Today is Lætare Sunday—Rejoice Sunday. Be joyful! That’s what the name means. But let’s be honest, what does that actually mean? We hear joy and immediately think happiness, right? And happiness, according to every self-help book, social media influencer, and pharmaceutical ad, is something you chase. It’s out there somewhere, just beyond reach, waiting for you in a better job, a nicer house, a gym membership you’ll use for two weeks. It’s an emotion—one that comes and goes with the stock market, the weather, and whether or not your wifi is working. But is that what joy really is?
The church says no. In fact, Jesus says no. Consider the life of Christ. He was no paragon of worldly happiness. He had no wealth, no home, no power. His closest friends misunderstood him. The religious elite despised him. The government executed him. And yet—joy. Not the kind that comes from success or comfort, but the kind that can look suffering in the face and still say, God is faithful. The kind that sings even on the way to the cross.
The joy we’re talking about today isn’t a mood. It isn’t a good day. It isn’t even a great day. It’s deeper. Wilder. Unshakable. Christian joy doesn’t crumble when life does. It doesn’t disappear when things fall apart. It holds, because it’s not built on us—it’s built on God. So today, when we hear rejoice, we need to ask: what does real joy look like?
Let us pray. May only God’s Word be spoken and may only God’s Word be heard; in the name of Jesus. Amen.
Ms. Bullwinkle stood in front of the class, holding up a ten-dollar bill. “Alright, class, let’s talk about absolute value. Imagine you earned ten dollars from a job. That’s plus ten dollars, right? But if you owe ten dollars, that’s minus ten. Absolute value is just the distance from zero, whether positive or negative. So whether you’ve earned or owe ten dollars, the absolute value is still ten.”
The class looks confused. Ms. Bullwinkle tries again. “Think of it this way: if you earned ten dollars, you have it in your pocket. But if you owe ten dollars, you have to work to pay it back. Either way, you’re working for ten dollars. Absolute value is how much you worked for it, not whether you have it or owe it.”
The class still isn’t getting it. Ms. Bullwinkle turns to Timmy, one of her brightest students. “Timmy, what’s the absolute value of minus ten dollars?”
Timmy scratches his head and shrugs. “I don’t really get it, Ms. Bullwinkle. It’s the same difference to me.”
An odd expression, isn’t it?
The same difference.
It sounds like a contradiction, but it makes sense. Sometimes, two things that seem opposite aren’t so different. They lead to the same place. They carry the same weight. They may look different, but at their core, they’re the same.
That’s what we see in the Israelites standing on the edge of the Promised Land. They’re the same people—God’s chosen, the ones led out of Egypt, the ones who wandered for forty years. But now, something has shifted. God declares the “disgrace of Egypt” is rolled away. The past no longer holds them. They step into something new. And for the first time, they eat the land’s produce instead of manna. The wilderness food is gone, but God’s provision remains. Same people, different life. Same God, new provision. The same difference.
It’s kind of like a function in math—a constant remains, even when variables change. The Israelites are still God’s chosen, but the way he provides looks different. Manna was grace for the wilderness; this new food is grace for home. Different inputs, same output: God’s faithfulness. The same difference.
Then there’s the prodigal son. He’s still his father’s son—even after leaving, wasting everything, hitting rock bottom. When he returns, he’s the same person, but something in him has changed. He knows what it is to be lost and now what it is to be found. His father doesn’t see him as less than his beloved child. But his brother struggles with this. To him, things should be clear: right and wrong, faithful and foolish. The younger son doesn’t deserve to be welcomed back. But the father isn’t measuring by what his son has done. He’s rejoicing in who he is. “This brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.” Same son, new reality. Same family, renewed joy. The same difference.
And then there’s us—the family God has gathered in baptism. We come from different places, different stories, different burdens. Some of us have wandered far, carrying regrets. Some have stayed close, steady, yet wondering if we’ve done enough. Some aren’t sure where we fit, hoping there’s room for us, too. But when we come to the font, to this table, those differences don’t divide or define us. We are the same—God’s beloved, washed in grace, gathered as one. One body. One baptism. One feast. The same difference.
Baptism sets us apart, not by what we’ve done, how strong our faith is, or how good we’ve been, but by what God has done in us. It’s his promise, not our performance, that makes us his own. At this table, we come with hands open—not because we’re worthy, but because he is. It doesn’t matter if we’ve had the best week or the worst, if we come full of faith or doubt, if we’ve been faithful or failed—Christ meets us here, all the same. At this altar, the rich and poor receive the same portion. The young and old taste the same bread. The saint and sinner drink from the same cup. The weary, the joyful, the broken, the strong—we all come forward with different lives, struggles, reasons, but we kneel together. And in that moment, we are not strangers. We are not rivals. We are not separate. Different, yet the same. God’s beloved. His holy family. And just as the father in the parable calls for rejoicing, God calls us to do the same—to see not division, but communion. Not difference, but family.
It’s a perfect equation: the sum of all our differences, pasts, and shortcomings—set against the grace of God—always equals the same thing. Always, it balances to mercy. Always, the solution is love. The same difference.
This meal is the same one shared for centuries—at kitchen tables in secret during persecution, in grand cathedrals, in humble chapels, in hospital rooms, in prison cells, in places of war and peace. Yet though it’s the same, it’s new every time we gather. New, because grace is never old. New, because the promise never runs dry. New, because the body of Christ is always growing, always making room for the next weary traveler who comes home.
That is the covenant of joy. That is God’s promise—that no matter where we’ve been, what we’ve done, or what separates us, his grace gathers us in. His love is steady. His mercy unshaken. And when we step into that promise, we find joy isn’t something to earn or measure. It’s something to receive. Something to share. Something to rejoice in.
The joy we share in Christ isn’t a math problem to solve or proof to calculate. It’s the promise of God—to his people, to us, to you. You have absolute value, immeasurable by earthly metrics. To God, it doesn’t matter if you’ve been faithful or failed, are rich or poor, near or far—it’s the same love that welcomes us. We are all God’s valued children, different yet the same. No calculation changes the truth: God’s love is constant. It’s not about our worthiness—it’s about his. We stand as one body, one baptism, one feast.
In this, there is no distance, no separation, no distinction. The joy we find here doesn’t depend on who we are, but on who God is—always faithful, always merciful, always loving. And in that promise, we rejoice: we are his. Different, yet the same.
The same difference.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Rev'd Daniel W. Spigelmyer, Jr. 