And if we’re being honest, there’s something in us that resists that. Something that idolizes individualism. Even in church, maybe especially in the church. We want the sermons we like, the music we prefer, the programs that serve our family. And the moment things get hard—the moment someone says something hurtful, or the church goes through adversity—we’re tempted to move on. To find a new place. A fresh start. A vibe that feels good again. But Paul’s saying: “If you run when it’s hard, you’ll miss the best part.” You’ll miss what happens when you stay. When you show up in the middle of someone else’s suffering. When you share in their troubles. Because that’s what Jesus did. He didn’t stay distant. He didn’t offer spiritual platitudes from heaven. He entered in. The cross wasn’t a backdrop for good theology. It was real blood. Real weight. Real trouble. Real salvation. Real connection with our Father in heaven.
And since it’s Father’s Day, we need to name this too: some of us carry what’s been called the “father wound.” A deep ache left by absence, neglect, anger, or silence. Maybe your dad didn’t bless you. Or couldn’t love you well. Or left you wondering if you mattered. And when earthly fathers fall short, it’s not just painful—it can bend the way we imagine God. But here’s what the gospel insists on: your Father in heaven is not a projection of your earthly dad; he’s the perfection of everything your dad was supposed to be. Steady. Tender. Just. Near. The Father who runs to the prodigal. Who stays with the wounded. Who doesn’t just tolerate you but delights in you. The Father’s voice calls to you now through his Word. Through Christ, you are not forgotten. You are wanted. You are loved. He is attentive to you. His Son is with you.
See, when Paul says, “Christ strengthens me,” he’s not imagining Jesus as some distant motivational coach shouting encouragement from the heavens. He’s talking about the crucified Christ. The one who bled to be near. The one who, on his way to Golgotha, allowed Simon of Cyrene to carry his cross. Not because he couldn’t—but because even there, even then, he was thinking about Simon. Drawing him in. Sharing the burden. Creating a bond. That day, Simon carried wood. Jesus was carrying Simon. And if Jesus did that—if he made room for others in his suffering so they could know his love—why do we try to hide ours? Why do we pull away when the weight gets heavy? Paul is saying, Don’t miss out! Don’t miss the mystery. Because when you suffer with someone else, when you shoulder their pain, you aren’t just being a good person. You are embodying Christ. You are being strengthened not just for yourself but for others.
This is what God intends to happen in his church. Not a place where everything is easy and agreeable. Not a place where we avoid the hard conversations or bury the hard truths. No, this is a place where we get into the mess. Where we walk together through it. Where we see the hidden wounds—like those Father’s Day wounds we’d rather not talk about—and we say, I’m not leaving you alone in this. Because Paul says when you share in someone’s suffering, you share in something sacred. And that goes against every consumer instinct in us. We think of church like a product. If the vibe isn’t right, we switch brands. If someone lets us down, we find a better option. But the church is not a product. It’s a people. A body. A family. And families don’t run when it gets hard.
And here’s the bottom line: If you live your whole Christian life trying to protect your comfort, trying to avoid the messiness of community, you will miss out on one of the richest graces God has for you. Because when you carry another Christian’s burden, God does something in you too. He strengthens you in that moment. He grows you through that love. You may think you’re helping them, but God is using it to sanctify you. That’s the paradox. When you show up in someone’s suffering, it doesn’t drain you—it fills you. It breaks you down and builds you up. It makes the gospel not just something you believe but something you bleed.
So when Paul says, “I can do all things through him who gives me strength,” he’s not saying, “I can crush my goals.” He’s saying, “I can bleed for this church. I can sit in a cell and still rejoice. I can go hungry and still have more than enough. Because Christ is in me. And he is enough.” And he is in you, too. He’s enough when the church is growing and when it feels like no one’s listening. He’s enough when your Father’s Day is a celebration and when it’s a source of pain. He’s enough when you feel like giving and when you feel like quitting. And when he strengthens you—it’s not just so you can make it through. It’s so you can show up. For that church member who’s barely hanging on. For that friend who keeps slipping through the cracks. For that sister in Christ who can barely lift her head. Because all the while, Jesus holds you, dear child of God. 
Because this is the gospel: Christ made your burden his own. And now he gives you the strength to make someone else’s burden yours. And in that place—in that holy weight-sharing—you will smile at the secret. The real one. Contentment. Not as a feeling. Not as a vibe. But as a Person. And his name is Jesus.  Amen.