Enjoy
the cheerful revolt of joy
“Joy, not grit, is the hallmark of holy obedience.” Richard Foster
Earlier this week I was speaking with a carpenter doing work at our church. We talked about events in the Middle East, the atrocities unfolding in Gaza. It’s utterly horrific, and the silence and apathy of much of the world is unsettling (and yes, it is possible to stand with Palestinian victims and stand against anti-Semitism).
In a world bent over with such sorrow, what right do we have to joy? How dare we enjoy lightness and delight in the face of scandalous misery and injustice? Maybe not even in the face of it but even with such horrors somewhere in the neighbourhood? It has the feel of a luxuriating indifference to all that’s wrong.
Yet I’m wondering if we can be people of justice and compassion without a strong rooting in joy? Perhaps a better question is: what will make our lives deeply compassionate, people quick and ready to fight injustice and care for the overwhelming needs of the marginalized and poor?
Guilt won’t do it. You might be prompted to send some money for hungry children because of a guilt hangover. You may do guilt-induced justice work for victims of oppression – in the short term. But guilt is not a long term energy for moral action. It’s like sugar – you might get a quick boost but wait for the crash because it is coming. Guilt simply won’t fuel a lasting life of justice and compassion.
I’m growing convinced that joy and gladness are the needed resources to fuel a just and compassionate life. There’s a really strong hint of this in Hebrews 12 where it reports that Jesus “for the joy set before him, endured the cross.” With his gaze locked in on joy, Jesus fully entered our misery, suffered injustice and mockery, endured pain. Joy was the motivating impulse for the cross, which makes me wonder if it is only joy which will actually move any of us to become justice hungry citizens.
Instead of questioning the legitimacy of joy in an often misery filled world, could it be that joy is exactly what we need to brave the misery, face the brokenness and live justly and compassionately in this world? Could a joyful feast be an important form of resistance to all that’s wrong and unjust in the world?
Certainly there’s a danger in this to be alert to, for delight to become a trivial hedonic solace and enjoyment a soothing balm while the world burns. But that misses the outward arc of joy, its centrifugal force. Any hint of self-absorption snuffs out genuine joy. Instead, joy heartens and strengthens, sending us to live fully in a broken world.
You catch of glimpse of this, for example, in The Lord of the Rings trilogy. My wise wife has often mentioned the difference between reading the books and watching the movies — it’s the absence of feasting in the film version. Throughout the books are many examples of joy-filled feasts (which you want so badly to join in), while if you only watch the movies you wouldn’t be far off to assume the books are mostly about epic battles with Orcs who have some serious dental hygiene issues.
But Tolkien got the balance right – even in the midst of a life-and-death battle in Middle Earth, there was space and time for feasting. In fact, the feasting, the banqueting on joy was, some would say, necessary; the feasts fed courage and hope as much as they nourished bodies.
The bible reflects the same balance. In the great battle of powers and principalities, of heaven and hell, that we all participate in, have you noticed that the dominant biblical image for joy is a feast? (e.g. Isaiah 25:6, 55:1-2; Matt. 22; Luke 13:29; Luke 15:23; Rev. 19:9) The life God invites everyone to enjoy is often pictured as a banquet. And not your low calorie, high fibre, “pinch-as-little-enjoyment-out-of-food” type of spread; and, conversely, not the mass-produced, low-quality “all-you-can-eat-and-stuff-your-face-as-fast-as-you-can-without-stopping-to-talk” buffets.
No, we’re talking about delighting in “the richest of fare,” which is not only the food but the rich company at the feast, the sparkling wine and conversation. Feasts are God’s way of sustaining joy in the midst of our often difficult lives, a savoury taste of the full life we’re meant to enjoy, a very real (if not delicious) rebellion against the kingdom of darkness. There’s so much that squelches gladness that we need to wage war with a feast, simply to remind us of what’s real and true.
As Nehemiah notes, “the joy of the Lord is your strength.” Joy and delight is a raised fist against all that is corrupted and bent. Real joy is never an escape from suffering; it’s a defiance in the face of it.
With that in mind, savour this wonderful prayer from Brigid of Kildare, an ancient Celt who converted to Christ — she captures the spirit and joyful gusto of a good feast that is also aimed at the wider peace and mercy of God’s Kingdom.
“I wish I had a great lake of ale for the King of kings, and the family of heaven to drink it through time eternal. I wish I had the meats of belief and genuine piety, the flails of penance, and the men of heaven in my house. I would like keeves1 of peace to be at their disposal, vessels of charity for distribution, caves of mercy for their company, and cheerfulness to be in their drinking.
I would want Jesus also to be in their midst, together with the three Marys of illustrious renown, and the people of heaven from all parts. I would like to be a tenant to the Lord, so if I should suffer distress, He would confer on me a blessing. Amen.”
Someone who can pray for a great lake of ale for the King of Kings is someone who knows God and the joy he has on offer.
In the midst of so much that is terribly wrong around the globe, take a moment to cultivate joy. Invite a few friends out for a picnic or over for a BBQ, cue up the music, dance, raise up your glass, offer the prayer of Brigid of Kildare (if only the first line), and enjoy the the richest of fare, the gladness you were made for.
And then, strengthened by joy, go act justly for the sake of the world.
A keeve is a vat or tub for holding liquids.