Week 3 – JOY: The Courage to Be Ridiculous
Some movies make you believe in magic. Elf makes you believe in joy.
There’s a scene where Buddy the Elf, dressed in full green-and-yellow regalia, bursts into a boardroom and declares, “I’m in love! I’m in love! And I don’t care who knows it!” It’s absurd. It’s embarrassing. And it’s precisely what joy looks like when it’s unfiltered.
If Hope is the stubborn will to matter, and Peace is the quiet moment after you stop performing, then Joy is something far more volatile. It’s what happens when you decide to stop trying to be cool and just let the absurdity in.
Buddy, a human raised by elves, leaves the North Pole to find his father in New York. He’s naive, relentlessly cheerful, and entirely out of place. He’s also exactly what the city and his father need. He’s too loud, too tall, too enthusiastic, and prone to sprinting across traffic to hug a hot dog stand mascot. He is the physical embodiment of the kind of public, unrestrained joy that makes a self-aware, perpetually anxious adult want to crawl under a table.
The comedy works because it’s sincere. There’s no irony in Buddy. He’s ridiculous, but his optimism is armor. He disarms cynicism simply by refusing to play along.
For years, I thought joy had to be earned. It was the reward for surviving something hard or achieving something noble. I didn’t trust joy that came too easily. It felt unserious. Unworthy. Like Buddy himself.
But here’s what I’ve learned: joy often shows up in the middle of pain, not after it. It’s not the absence of suffering. It’s the refusal to let suffering have the final word.
During my days as a firefighter, we constantly made dark, incorrect jokes. Were we being disrespectful? Yes, sometimes. But we were also honest, funny, and weirdly hopeful.
It’s classic survival humor of two extremes placed side by side. You laugh because the darkness is so profound that the only logical countermove is to find the most ridiculously trivial thing possible. It is a reminder that even in despair, there’s room for absurdity, humor, and joy.
In John 15:11, Jesus says: “I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.”
Joy isn’t a bonus. It’s a promise. A gift. A divine inheritance. But it takes courage to receive it, especially when you’ve been taught to distrust it, when you’ve learned that joy is fragile, fleeting, or foolish.
Advent joy isn’t happiness. Happiness is circumstantial; joy is theological. It is the deep, abiding conviction that despite the darkness (or maybe because of it), something good is on its way. As Philippians 4:4 puts it: “Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I will say, Rejoice.”
Buddy’s joy is reckless. He’s not performing; he’s simply being. He’s not worried about whether his bright green tights and floppy collar are appropriate for a Manhattan office building. He’s too busy being excited about syrup on spaghetti. In a world that prizes cynicism, Buddy’s joy is a rebellion. It’s a declaration that wonder still matters. That laughter still heals. That love—no matter how awkward—is worth shouting about.
I used to flinch at joy. I’d downplay it, deflect it, joke it away with sarcasm. Humor was how I kept people from seeing how tired I was. But Buddy uses humor differently—his laughter heals instead of hides. Watching him, I’m reminded that joy isn’t denial of pain; it’s resistance to it.
When Buddy tells his father, “The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear,” it’s not a punchline; it’s theology. Joy is contagious when it’s genuine. The Gospel puts it this way: “The joy of the Lord is your strength.” Buddy proves that strength doesn’t always look like stoicism. Sometimes it looks like laughter echoing through a cold city.
Buddy didn’t change the world. But he changed the people around him. With sugar, with song, with relentless optimism. And maybe that’s enough.
This week, as we light the candle of joy, choose to be ridiculous. Let yourself feel delight, even when it doesn’t make sense. Trust that joy isn’t weakness—it’s strength in disguise.
Watch Elf again this week. Let yourself laugh without apology. Lean into the enthusiasm, even if it feels loud and embarrassing. Permit yourself to be the Buddy the Elf in your own messy, cynical world.
True joy might be courage wearing a smile. It’s the decision to let the absurdity in. It’s the realization that sometimes, the most sophisticated response to profound darkness is not a profound insight, but a deep, ridiculous, unfiltered smile. Let the world laugh. You’re too busy being delighted.


















