Safe and Sound

Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, at Your altars, O Lord of hosts… Happy are those who live in Your house, ever singing Your praise. Selah (Psalm 84.3-4)

Controversial Figure

In Sunday’s Gospel (Luke 2.22-40), we return to a well-known scene. Forty days have passed since Jesus’s birth—a time period defined in Jewish law as “purification,” after which the Child and His mother are presumably free of disease and officially welcomed into their faith community. Their appearance at the Temple is a common rite, akin to our christening and baptismal ceremonies. But it quickly takes an uncommon turn that invites us to look at it more closely. Two elderly members of the congregation, Simeon and Anna, instantly recognize Jesus as the promised Hope of Israel. Both of them make prophetic declarations that embrace Him as their long-awaited Savior and Redeemer. And their words set off tremors that will resonate throughout Jesus’s life. In an instant, this tiny Baby becomes a controversial Figure Who will ultimately challenge the traditional beliefs and customs of all who claim Jerusalem’s Temple as their spiritual home.

After praising God for honoring the promise to send a Savior, Simeon eerily predicts Jesus’s death in a warning to Mary. “This child is destined for the falling and rising of many in Israel,” he tells her, “and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” (v34-35) Anna turns her attention to listeners who share her longing for a Savior, “to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem,” verse 38 says. These are stridently subversive, and alarming blunt, statements that probably mesmerize average worshipers and cause their hearts to race. But they’re also spoken in the presence of the Temple establishment, which no doubt perceives a major threat has arrived. Simeon and Anna are highly respected heavyweights in the Temple community. Their confidence in Who Jesus is sends a potent signal that something new and radically different is on the horizon. In essence, they announce a changing of the guard that puts the power elite on high alert. What they hear surely troubles them. This moment will be much regaled and remembered. This Child will bear watching and anything He may try to do to overturn the status quo will need to be quickly contained, lest He usurp control of the religious culture they’ve created. The persistent dangers that confront Jesus during His adult ministry have their origins here.

Discovering Safety

It’s interesting, to say the least, that Simeon sees the Infant and immediately identifies tensions within Jesus’s own faith community that will dog Him for the rest of His life—to the point that they will explode in a concerted effort to put an end to Him. The sorrow that hovers above the scene, however, is seen in how the blatant rejection of Jesus baldly contradicts everything God created the Temple to be. We get a vivid picture of God’s vision for the ideal faith community in Psalm 84, a spectacular hymn extolling the Temple as a place of welcome, composed by none other than its founder, David. “How lovely is Your dwelling place, O Lord of hosts!” it begins. David says his soul “longs, indeed it faints, for the courts of the Lord.” (v2) This is a man who not only loves his church; he loves going to church. “My heart and my flesh sing for joy to the living God,” he writes. And David wastes no time explaining why he loves going to church so much: he's totally safe there.

“Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, at Your altars, O Lord of hosts,” David sings. (v3) These images strike us as charming. Our Disneyfied imaginations conjure visions of chirping birds flitting around the Temple and newly hatched chicks peering over the rim of their nest. But ancient hearers of David’s song sensed something more than natural wonder in this tableau. As Rabbi Benjamin Segal explains in his marvelous study of Psalm 84, the Old Testament depicts swallows as migratory birds that fly great distances, which adds a unique nuance to the metaphor. David suggests that discovering safety in God’s house requires effort on our part. We must seek it out and travel toward it with compelling resolve. 

What’s more, there’s an added layer of menace that must be dealt with. Sparrows and swallows are commonly used in Temple sacrifices. To alight on the very altars where so many like them have been slain is an audacious act of trust. Priests and congregants who would sacrifice them without thought are nowhere to be found in this scenario. Faith in their Creator emboldens the birds. They have every confidence that God wants them to make their home at the very place where religious tradition would deny them safety. They are, in every way, like the Christ Child in Luke’s story—controversial figures that disrupt the status quo, traveling extraordinary lengths to become living testaments to God’s immeasurable grace. They are totally safe in this sacred place. And their desire to be seen here, to participate in the life of this faith community, is totally sound. “Happy are those who live in Your house, ever singing your praise,” David exclaims. (v4) It’s an arresting image that resonates deeply.

Selah

David caps this stanza with a musical direction—Selah—that calls for a momentary pause in the music to give the audience time to absorb the full depth of the lyric. He wants us to understand that, by divine intention, God’s house is a safe place. Yet, as we see in Luke, this ideal breaks down when religious leaders abuse power to exert control over their communities. Any challenge to their authority is instantly perceived as a threat, a fact that cannot be concealed. Go back to Simeon’s prophecy: simply by showing up, Jesus becomes “a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed.” But the story doesn’t end with opposition. The conspiracy to destroy Jesus is ultimately undone and freedom of worship for all who believe rises out of the ashes of defeat. Safety is restored through the decisive victory of the cross.

These truths should guide every believer, regardless how he or she is pigeonholed by traditions and doctrines. Discovering the safety of God’s house requires tremendous effort on our part. Many of us will travel great distances, soaring above prejudice, suspicion, and hostility. We’ll take great risks, relying solely on our trust in the God Who made and welcomes us. We’ll ignore how many are eager to sacrifice us in pursuit of self-righteousness. But God’s Word promises we have a home, at the very altars where the blood of others has been shed. We weren’t created to be destroyed. We were made to live in God’s house, ever singing God’s praises. If we allow fear and hatred to steer us from sacred worship, there can be no song. Soar. Sing. Witness the beauty of your making. Defy death and destruction. Something radically new is on the horizon. Show up. The good news of the Gospel is borne on our wings. Selah

Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, at Your altars, O Lord of hosts.

After the Party's Over

These things I remember as I pour out my soul: how I went with the throng, and led them in procession to the house of God, with glad shouts and songs of thanksgiving, a multitude keeping festival. Why are you cast down, O my soul? (Psalm 42.4-5)

BFS

Have you ever reached a place in your faith where an unexpected turn knocks you off your feet? I have. A devastating event sends us reeling—a cruel tragedy, disappointment, or discovery that deflates our grandest illusions. A hidden doubt steps from the shadows to throw us off-balance. Sometimes we’re not sure why we tumble. On Monday, faith lights our way. Tuesday dawns and, for no reason, we’re in a fog that saps our energy and purpose. The God Who was everywhere yesterday seems to have checked out. Prayer loses its lift, falling with a thud from our lips. We reach for the Word, but the Word doesn’t reach us. We resort to the spiritual equivalent of pulling a blanket over our heads, where unspoken misgivings and derisive comments from non-believers preempt what we want to hear—what we need to hear.

Unforeseen lurches into despair can intimidate us many times more than looming challenges that provide no option to trusting God’s grace and guidance. When the rug gets yanked from under us—whether or not we discern what triggers it—inability to break our fall can be debilitating. Plummeting from faith’s heights into doubt’s depths raises questions we’re unable to answer. Where is God? Isn’t God looking and listening? While concerns about God’s love and care churn, self-recrimination enters the mix. What’s wrong with us? Were we crazy to imagine living by faith would be any better than living by sight? Is it crazy to think God has abandoned us? Is the whole thing crazy?

Well, my brother and my sister, though it won't spare us sudden bouts of spiritual depression, we take consolation in realizing no believer is immune to bipolar faith syndrome (BFS). Sooner or later, every believer's high-flying faith bottoms out. We’re hardly the first nor are we hardly the last to be alarmed by this. When we don’t know what to say and it seems God won’t say, we turn to what those who’ve been in our shoes say. They’re not hard to find. Psalm 42, for instance, is a first-rate study of someone totally unnerved and nearly done in by a BFS episode.

The Downcast Soul

For undisclosed reasons, the psalmist has suffered a hard fall. He feels hopelessly lost and needlessly insulted. Presently subsisting on salty tears, he aches for a refreshing taste of God’s presence. “As the deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God,” he writes. “My tears have been my food day and night, while people say to me continually, ‘Where is your God?’” (Psalm 42.1,3) Isn’t that how it always seems to go? No sooner do we hit rock bottom than the no-help crowd rushes to jump into the pit with us and gloat, “I told you so!” Explaining this is what he's up against—like God doesn’t know—the poet essentially asks, “What am I supposed to say? This is as much about You as me!” (Like God doesn’t know that, either.)

Then, in verses 5-6, we get to the crux of his problem. The poet’s thoroughly unprepared for despondency and derision that inevitably surface after the party’s over, when the soaring ends with an abrupt and rapid descent. He can’t handle where he’s at because he won’t let go of where he was. “These things I remember, as I pour out my soul,” he says, his tone tinged with resentment that what he recalls couldn't last: “How I went with the throng, and led them in procession to the house of God, with glad shouts of thanksgiving, a multitude keeping festival. Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me?” he asks, repeating the downcast soul reference in the next verse and the last (v11).

It’s an oddly revealing question that almost leads us into the same trap that snares the poet’s antagonists. We fight every impulse to fire back, “You can’t be serious! What gave you the idea life’s going to get out of the way of your happiness and peace of mind? You know why you're depressed and disturbed? Because it happens!” Before we launch our tirade, however, the poet disarms us by telling himself, “Hope in God; for I shall again praise Him, my Help and my God.” It’s the smartest thing to say—smarter than any presumably reasonable advice we might toss out, like encouraging him to look on the bright side (there isn’t one), remember the good times (that’s why he’s depressed), or hang in until better days arrive (they will, but who knows when). So we’re wise to quiet down and listen as the poet works all of this out.

Hope in God

Hope in God is the only antidote that lifts the downcast soul. Hope in God changes the conversation from “I did” to “I will.” Hope in God lets the last party go and reaches for the next one. Yet we should note activating hope after we bottom out often requires several tries to work. Once the poet settles on hope in God, the bargaining begins. He talks himself up [“By day the LORD commands his steadfast love, and at night his song is with me, a prayer to the life of my God.” (v8)] And before his amazing faith-boost takes effect, he’s down again, asking why God’s forgotten him, why adversaries oppress him and belittle his faith.

The poet’s yo-yo behavior is common when battling BFS. Convincing ourselves to hope in God while coping with dismay is emotionally and intellectually taxing. The psalmist teaches us to keep at it until we’ve worn out our resistance to the only help we know. Psalm 42 ends with a poignant note we’ve heard in our own lives. Before finally giving up on logical conclusions so he can fully place his hope in God, the psalmist can't help asking one more time: Why am I so downcast and disturbed? There’s just no reasonable answer. It is what it is. So what will it be? “Hope in God” is the safest, sanest decision. The poet sighs as he picks himself up and looks ahead. “For I shall again praise Him, my help and my God.”

When faith hoists us to giddy heights where promise fills the sky and confidence swells underfoot, by all means we should relish the experience, celebrate God’s goodness, and invite everyone to join us. But we can’t get so high on faith that we’re unprepared when the party ends. Faith isn’t a party-all-the-time proposition. It’s just not. It’s a life of learning gained from highs and lows, ups and downs. After the party’s over, it’s time to let it go and deal with what’s in front of us so we can reach for what’s ahead. When we’re prepared to do that, hope we need to pull us back up comes more quickly and easily. We say to ourselves—and anyone nervy enough to kick us while we’re down—“We’re done with what we did. Hope in God fixes our focus on what we will do after this trial passes.”

O God of highs and lows, teach us to party responsibly when our faith is up so we’re fully prepared to hope in You when it bottoms out. Amen.

Faith isn’t a party-all-the-time proposition. It’s just not. It’s a life of learning gained from highs and lows, ups and downs.

Renouncing Righteousness

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. (Matthew 5.6)

The word of the LORD is right and true; he is faithful in all he does. The LORD loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of his unfailing love. (Psalm 33.4-5)

Right All the Time

Great-aunt Pearl was a loving, godly woman with one exasperating flaw. She believed she was right all the time—so much so she felt she’d never been wrong. One evening, the family listened as another great-aunt read letters written by her sisters when they were young women. She came on one Pearl sent soon after she married, before she and my great-uncle switched from the denomination they grew up in to a Pentecostal church. “Clyde has a good job and we’re tithing at First Methodist,” the letter said. Pearl stopped the reading. “I didn’t write that letter.” She agreed it was her hand and signature, but insisted she didn’t write it. We asked why. “Because we never tithed anywhere but The Church of God.” We did our best to persuade her tithing to any church is always correct. Yet she was so certain that her current denomination was the right one she preferred looking foolish rather than conceding she once held different beliefs. At first, we laughed. But when she wouldn’t drop the matter—as if someone forged the letter to discredit her faith—we called it a night. The whole thing got too silly to pursue. Now that I look back on it, however, I’m sad twice over. Once, because Pearl’s compulsion to be right all the time severely distorted her idea of what being right was. Second, it saddens me because her denial was flagrantly wrong. She knew like the rest of us that she wrote the letter. In rushing to tout her righteousness, she lied.

If you’ve never met a Pearl or two, live long enough and you will. There’s no shortage of people so convinced they’re always right they’d rather sin than admit they’re wrong. And while I pray none of us fits this bill, I’d venture to say we’ve all fallen into the syndrome a few times (at least). That’s the problem with banking on our own righteousness. Sooner or later, we mess up. We impulsively say or do something undeniably wrong that backs us into a corner. Either we admit our error, and thus confess we’re not as righteous as we let on—which, for the record, would be the right thing to do—or we maintain the righteous façade at all costs. Plan B gets us in a world of trouble, though, because at some point it incites patently wrong behavior, whether its protecting our pride, lying, alienating others, and so on. Believing we’re right all the time is a fool’s game, a gamble we’re unwise to take, given that everyone who plays it always loses. “There is no one righteous, not even one,” Romans 3.11 informs us, echoing dozens of Old Testament texts like Isaiah 64.6: “All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags.”

The Source of Righteousness

Equal doses of reality and humility help rid us of faith in our righteousness. Yet once we’re cured, where does that leave us? Aren’t we called to be righteous? Actually, we’re not. If we think about it for a moment, it makes no sense that God would ask us to do what we’re completely incapable of achieving. With very, very few exceptions, when Scripture mentions righteousness and us in the same breath, great care is taken to qualify the Source of righteousness, making it abundantly clear our righteousness isn’t the subject. “Righteousness is given through faith in Jesus Christ,” Paul explains in Romans 3.22. In chapter 6, he tells us, “Offer every part of yourself to God as an instrument of righteousness.” (v13) Speaking of Jesus, 2 Corinthians 5.21 says, “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” In Philippians 1.11, Paul prays that his readers will be “filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ.” Peter likewise addresses his second letter “to those who through the righteousness of our God and Savior Jesus Christ have received a faith as precious as ours.” (2 Peter 1.1)

So our righteousness isn’t important, after all—a good thing, since what of it exists has yet to prove worthy and durable. We’re called to seek God’s righteousness. Matthew 6.33: “Seek first God’s kingdom and God’s righteousness.” Second Timothy 2.22: “Pursue righteousness, faith, love and peace, along with those who call on the Lord out of a pure heart.” And finally, Beatitude No. 4: “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.” (Matthew 5.6) That changes the dynamic, urging us to rethink this righteousness business in a different context, on a larger scale than being right, thinking right, and—everyone’s favorite—“living right.” We have to back up and ask, “What is God’s righteousness and how do we get it?”

Taste and Appetite

God’s righteousness permeates all God says and does. Psalm 33.4-5 does a splendid job of capturing the basics: “The word of the LORD is right and true; he is faithful in all he does. The LORD loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of his unfailing love.” Look at the attributes orbiting God’s righteousness: truth, faithfulness, justice, and unfailing love. God loves these qualities—and they’re typically the ones that get sacrificed when we try to prove how righteous we are. Thus renouncing our righteousness is the first step to finding God’s righteousness. Faith in human righteousness is—or should be—taboo for all believers, right up there with idolatry and hatred. Since God Alone is righteous, righteousness is not a state of being, but one of becoming. Gradual acquisition of God’s nature is what we’re after: growing in truth, gaining strength to stay faithful, practicing justice, and loving all people and creation at all times.

As Christ’s disciples, our happiness is shaped by our hunger and thirst for God’s righteousness. Jesus’s choice of verbs amounts to more than pulpit poetry. He’s telling us to discipline our taste and appetite to crave righteous thoughts and behaviors. They should become obsessions driving us to seize every opportunity to savor them. But first we must cleanse our palate by renouncing righteousness. Being right all the time is like a steady junk-food diet. It makes us heavy, sick, and tiresome. Once we get its poisons out of our system, we’ll starve for God’s righteousness. If we seek that, Jesus says we’ll be happy and satisfied.

Our righteousness is like junk food; it makes us heavy, sick, and tiresome. That’s why Jesus instructs us to discipline our taste and appetite for God’s righteousness.

Gentle Restraint

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. (Matthew 5.5)

Do not be quickly provoked in your spirit, for anger resides in the laps of fools. (Ecclesiastes 7.9)

Meekness

We don’t use the word “meek” very often these days—not in a flattering sense, that is. We don’t praise people by saying, “She’s such a meek person” or, “I wish I could be meek like him.” Somehow, the adjective picked up negative connotations as our culture grew increasingly enamored with pop psychology’s push for self-esteem and assertiveness. We take “meek” to mean sheepish, shy, passive, and too timid to make waves. We stereotype meek people as pushovers, wallflowers, conformists, and yes-men/women, i.e., not the sort of person society respects or we want to be. Thus, when we hear Jesus say, “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth,” we’re apt to think, “How kind of God to include the meek people. It wouldn’t be fair to leave them out.” The condescension doesn’t faze us. And the most cynical of us might even remark, “It’s a good thing God’s giving them the earth. Lord knows if they had to get it for themselves, they’d be out of luck.” Clearly, I’m exaggerating—but not by much. Meekness is not something we aspire to or reward.

Yet Jesus tells us to be meek. He not only promises we’ll inherit the earth, but says we are (present tense) “blessed.” A closer translation of the original word would be “happy” or “fulfilled.” So we wonder if Jesus is using reverse logic here. Is He talking down to us, like we’re naïve children, making big promises to put us on our best behavior? No. Why should He? He just as well could warn us not to expect happiness and validation if we aren’t meek. But Jesus promises them to the meek. And since these objectives drive our self-actualization mindset, perhaps we should consider what meekness really is, because it has nothing to do with sheepishness, passivity, or conformity. Although it may appear as such, meekness is the opposite. It takes uncommon courage, backbone, and self-discipline to be meek.

Demonstrating Power

Many updated Bible translations replace “meek” with “gentle,” which reverses the negative spin while still underestimating praeis, the Greek word in Matthew 5.5’s transcription. There, it’s a cognate sharing the same root as many Greek and Latin words that mean “more or stronger than.” (The Toyota Prius is a modern cognate, coined to suggest its hybrid engine improves on traditional fossil-fuel motors.) Linguists from HELPS Word-studies—The Moody Bible Institute’s online language seminar—dissect praeis thusly:

This difficult-to-translate root (pra-) means more than “meek.” Biblical meekness is not weakness but rather refers to exercising God’s strength under His (sic) control—i.e. demonstrating power without undue harshness. [The English term “meek” often lacks this blend—i.e. of gentleness (reserve) and strength.]

Therefore, the meek whom Jesus describes—and calls us to be—demonstrate power through self-restraint. They’re gentle by choice, not nature. They let go many of the earthly assets at their disposal to influence situations and win arguments. They exercise "God’s strength under God’s control without undue harshness." For the meek believer, not alienating others by asserting authority or personal views is far more important than vindicating oneself or winning points.

Aggression of any kind is anathema because it verifies a lack of strength and power. It’s the lowest form of weakness—true spinelessness and bankruptcy of self-esteem. That’s why the Religious Right’s overheated rhetoric about “taking the world for Christ” and “declaring war on sin” rings so hollow. It merits no response, let alone any derision. The meek, not the aggressive, inherit the earth. Pushing an agenda—right or left, regardless of the ideals behind one’s motives—cancels all claims to meekness’s inheritance. And this principle holds for every arena in life: personal, religious, social, professional, and political. In 1 Peter 2.13, 15 and 16 we read, “Submit yourselves for the Lord’s sake to every human authority… For it is God’s will that by doing good you should silence the ignorant talk of foolish people. Live as free people, but do not use your freedom as a cover-up for evil; live as God’s slaves.” Meekness, then, is the demonstration of power by submission to others in service to God. We may disagree with our leaders and those around us. We may not like where our world, country, and communities are headed. But we don’t sink to confronting them on their terms. That brings our meekness into question and sets tongues wagging. Gentle restraint is our show of strength. We have nothing to lose. By opting for meekness, we remain happy, knowing we will inherit the earth.

Anger Issues

On the personal front, meekness reaps consistent, immediate rewards by defusing anger issues. It’s the only sure-fire method of anger management. And therein lies our key to happiness. Anger begets misery because it’s born in misery. What makes us mad? Frustration, resentment, and other symptoms of deficient meekness. We get angry because we’re ignored, disrespected, powerless, used, and abused. Yet meekness makes us stronger than any of them. Even if people and situations that enrage us persist for life, they’re only temporary. Our inheritance is eternal. We are heirs to the earth. Christ assures us we will come into our own. Thus, we conduct ourselves as dignified heirs of staggering wealth—meekly, with reserved gentility. Discipleship carries with it its own strain of noblesse oblige; as nobles, we bow and oblige rather than succumbing to provocation.

Our happiness and fulfillment are predicated on meekness, which makes anger an unreasonable option. In other words, those attempting to provoke us to anger ask too much. “Do not be quickly provoked in your spirit, for anger resides in the laps of fools,” Ecclesiastes 7.9 tells us. Meekness is our best defense against provocation, even when answering challenges would seem to serve our best interests. In those instances, we bridle our tempers, remembering we are first and foremost Christ’s disciples—“slaves to God,” as Peter puts it. Lent removes us from the clamor of daily life so we can find clarity to renew our vows of discipleship and strengthen our commitment. May our desert journey lead us to meekness and may we find the courage to embrace it as our way of life.

Meekness is not weakness in any form. It demonstrates power without undue harshness, which demands uncommon courage, backbone, and self-discipline.

Postscript: “Easy to Be Hard”

Walt and I recently saw the national tour of the Broadway revival of Hair and, once again (as always), this number choked me up. How many times do we allow our passions to lead us astray? We forsake meekness to take hard positions on social or religious issues and, in the process, alienate those around us. Jennifer Warnes performs “Easy to Be Hard” on “The Smothers Brothers Show” in the late 1960s.

Down in Our Hearts

Many, LORD, are asking, “Who will bring us prosperity?” Let the light of your face shine on us. Fill my heart with joy when their grain and new wine abound. (Psalm 4.6-7)

Where Real Joy Resides

One of the ditties that never failed to excite us as Sunday school kids went:

I've got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart

Down in my heart, down in my heart!

I've got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart

Down in my heart to stay!

The second verse said, “If the devil doesn’t like it, he can sit on a tack!”—whereupon we’d deliriously yell, “Ouch!” To this day, I haven’t the slightest idea what that was supposed to mean. Only inattentive people sit on tacks. And that certainly didn’t describe the devil, who according to our teachers, was a wily sort always lurking in shadows—like the Big Bad Wolf—to pounce on any unsuspecting child who meandered his way. Of course, as children, we didn’t worry ourselves with the tune’s unseemly contradiction. As far as we were concerned, we had joy in our hearts. It wasn’t going anywhere. So what if the devil didn’t like it? He couldn’t do anything to stop it. We had joy in our hearts to stay. There. Case closed.

I’ve not given much thought to the song over the years. But now that it’s sprung to mind, I regret not doing so. When I consider how often I’ve forgot where real joy resides, how secure and amazingly durable it is, and why there’s no cause to fear for its survival, I wish I’d kept “I’ve Got the Joy, Joy” handier. It sure would have been helpful when no signs, let alone promises, of joy were visible and no outward evidence of it seemed to exist. I could have used it when I felt bankrupt of joy and unsure how and when it might be replenished. And I truly needed it for times when I’d lost touch with my joy while others—who, from what I could tell, had done nothing to deserve happiness—appeared to be head-over-heels in joy. If only I’d remembered to hum a few bars of that cockeyed little melody, I’d have realized when we have real joy down in our hearts, it remains and sorrow passes. It's safe and secure from temporary trials and emotional storms. We don’t always see joy, because it’s often hidden from sight. But if we open our hearts to real joy—God’s joy—it’s there to stay. There’s nothing anyone can do about it. If that makes them unhappy, well, there’s a seat and tack with their name on it. (Ouch!)

Resistant and Responsive Joy

God’s joy is like all of God’s gifts. It’s unconditional. It comes by way of God’s favor, through no effort or merit of ours. That means joy down in our hearts is decidedly unlike joy we experience from human kindness and good fortune. Indeed, we’d be wise to distinguish the two to prevent our confidence in God’s joy from foundering when we’re troubled by the unreliability of human joy. We might define the joy God gives as “resistant joy.” It’s impervious, implacable, and immune to any and all conditions. There are no causes and effects attached to God’s joy. It just is, because God is, and assurance God is the sole source of God’s joy. Joy we receive from others and by chance is “responsive joy.” Though we position ourselves to receive as much responsive joy as possible, it still depends on factors beyond our control—whereas God’s joy resists anything that interferes with it abiding in our hearts. Because it comes from God, it’s like God. It requires no reason other than God to exist and needs nothing from us to persist. It’s unconditional and eternal!

In Psalm 4 we see two kinds of people seeking different kinds of joy. The first wants responsive, conditional joy. “Many, LORD, are asking, ‘Who will bring us prosperity?’” verse 6 says. These people allow circumstances to define their happiness—in this case, prosperity. When the coffers and cupboards are full, their joy is full. When their means run dry, their joy dries up. David charitably prays for their wellbeing: “Let the light of your face shine on us.” As their king, their happiness is paramount. Yet he doesn’t include himself with them. In verse 3, he attests, “Know that the LORD has set apart his faithful servant for himself; the LORD hears when I call to him.” Then, in verse 7, he differentiates himself again by praying for a very specific kind of joy—God’s unconditional joy that resists temporal factors, joy that delights in blessings without relying on them: “Fill my heart with joy when their grain and new wine abound.” This joy sustains David in any situation. “In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, LORD, make me dwell in safety,” he writes, closing the psalm in verse 8. The joy David seeks requires no reason other than God and persists because of God. He asks for joy down in his heart to stay.

Big on Joy

The Gospels go out of their way to emphasize Jesus was big on joy. In fact, joy is the very first emotion we “see” Him elicit. When the newly pregnant Mary visits Elizabeth, her cousin witnesses Christ’s reality by telling Mary, “As soon as the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy.” (Luke 1.44) After warning us we’ll be hated because of Him, Jesus says, “Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, because great is your reward in heaven.” (Luke 6.23) Many of His parables (too many to list) end joyfully—lost treasures are found, babies are born, patience is rewarded. And, explicitly in John, but implicitly in the other Gospels, Jesus pointedly distinguishes God’s joy from earthly joy. He calls it “My joy” and says it will reside in us and be complete (John 15.11), succeed grief (16.20), resist human interference (v22), and be given for the asking (16.24) in full measure (17.13). The distinction between our responsive joy and God’s resistant joy is so vivid to the Apostles that their letters specify which they’re writing about. God’s joy is always “complete,” “glorious,” “in the Holy Spirit,” and “by faith”—i.e., unconditional and eternal. It transcends emotion, refutes logic, and resists circumstances. The joy down in our hearts just is, because God is. It’s more than feeling. It’s fact. And whoever doesn’t believe or like that—well, we talked about what they can do.

God’s joy down in our hearts isn’t the same as joy we feel in response to kindness and good fortune. It’s impervious, implacable, and immune to circumstances. It’s not feeling. It’s fact.

Way Over Yonder—A Personal Reflection

If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men. (1 Corinthians 15.19)

Bishop Walter Hawkins

May 18, 1949 – July 11, 2010

Shelter

Last weekend started one way and ended another. Both events jettisoned me back to my teens. On Friday night, Walt and I attended Carole King and James Taylor’s “Troubadour Reunion” concert. On Sunday evening, I opened my Facebook page to see a link posted by my good friend, Calvin Bernard Rhone. It took me to a Washington Post article: Walter Hawkins dead: award-winning gospel singer was 61. Since the early 70's, if anyone asked, “Who are your greatest musical influences?” without a second’s thought, I’d reply, “Carole King and Walter Hawkins.” As a burgeoning church musician, both drew me with their keyboard and songwriting genius. I spent hours listening to their breakthrough albums, Carole’s Tapestry (1971) and Walter’s Love Alive (1975, recorded with the choir of the church he founded, Love Center), followed by countless hours at the piano, trying to replicate their sound.

With music playing such a forceful role in my life and my faith, their influence exceeded its impact on my tastes and musicianship, however. Their lyrics shared many similarities that moved me profoundly. Admittedly, Carole’s songs were secular and often directed to friends and lovers, while Walter’s spoke of or to God. Yet it’s irrefutable both came from comparable places in their hearts. For example, Carole sang:

Way over yonder is a place that I know

Where I can find shelter from the hunger and cold

And the sweet-tasting good life is so easily found

Way over yonder, that's where I'm bound

Walter’s choir sang:

If you want to know where I'm going

Where I'm going soon

If anybody asks you where I'm going

Where I'm going soon

I'm going up yonder to be with my Lord

Carole sang:

Winter, spring, summer, or fall

All you have to do is call

And I'll be there

You've got a friend

And, on Love Alive II (1978), Walter’s choir sang:

He will never forsake you

Even though He knows everything

There is to know about you

He's that kind of Friend

These were potent messages of hope for a teenager struggling to reconcile his faith and sexual orientation. Knitted together, Carole’s compassion and Walter’s confidence became the shelter in my storms—the place where I could steal away to hear angels sing hope and acceptance. It was where I heard Walter’s music say:

God has not promised me sunshine

That's not the way it's going to be

But a little rain mixed with God's sunshine

A little pain helps me appreciate the good times

Be grateful, and it will be all right

While Carole told me:

You've got to get up every morning

And show the world all the love in your heart

Then people will treat you better

You're gonna find, yes you will

That you're beautiful as you feel

The Far Shore

So I wept with joy on Friday, as Carole performed her life-giving songs, and again Sunday, on learning Walter was gone—up yonder, way over yonder. Yet in my tears, sorrow would not come. What I felt was no less than insurmountable joy. In song after song, sermon after sermon, he insisted he was bound way over yonder. I couldn’t have been happier for him. And in my happiness, I realized the depth of his impact on me. All along, he’d been my living example of 1 Corinthians 15.19: “If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men.” I understood why I felt no alarm when I heard he was battling pancreatic cancer. I knew hope for him surpassed healing and longevity. He’d lived his life looking to the far shore.

Walter Hawkins taught me—and hundreds of thousands he graced with his music—to live in hope. Through him we grasped there’s no such thing as hopelessness when we place total faith in Christ’s word: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” (John 14.1-3) Walter compelled us always to remember we’re going up yonder. Setting our sights on the far shore keeps life’s trials in perspective. Here’s how Carole framed it:

I know when I get there the first thing I'll see

Is the sun shining golden, shining right down on me

And trouble's gonna lose me, worry leave me behind

And I'll stand up proudly, in true peace of mind

When the Battle’s Over

While playing Walter’s records as a kid, I never imagined I'd personally know him. I lived in Chicago. He was in Oakland. He was world-famous. I was nobody. I moved to Los Angeles after college and a series of coincidences landed me in the heart of L.A.’s gospel community. A good friend was recording his choir’s first major album, which Walter offered to produce. We’d briefly met a few times in passing, mostly when I visited his church in Oakland. When he came to L.A. to record my friend’s album, I somehow ended up driving him around town. He talked excitedly about his upcoming project, Love Alive III, and when we happened to pass my church, West Angeles, he asked to stop so he could say hello to my pastor.

After he and Bishop Blake visited, Walter said, “Let’s go to the sanctuary. I want to play some of the new album for you.” I can’t describe the emotions rushing over me as I sat beside him, watching his hands glide over the keys, listening to songs the general public had yet to hear. I wanted to explain what this moment meant to me, yet I knew I wouldn’t do it justice. So I sat in silent awe. We’d been there a while when Walter said, “One more, then we need to go. You’re really going to like this one.” He sailed into a classic Walter Hawkins toe-tapper, “When the Battle is Over.” Here’s the second verse:

With tears streaming down, when there's no one around

And you feel like all hope is gone

Don't despair, God is right there

When the battle's over, when the battle's over

We're going home.

Walter’s passing compels me to encourage all of us to live in the bright hope of God’s promises. We will cry sometimes. At times, family and friends we look to won’t be there. We’ll feel like hope is lost. But we must never forget the hope we possess will ultimately triumph. We must always keep the far shore in sight. Way over yonder—that’s where we’re bound.

When the battle’s over, we’re going home.

"One of these mornings, it won’t be long, you’re gonna look for me and I’ll be gone on home!” Bishop Walter Hawkins sings, “When the Battle is Over.” (Choir conducted by his brother, Edwin Hawkins.)

Not Ours

Godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. (1 Timothy 6.6-7)

The Myth of Ownership

Great movie lines are hard to come by these days—so much so I can think of only one in the past 15 years that measures up to the old Hollywood standard. It’s from 1995’s The Usual Suspects: “The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.” The paradox lands like a ton of bricks. By morphing into an allegedly imaginary figment, the Evil One turned into a superstition not to be taken seriously. It was true genius. And though two films could hardly be more dissimilar, the Suspects line popped in my head when I recently re-watched the Frank Capra classic, You Can’t Take It With You (1938), an uproarious comedy about a family of iconoclasts who live like “lilies of the field… except we toil a little, spin a little, [and] have a barrel of fun.” They know all too well that the Devil exists and devote their time to flouting his greedy, fearful ways. The picture climaxes when the grandfather delivers a much-needed lecture to a Wall Street fat cat:

You may be a high mogul to yourself, Mr. Kirby, but to me you’re a failure—failure as a man, failure as a human being, even a failure as a father. When your time comes, I doubt if a single tear will be shed over you. The world will probably cry, “Good riddance!” That’s a nice prospect, Mr. Kirby. I hope you’ll enjoy it. I hope you’ll get some comfort out of all this coin you’ve been sweating over then!

I thought to myself, “That’s another great diabolical lie—the myth of ownership.”

Pause for a second and look around you. Linger momentarily on your most prized possessions. Here in my study, I’m surrounded by essentials and mementoes: my desk, computer, and far too many books and photographs; a straw Fedora that belonged to Walt’s dad; a painting of a lone wolf that hung in my grandparents’ den; a few awards; a pine cone from FDR’s birthplace; an armchair Walt rescued from the trash and painted bright green, covering its seat in leopard print (it’s quite lovely, actually); and, oh yes, our feline terror, Cody, presently curled up on the loveseat. Then there are the gifts: a leather-bound NIV translation of the Bible; a Lladro of the Holy Family; an antique map of Paris; a wall plaque reading, “Slow! Fairy Crossing;” a red apple paperweight. All of these things, each invaluably dear to me, and not one of them is mine. The same is true of everything you see and love around you. None of it's yours.

Getting and/or Keeping

If convincing us he doesn’t exist is the Enemy’s greatest trick, persuading us we can own anything places a close second. The myth of ownership is double-edged. First, it preys on the biological fear of danger and deprivation as well as the psychological need to prove our worth in achievements and assets. Although human acquisitiveness has never been more feverish than in today’s consumer culture, it’s always been our Achilles heel. I believe virtually every conflict that ever tormented us can be reduced to a struggle over getting and/or keeping “what’s mine.” Which leads to the ownership myth’s second deadly aspect. It reinforces the notion that holding on to whatever we’ve got is more important than giving up anything—or everything—we have.

Debunking the myth of ownership blunts both its edges. They make no sense. Since none of what I have was ever mine to begin with, the fact it’s been given to me proves I won’t be deprived of what I need. And since it’s given, I’m foolish to imagine it in any way depicts my abilities and worth. Finally, because it’s not mine, I have nothing to lose by giving it up, whether in duress, sacrificial kindness, or in obedience to God. Once we wrap our heads around the folderol of all this getting and/or keeping, we open our minds to what Paul says in 1 Timothy 6.6-7: “Godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it.”

Great Gain

The second verse is where “you can’t take it with you” originates. Yet without “godliness with contentment” and “we brought nothing into the world,” it’s an overly obvious cliché, part of that rueful bit about not escaping death and taxes. What Paul talks about is hardly a reason to mourn, however. Indeed, he’s teaching us how to be happy. The ownership myth is founded on the fallacy everything we pick up along the way is naturally ours due to qualities we possess—skills, fortitude, creativity, etc., on the plus side, and even negative traits like selfishness, insecurity, and dishonesty. But they're all learned behaviors we acquire in service to acquisition. While we may be born with certain capacities, we no more bring our capabilities into the world than the material things they enable us to amass. Thus, pushing ourselves to do more to have more activates a law of diminishing returns and exposes us to fear of failure. At some point, everyone’s capabilities run dry and the gravy train derails. Mistaking what we’re been given—talents or possessions—for our own is a recipe for hardship and misery.

Knowing all we have is God-given puts our lives in perspective. It seats our Maker in His rightful place, as David describes in Psalm 28.7: “The LORD is my strength and shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped..” This is the “godliness” Paul refers to—unabashed trust in God’s provision and protection. It’s contentment that brings great gain. In Philippians 4.12-13, the Apostle reveals how to be satisfied. “I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength.” What we have today wasn’t ours yesterday. It may no longer be ours tomorrow. Awareness of this is why we're happy with what we have and unworried by what we don’t. God is our Strength, our sole Source and Provider. In these closing weeks of Lent and throughout the year, it’s essential we realize our fasts and sacrifices don’t ask us to “give up” anything we have. They teach us the joy and peace we gain by giving back what’s not ours.

No matter how much or how little we possess, none of it’s actually ours.

Postscript: The Heart of Worship

We bring nothing into the world and take nothing from it because it’s not about us. Mark Redman’s “Heart of Worship.”