Like Salt (Part V): Joy
Nearly every Christmas newsletter I read during the holidays mentioned how hard the year 2020 was. It WAS a hard year, too—so hard, in fact, that most everyone felt compelled to point it out, stating the obvious. They had good reason to.
But it was hard in a less obvious way, too. It was not simply hard ON us; it was also hard IN us.
Because it made OUR hearts hard. It certainly did that to me.
I found myself crabby much of the time, almost obsessive in my consumption of news, and reactionary whenever I read bad news, which occurred nearly every day. My head space was filled with news of the pandemic, the economic crisis, the racial injustice, the election, and the needs of so many people I know. I suffered erosion in my spirit, as if the self I had been for so long was being washed away.
I could—and did—excuse it, too. I could—and did—blame others. I was contending with evil forces “out there.” I was in a battle.
But somewhere along the way I forgot that the problem is “in here,” too, in my own heart. John Cassian, a desert father, put it this way, “No one is more my enemy than my own heart, which is truly the one of my household closest to me.”
Paul declared that the entire created order is suffering, bleeding, and groaning. In 2020 we felt it, perhaps as never before, both “out there” and “in here.”
Still, not every moment during the past year was miserable and torturous. Quite the opposite. My wife, Patricia, and I spent a great deal of time enjoying life together. We watched a few TV series (“Queen’s Gambit” was one of our favorites), took walks, read aloud to each other, and pursued hobbies. We relished the silence. We developed new rituals. We found creative ways to see people.
So there I was, living the “good life,” even as I watched the world suffer. I found myself alternating between happiness and disgust, contentment and anxiety, gratitude and anger. I was oblivious to the world’s pain one moment; I was overwhelmed by it the next.
I lived in that tension almost constantly.
And then, about two weeks ago, I began to think about joy. It struck me that it’s been almost entirely absent in my life. Not happiness. I have plenty of that. Not anxiety, irritation, and anger. My cup overflows with those, too. But joy.
Why its absence? What had happened to me?
Joy seems entirely inappropriate, considering our current circumstances. Ludicrous, audacious, and irreverent. In the face of so much suffering, how could I ever allow myself to be joyful?
But the Bible commands the followers of Jesus to be joyful, even—and especially—in the face of suffering. Paul called it a fruit of the Spirit. “Rejoice in the Lord always,” he wrote to Christians in Philippi.
As a fruit of the Spirit, joy manifests character, transforms us from within, and bears witness to the kingdom of God. It is at just those moments when circumstances run contrary to joy that joy itself is most appropriate and relevant. Joy makes us salty.
Happiness is circumstantial. Children come by it naturally. And for an obvious reason. Young children are shaped almost entirely by their immediate circumstances. They burst with happiness one moment—say, when grandpa promises to take them out for pizza. They break into tears and lash out with anger the next—say, when mom reminds them that she had already made tuna fish and brocoli salad for dinner. Happiness moves from the outside in.
Joy is different. It is not rooted in immediate circumstances. Christians believe in the kingdom, in another and greater reality that envelops this one. Christians wait for it, live for it, and hope for it, as Paul explains in Romans 8:18-25. Joy affirms the belief that God is at work in the world, often in ways that are barely visible to the human eye.
Christians look for signs of the kingdom, too. A sign points beyond itself to a greater reality. A sliver of light reminds them that there is LIGHT; a hint of truth that there is TRUTH; an act of goodness that there is GOODNESS. Christians search for these signs; they catch glimpses of them. And they look beyond those signs to the source, which is God.
They sense that they are part of a bigger story, God’s redemptive story. They believe, with Julian of Norwich, that “All things will be well.” They see God at work as through a glass darkly.
Joy thus moves from the inside out.
Last week I attended an Ash Wednesday service at our home church. I worshiped with the people of God. It was a sign of the kingdom. My heart overflowed with joy. I met the next day with a group of young church planters. We discussed the relevance of theology for ministry. It was a sign of the kingdom. My heart overflowed with joy. I pray every morning and evening with my wife, Patricia. It is a sign of the kingdom. It makes my heart overflow with joy.
Joy is like breathing the clear air of heaven even while we live in a polluted world. It infuses us with life and makes us lively.
When Christians see signs of the kingdom they find joy. But something else happens, too. When Christians live in joy they become a sign of the kingdom for others.