"A Joy That Can't Be Chained" (April 12, 2026 Sermon)

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A Joy That Can’t Be Chained

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Second Sunday of Easter — Sunday, April 12, 2026

Text: Philippians 1:1-30

Scripture

Philippians 1:1-30

Grumpy Paul and Lovey-Dovey Paul

There are at least two “Pauls” in the New Testament. There’s what I like to call “grumpy Paul.” In these passages, Paul comes across as irritated, biting, sarcastic, and at the end of his rope. Galatians is a great example of this, where he barely finishes his greeting before launching into a scolding, accusing them of deserting Christ and turning to a different gospel.

On the other hand, you have “lovey-dovey Paul.” Nowhere else in the Bible is Paul more affectionate than in his letter to the Philippians. If Galatians shows us Paul with his jaw clenched, Philippians shows us Paul with his heart open.

And what’s the key, you might ask, to bringing out “lovey-dovey Paul” instead of “grumpy Paul”? Well, the answer, apparently, is snacks! As the father of two young children, I can attest to the importance of a well-timed snack in warding off grumpy behavior.

You see, Paul was in prison for preaching the gospel. But before this imprisonment, he helped plant a church in Philippi, a Roman colony in Macedonia. When the Philippians heard that Paul was imprisoned, they sent a man named Epaphroditus with a love offering, likely food and provisions—a.k.a. snacks!—to sustain him. Epaphroditus, as we’re told elsewhere in the letter, became very sick when he visited Paul in prison, so sick that he nearly died. After he recovered, Paul sent Epaphroditus back to the church. But he didn’t send him away empty-handed; he sent Epaphroditus with a letter to the Philippians. And for the next four weeks, you and I will be walking through this letter, chapter by chapter.

Joy Right in the Middle of It

To be clear, the Philippians didn’t just send Paul snacks; they sent care, solidarity, and partnership in the gospel. Because of that, Paul sent back a letter encouraging the Philippians to keep living the Good News. And in that spirit, we begin with the first chapter, listening for God’s word, which encourages us to do the same. For the next several weeks, we’ll take a stroll through this New Testament epistle, full to the brim with joy. And it’s not a happy-clappy, pie-in-the-sky kind of joy. This isn’t an Instagram-filtered joy, or the kind of joy propped up by slogans like “too blessed to be stressed.” No, this is a joy that’s seen some things—a joy found not in the absence of hardship, but right in the middle of it.

This is a joy that’s seen some things—a joy found not in the absence of hardship, but right in the middle of it.

You and I are living in a moment when people are yearning for exactly that kind of joy: joy “right in the middle of it.” “It” can, of course, be any number of things. How does one find joy when the kids are refusing to get ready for school, the bills are piling up faster than the paycheck comes in, and the news keeps reminding us how fragile and frightening this world can be? Philippians is Paul’s witness that joy is possible, not because life is easy, but because Christ is present right in the middle of it.

Last Sunday, on Easter, we said that the good news is alive in the world — that resurrection does not remove us from the world’s fear and grief but sends us back into it with astonishment, courage, and hope. Now, in Philippians, we find Paul making the same claim from a prison cell. The risen Christ is still present. The good news is still alive. Therefore, joy is still possible, even right in the middle of it.

Being Faithful Somewhere

Anne Lamott writes, “Everything slows down when we listen and stop trying to fix the unfixable.” That line caught my ear this week because I think much of our suffering comes from trying to carry what was never ours to carry alone. We are surrounded by painful realities, personal struggles, and crises in the world, and many of them are simply too big for any one of us to fix. That creates a real dilemma for people raised on the gospel of individualism: we are taught to believe that everything depends on us, even when we know deep down that it does not.

Instead of trying to solve the whole world, I ask: what has Christ put in front of me today? I can teach my daughters to be gentle, kind, and resilient. I can strive to live a life grounded in the good news of Jesus Christ, one that loves neighbor and tells the truth. I can cultivate friendships with people who share the conviction that every human being bears the image of God, even those we struggle to love. I cannot fix everything. But by the grace of God, I can be faithful somewhere, and so can you.

I cannot fix everything. But by the grace of God, I can be faithful somewhere, and so can you.

We see that wisdom in this first chapter of Philippians. Paul cannot fix his imprisonment. He cannot fix the motives of other preachers proclaiming Christ. He cannot control his future. But he can rejoice. He can still sing Hallelujah anyway. And that, I think, is the good news at the heart of this first chapter of Philippians: joy in Christ is not the same as solving everything. And that, friends, is good news we can receive with a long, honest sigh of relief.

A Backyard Glimpse of Joy

In the middle of yet another week shaped by a violent, chaotic news cycle, I found myself completely spent after Easter Sunday and the long marathon of Lent leading up to it. I was tired. I was empty. I was grumpy. The good news may have been alive in the world, but I wasn’t particularly feeling it myself. And when I get that way, my instinct is usually to withdraw.

But lately, I’ve been trying to listen to a different voice, one reminding me that while rest is important, rest is not always the same thing as withdrawing. Sometimes, rest is reaching out. So that’s what we did. Tricia and I invited over some new friends whose daughter is in Winnie’s class here at the church preschool. A few weeks ago, I splurged and bought myself a Blackstone grill—which, if you’re unfamiliar, is basically a very effective way to make new friends and keep them.

So on Friday evening, the seven of us gathered in our backyard. The Blackstone was sizzling with burgers, hot dogs, sweet potatoes, and peppers. The yard had just been mowed. Two preschoolers and a kindergartener ran around in princess costumes. A fire flickered in the gathering dusk. And the Spotify Yacht Rock station played in the background while the adults debated whether Steely Dan really belonged on the playlist.

And there, for a little while, we found joy. Not solutions to the world’s problems—they were all still there. Not answers to the questions that keep us up at night—those hadn’t gone anywhere either. Just joy. Simple, ordinary, local joy. The kind of joy that springs up when people make room for friendship, food, laughter, and shared life.

And it struck me that this, too, is part of what it means to stop trying to fix the unfixable. It does not mean withdrawing from the world or giving up on our responsibility to love our neighbors and do justice. It means recognizing that joy is not a distraction from that work; it is part of what sustains us for it. Without joy, I have little hope of bending any moral arc anywhere.

And I believe Christ was present there—in the laughter, in the welcome, in the breaking of bread, in the simple holiness of an ordinary evening shared with neighbors. The world was not fixed by the end of the night. But a small patch of it had been tended with care. Fear and division did not get the last word that evening. Joy did.

And, to be fair, grilled bananas foster over Tillamook vanilla ice cream didn’t hurt either.

The Church as Care Package

And that is what Paul is trying to teach us in Philippians. Joy in Christ is not dependent on life going smoothly. It is not the reward for finally getting everything under control. It is the gift of Christ’s presence, meeting us in prison cells and backyards, in sanctuaries and around dinner tables, in all the ordinary places where we are trying, by grace, to be faithful somewhere.

I like to think that both “grumpy Paul” and “lovey-dovey Paul” were in that prison cell together. But what I think changed Paul from discouraged to grateful, at least long enough to write the four chapters of this letter, was a friend named Epaphroditus and the church that sent him. Sometimes we get to be Epaphroditus, sent to places in the world where chains hold those weighed down by the enormity of the world’s grief. And sometimes we get to welcome Epaphroditus, receiving the touch of a care package in a moment of grief, loss, or hopelessness. The going out and the coming in of both of those acts of grace is called Church, and you and I are doing it right now. Or, more specifically, the Risen Christ is doing it through us.

And maybe that is one of the ways Christ keeps joy alive in the world: through people who show up for one another with prayer, presence, casseroles, care packages, hospital visits, porch conversations, and backyard dinners. Maybe joy is not something we manufacture for ourselves so much as something Christ keeps handing to us through one another. And when that happens, even for a moment, the chains do not have the last word.

So thanks be to God for a joy that can’t be chained.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

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Stephen Fearing

Stephen was born in 1988 in Cookeville, TN, where his parents met whilst attending Tennessee Tech. Shortly after, they moved to Dalton, Georgia where they put down roots and joined First Presbyterian Church, the faith family that taught Stephen that he was first and foremost a beloved child of God. It was this community that taught Stephen that it was OK to have questions and doubts and that nothing he could do could every possibly separate him from the love of God. In 1995, his sister, Sarah Kate, joined the family and Stephen began his journey as a life-long musician. Since then, he has found a love of music and has found this gift particularly fitting for his call to ministry. Among the instruments that he enjoys are piano, trumpet, guitar, and handbells. Stephen has always had a love of singing and congregation song. An avid member of the marching band, Stephen was the drum major of his high school's marching band. In 2006, Stephen began his tenure at Presbyterian College in Clinton, SC where he majored in Religion and minored in History. While attending PC, Stephen continued to explore his love of music by participating in the Wind Ensemble, Jazz Band, Jazz Combo, Jazz Trio, as well as playing in the PC Handbell ensemble and playing mandolin and banjo PC's very own bluegrass/rock group, Hosegrass, of which Stephen was a founding member (Hosegrass even released their own CD!). In 2010, Stephen moved from Clinton to Atlanta to attend Columbia Theological Seminary to pursue God's call on his life to be a pastor in the PC(USA). During this time, Stephen worked at Trinity Presbyterian Church, Silver Creek Presbyterian Church, Central Presbyterian Church, and Westminster Presbyterian Church. For three years, Stephen served as the Choir Director of Columbia Theological Seminary's choir and also served as the Interim Music Director at Westminster Presbyterian Church. In 2014, Stephen graduated from Columbia with a Masters of Divinity and a Masters of Arts in Practical Theology with an emphasis in liturgy, music, and worship. In July of 2014, Stephen was installed an ordained as Teaching Elder at Shelter Island Presbyterian Church in Shelter Island, NY. Later that year, Stephen married the love of his life, Tricia, and they share their home on Shelter Island with their Golden Doodle, Elsie, and their calico cat, Audrey. In addition to his work with the people who are Shelter Island Presbyterian Church, Stephen currently serves as a commission from Long Island Presbytery to the Synod of the Northeast and, beginning in January of 2016, will moderate the Synod's missions team.