At that time Jesus said, ‘I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants; yes, Father, for such was your gracious will. (Matthew 11:25-26)

The infallible sign

I come to pray each day hoping to see Jesus. I want two things. First, I want to see him touching, teaching or healing someone and feel his love passing through the centuries and into me, so that my heart and his are joined in one love.

My second hope is to see and feel his joy, which I believe is a missing ingredient in much of contemporary Christianity. So much of what I see is so serious, so grim, so critical, so negative in its judgements and critiques—or so listless in its practice—that I wonder why anyone would want to have anything to do with it.

As a child, my little home church sang a few verses of Psalm 51 as members’ offerings were carried forward to the altar. “Restore to me the joy of thy salvation,” we sang these words every single Sunday, as if to remind ourselves that joy is an infallible sign of God’s presence and the fulfillment of God’s desire for us. As much as ever, the words are much-needed prayer as news near and far, from the personal to the global, threatens to deflate our spirits.

Increasingly, I have adopted a hermeneutic of joy as I meditate on a passage of the Bible or read the events of my life to see what the Spirit is saying in and around me. I look for the joy of Jesus as he heals, teaches or blesses. I ask, what is the joy, the fulfillment of heart to which this biblical passage leads me; or what does this moment of my mortal life invite me to notice and feel, celebrate and share?

Sometimes, this is easy to see, like in the passage I quoted above. Jesus surveys the knot of people gathered around him and releases a heart-of-gratitude cry to the heavens for those who feel a new world, a new way of being breaking forth in their presence and within their hearts as they watch what he does and listen to what he says.

But others, proud, self-possessed and self-satisfied hearts, don’t get it. They busily employ their critiques, deconstructing and judging his every turn, unable to see let alone feel the wonder of divine love shattering the barriers of human understanding, as Jesus creates a new community in which all that really matters is the welcome of the One who is Love Unbounded.

Joy fills and spills from his every pore as he looks at those who come to him, loving them whole, happy that they see and feel what the others could, too, if they had eyes to see and ears attuned to the music of divine love. But only the humble can hear, and only the fumbling can find … for they know their need.

Jesus’ joy is like what happens when a generation or three of your family is gathered around the dinner table heaped with more food than they can possibly eat. If you are like me, a moment comes when you lean back and watch, listening to the ebb and flow of voices and laughter, filled with gratitude for every face and for the wonder that you are there … feeling more love for them than you can put into words without blubbering all over the mashed potatoes and making a perfect fool of yourself.

Joy, heart-filling, soul-spilling happiness for the miracle of your own blessed life and the wonder that you can feel a love so much greater than any you imagined you could ever bear: it’s a Jesus moment, the kind that restores your joy and thereby saves your soul, washing away every trace of cynicism about life’s true meaning and unassailable beauty.

I have come that my joy may be in you, Jesus once told his friends. That is why tomorrow morning, while the coffee is brewing, I will read another Bible story about Jesus, hoping to feel the joy that spills from his heart as he loves the hungry souls of people like me.

Again and again, his joy has saved me from my moody melancholies, from the unrest of our riven times, from the cynicism that tempts me to believe our little lives don’t much matter and from common wounds, worries and weariness that weigh on us all.

And tomorrow, I suspect he’ll do it again.

David L. Miller