The Epigenetics of Joy

Good Morning Everyone,

I’ve been sitting with this joy that I have.

Because I lead in joy. Because it is the truest, most subversive response to a world steeped in heaviness. Some people, when they encounter my joy, think I’m silly, unserious, or even unprofessional. They think that joy is a distraction, something to be put aside until the “real” work is done. But I have learned that joy *is* the real work.

What they don’t see is that my joy is a strategy. It’s a lifeline. Joy is a choice, a deliberate act of defiance in the face of trauma, stress, and systems that tell us to harden ourselves to be taken seriously. They confuse my ability to make light of a moment with being shallow or naive, but joy—real joy—is anything but shallow. It’s an inheritance, passed down by generations of people who survived by learning how to laugh when it hurt too much to cry. My joy is armor; it’s ancestral technology.

People often mistake seriousness for depth. They think that the more somber and stern you are, the more legitimate your leadership. But I know, and my ancestors knew, that joy is what keeps us resilient. My joy doesn’t mean I’m ignoring the pain or the struggle—it means I’m refusing to let it define me. It means I know how to *move through* the pain without letting it own me. I refuse to let the world’s weight rob me of the ability to see light, to crack a joke, to smile with my whole body.

I lead in joy because joy is the medicine. In rooms full of tension, my joy diffuses the air. When everything feels heavy and stuck, my joy unlocks doors. I don’t need to wear a frown to prove that I’m committed. My laugh, my lightness, my humor—these are my credentials. This is my professionalism. Joy is my seriousness. Joy is my theology. I’ve learned from my people that laughing in the face of fear is an act of liberation. It frees the room. It reminds people that there is still life, still possibility.

So, when I make light of a moment, it’s not because I don’t understand its weight—it’s because I understand it all too well. I choose to lighten it because I know how darkness can consume us if we let it. And I will not be consumed.

If my joy confounds you, good. Let it confuse you. Let it unsettle your notions of how we’re supposed to lead, how we’re supposed to suffer, how we’re supposed to prove our worth. My joy is radical. My joy is professional. My joy is holy. I will continue to lead in joy because it’s the best way I know to lead us all to freedom. It runs in my family.

Epigenetics is the study of changes in organisms caused by the modification of gene expression rather than an alteration of the genetic code itself. It posits that certain fears can be inherited through generations—over many generations. It suggests that there's an intergenerational transfer of risk, making it hard to break the cycle.

But this morning, I’m here to tell you that something else is passed down. And that is joy. Scientists tell the story of a study where mice were trained to fear the smell of acetophenone. They learned to associate the scent with pain, and their offspring, having never been exposed to the trauma, shuddered at the same smell. This fear was passed down to their pups and even their grandpups.

And if fear can be passed down like that, why not joy? If trauma can live in our DNA, then so can hope, so can laughter, so can resilience. The Epigenetics of Joy says we inherit joy just as surely as we inherit our eye color or the way our hands look when we pray. The Epigenetics of Joy says that my grandmother, in the premature birth of my aunt’s daughter, looked at that child, scrunched her face, laughed, and said, “You can always tell when a baby got an old daddy. The baby comes out looking old.” Joy was passed down in that laugh.

In the Bible, Sarah laughed when she was told she’d bear a child in her old age. That laughter wasn’t disbelief—it was the epigenetics of joy, passed down to us from generation to generation. Her laughter echoed through Isaac, whose name itself means “laughter.” The laughter that Sarah let out in the face of impossibility was inherited, just like your grandmother’s smile when she put that last bit of food on the table, or when your uncle cracked a joke at the family reunion even though we were grieving. That joy is a birthright.

Job 8:21 declares that God "will yet fill your mouth with laughter and your lips with shouts of joy." What if God already built joy into our spiritual DNA? We often say “joy comes in the morning,” but what if it’s already here, waiting for us to recognize it, woven into the very fabric of who we are? The Epigenetics of Joy says my grandmother took pride in one collard tree in a square foot of dirt and called it a garden. She knew how to laugh at life’s small blessings. This is what we inherit. We inherit laughter as resistance.

In communities like ours, we are often taught to endure suffering as proof of our faithfulness. We’re told that suffering is part of the deal, that it’s how we get closer to God. But I want to challenge that narrative this morning. I want to tell you that the epigenetics of joy disrupts that overemphasis on trauma. God doesn’t need us to suffer to prove anything. God already knows who we are.

The Epigenetics of Joy says that my mama laughed and said, “All my children got jokes, but that Marvin is funny acting.” And that joy was passed down to me, and it’s in you too. We’ve been conditioned to expect trauma, but God says that joy is our inheritance. Think about Sarah’s laugh. She wasn’t just laughing at the absurdity of her situation—she was laughing because of it. Theologian Walter Brueggemann says that Sarah's laughter was prophetic because it declared that joy can spring from barren places.

And I believe that’s what God wants us to know today. Your laughter, your joy, is a rebellion against everything that tells you to stay stuck in your pain. Joy is the flower that blooms out of dry ground. Your joy is your inheritance, passed down from the generations who laughed even when their hearts were breaking. My relations carried diabetes, hypertension, and heart disease to the mortuary, but they also carried joy. I remember how they opened the casket and said, “Sharp as a rat’s turd.” They looked at the body, laughed, and said, “Oooh, he look just like himself.” And that wasn’t making fun—it was making light.

Making light is what joy does. It takes the air out of the seriousness of the day and says, “Take a deep breath.” And that joy is how we survive pandemics, wars, and plagues. That joy is not making fun—it’s making light of our pain. It’s God saying, "I see your pain, but I’ve also placed joy deep within you." The Bible says God will turn our mourning into dancing (Psalm 30:11), but I believe the dancing is already there. It's in our bones, waiting for the right song.

When we make light, we are following in the footsteps of our ancestors who knew how to laugh in the face of oppression. Our laughter is sacred. Our laughter is holy. So, when you laugh, when you crack a joke in the middle of a pandemic, you’re doing more than surviving—you’re thriving. You are resisting the narrative that tells you that you are only a product of your trauma.

My grandmother, after every funeral, would sit us down, pour a glass of Crown Royal mixed with milk, and say, “Funny how we always seem to make it through.” She wasn’t talking about survival—she was talking about joy. She was reminding us that joy is how we survive, how we resist, how we remember. We didn’t just pass down trauma. We passed down joy. We passed down tall tales, funny acting, and the ability to laugh when everything is falling apart. Joy is our inheritance. Joy is our resistance.

So, I ask you today, what joy are you passing down? What laugh is written in your DNA, waiting to be shared with the next generation? This is the epigenetics of joy—joy that was passed down to you, and joy that you will pass down. Your joy is more than a moment; it is a living theology. It is your resistance to the structures that try to weigh you down. Joy is your divine inheritance, passed down through the generations, and your sacred response to trauma.

Amen.