joy and lament
We were sitting in the backyard one recent morning, when I asked the boy what he has been learning lately. He looked ahead at the expanse of evergreen before us, deep in silence and thought. He turned to me, earnestly, and answered something that has been swirling in my mind ever since.
He told me he hasn't necessarily been learning something new, but rather been re-learning a simple truth: to choose joy.
At first glance, this might sound all too familiar, elemental or simplistic. But it struck me.
I have recently spoken much about lament with loved ones. I laud the many voices in the Church pleading Christians to learn the rhythms of grief and lamentation in these days of global fear and suffering. It irks me to think of the tendency of the Christian (myself included!) to alleviate the discomfort of sadness with spiritual generalities and a "let's look at the bright side" attitude. In these days of COVID-19, all of creation groans for Christ's return -where He will make all things new and He will conquer viruses and death. Christians need to recognize this.
We ought to remember that sadness and protest is human: after all, we exit the womb and enter the world with loud wails. We, as did the psalmists, ought to bring our honest and broken selves to God. We ought to be truthful about our profound sorrow, and bemoan the broken state of the earth. In doing so, we can better adopt a posture of hope, where we as God's people cry: "Come, Lord Jesus, come!"
But, while there is a much-needed place for songs rich with hopeful (hope-full) lament, I was reminded in our recent conversation that joy, too, is a vital posture for the believer. Our songs of reverence, contrition and lament should not be sung at the full exclusion of joyful shouts to our God, the Most High.
The Holy Spirit comforted and convicted me through this reminder (as He does). I have been candid in this space about my own spiritual wrestling with joy. In this blogpost, I swiftly surveyed my guilt surrounding joy, writing: "[...] I have misunderstood something about the heart of God and come to believe that Jesus' call for Christians to 'carry their cross' and 'humble thyself' means I shouldn't be joyful."
This remains a tension and wrangle within myself -an everpresent hurdle I seem to face. And I am sure I am not the only one. You might be a person who resists and forebodes joy because of guilt, or because you want to avoid superficially lighthearted worship. Regardless of the innards of our hearts, lest we forget to count all things joy.
James writes:
This week I listened to a sermon about having faith in crisis, shared by Jon Tyson from my beloved church in New York City. He speaks of "defiant joy in a time of despair." This is a concept I found profoundly moving. I like this image of God's people being harbingers of deep-rooted joy in chaos. This doesn't mean trivializing fear (our own, or others'), but tenaciously choosing to grip onto the promises of God when it would be easier -more natural- not to. Defiant joy means standing firm and finding rest under the shadow of His wings. Defiant joy means anchoring our hope in Christ rather than our circumstances which, admittedly, have proven to be but a sinking ship (sorry for being so grim). Defiant joy means delighting in God's beauty and perfection when tides rise and waves threaten.
As people of the resurrection, we behold joy and delight.
Karl Barth, in Church Dogmatics, on joy through the power of the resurrection:
"The power of which we speak [...] is light. It is light from the darkness of the cross of Jesus Christ into the darkness of our existence. It brings about this definite illumination. And in so doing, even in all the sadness which may otherwise engulf us, it effects a clear and invisible joyfulness. For it is always joy to belong to this majestic and true man and to be able to cleave to Him. If it is our reality to be able to do this, and if it is the effect of this power to reveal us in this reality so that we may do what we ought to do, it always results in joy. To live in this light which falls from above is always to have joy. And it may be known as this power by the fact that in all circumstances, even in the midst of suffering, it always brings joy. This is the sigh that we must not resists its operation, but yield to it."
What if you and I were remembered for yielding to the light in these string of weeks?
What if we blessed others by our posture of gladness and encouragement?
What if we, mindful of our margin and capacity, sought out opportunities to plant such seeds of joy at this time?
It could be anything - a phone call, a signed cheque, a posy of tulips, a shared recipe, a penned letter, a forgiven debt. It could be a deep breath and learning to take my every thought captive, too.
I sense that this type of unexpected, defiant joy has the power to elicit gales of exhales and giggles in our weary homes, blocks, cities.
As for me, I will continue to make space for lament -crying for the vulnerable, the groaning world, and for Christ's return. But I will also cast my gaze upon the light, hopeful it will lead me to joyful trust.
In our world marked by tears, may we be people who dance.
He told me he hasn't necessarily been learning something new, but rather been re-learning a simple truth: to choose joy.
At first glance, this might sound all too familiar, elemental or simplistic. But it struck me.
I have recently spoken much about lament with loved ones. I laud the many voices in the Church pleading Christians to learn the rhythms of grief and lamentation in these days of global fear and suffering. It irks me to think of the tendency of the Christian (myself included!) to alleviate the discomfort of sadness with spiritual generalities and a "let's look at the bright side" attitude. In these days of COVID-19, all of creation groans for Christ's return -where He will make all things new and He will conquer viruses and death. Christians need to recognize this.
We ought to remember that sadness and protest is human: after all, we exit the womb and enter the world with loud wails. We, as did the psalmists, ought to bring our honest and broken selves to God. We ought to be truthful about our profound sorrow, and bemoan the broken state of the earth. In doing so, we can better adopt a posture of hope, where we as God's people cry: "Come, Lord Jesus, come!"
But, while there is a much-needed place for songs rich with hopeful (hope-full) lament, I was reminded in our recent conversation that joy, too, is a vital posture for the believer. Our songs of reverence, contrition and lament should not be sung at the full exclusion of joyful shouts to our God, the Most High.
The Holy Spirit comforted and convicted me through this reminder (as He does). I have been candid in this space about my own spiritual wrestling with joy. In this blogpost, I swiftly surveyed my guilt surrounding joy, writing: "[...] I have misunderstood something about the heart of God and come to believe that Jesus' call for Christians to 'carry their cross' and 'humble thyself' means I shouldn't be joyful."
This remains a tension and wrangle within myself -an everpresent hurdle I seem to face. And I am sure I am not the only one. You might be a person who resists and forebodes joy because of guilt, or because you want to avoid superficially lighthearted worship. Regardless of the innards of our hearts, lest we forget to count all things joy.
James writes:
Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.
for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.
The word "always" is used sparingly in Paul's epistles. His choice of the expression "rejoice always" is thus no small thing. The mandate to rejoice always ultimately points us to the fact that His sufficiency is enough, always.
I have attempted these past few days to ponder God's astonishing goodness, and contemplate this strange season as one which can sanctify me and mold me into His likeness. In taking a step back from my feelings of anger and sadness, I have been able to see this time as one to draw from His abundance and practice the way of Jesus, inspiring my faith and trust in Him.
From the prison cell, Paul writes:
Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.
This week I listened to a sermon about having faith in crisis, shared by Jon Tyson from my beloved church in New York City. He speaks of "defiant joy in a time of despair." This is a concept I found profoundly moving. I like this image of God's people being harbingers of deep-rooted joy in chaos. This doesn't mean trivializing fear (our own, or others'), but tenaciously choosing to grip onto the promises of God when it would be easier -more natural- not to. Defiant joy means standing firm and finding rest under the shadow of His wings. Defiant joy means anchoring our hope in Christ rather than our circumstances which, admittedly, have proven to be but a sinking ship (sorry for being so grim). Defiant joy means delighting in God's beauty and perfection when tides rise and waves threaten.
 |
| BC mountains -taken on a recent walk which brought me much joy |
Karl Barth, in Church Dogmatics, on joy through the power of the resurrection:
"The power of which we speak [...] is light. It is light from the darkness of the cross of Jesus Christ into the darkness of our existence. It brings about this definite illumination. And in so doing, even in all the sadness which may otherwise engulf us, it effects a clear and invisible joyfulness. For it is always joy to belong to this majestic and true man and to be able to cleave to Him. If it is our reality to be able to do this, and if it is the effect of this power to reveal us in this reality so that we may do what we ought to do, it always results in joy. To live in this light which falls from above is always to have joy. And it may be known as this power by the fact that in all circumstances, even in the midst of suffering, it always brings joy. This is the sigh that we must not resists its operation, but yield to it."
What if you and I were remembered for yielding to the light in these string of weeks?
What if we blessed others by our posture of gladness and encouragement?
What if we, mindful of our margin and capacity, sought out opportunities to plant such seeds of joy at this time?
It could be anything - a phone call, a signed cheque, a posy of tulips, a shared recipe, a penned letter, a forgiven debt. It could be a deep breath and learning to take my every thought captive, too.
I sense that this type of unexpected, defiant joy has the power to elicit gales of exhales and giggles in our weary homes, blocks, cities.
As for me, I will continue to make space for lament -crying for the vulnerable, the groaning world, and for Christ's return. But I will also cast my gaze upon the light, hopeful it will lead me to joyful trust.
In our world marked by tears, may we be people who dance.
Comments