Sacred Delight
God blesses those who are poor and realize their need for him, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs. God blesses those who mourn, for they will be comforted. God blesses those who are humble, for they will inherit the whole earth. God blesses those who hunger and thirst for justice, for they will be satisfied. God blesses those who are merciful, for they will be shown mercy. God blesses those whose hearts are pure, for they will see God. God blesses those who work for peace, for they will be called the children of God. God blesses those who are persecuted for doing right, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs. (Matthew 5:3-10)
Frankly, she had every reason to be bitter. Though talented, she went unrecognized for years. Prestigious opera circles closed their ranks when she tried to enter, and American critics completely ignored her compelling voice. She was repeatedly rejected for parts for which she was easily qualified. It was only after she went to Europe and won the hearts of the tough-to-please European audience that stateside opinion leaders finally acknowledged her immense talent.
Her professional life, however, was not her only battle because her personal life was also marked by challenges. She was the mother of two handicapped children, one of whom is profoundly deaf and has multiple sclerosis; the other is severely autistic and institutionalized. To meet their needs, she restricted her performances to care for her children. Years ago, in order to escape the pace of New York City, she purchased a home on Martha’s Vineyard – it burned to the ground two days before she was to move in.
Professional rejection. Personal setbacks. Perfect soil for the seeds of bitterness. A receptive field for the roots of resentment. But anger didn’t find a home. Her friends never called her bitter; they called her “Bubbles.” Beverly Sills. Internationally acclaimed opera singer. Retired director of the New York City Opera, who passed away in July, 2007. But if you ever saw her interviewed, her phrases were sugared with laughter. Her face was softened with serenity. After interviewing her, Mike Wallace stated that “she is one of the most impressive — if not the most impressive — ladies I’ve ever interviewed.” How can a person handle such professional rejection and personal trauma and still be known as Bubbles? “I choose to be cheerful,” she said. “Years ago I knew I had little or no choice about success, circumstances or even happiness; but I knew I could choose to be cheerful.” And then there’s him.
No man had more reason to be miserable than this one — yet no man was more joyful. His first home was a palace. Servants were at his fingertips. The snap of his fingers changed the course of history. His name was known and loved. He had everything — wealth, power, respect. And then he had nothing. Students of the event still ponder it. Historians stumble as they attempt to explain it. How could a king lose everything in one instant? One moment he was royalty; the next he was in poverty. His bed became, at best, a borrowed pallet — and was usually just hard ground. He never owned even the most basic mode of transportation, and was dependent upon handouts for his income. He was sometimes so hungry that he would eat raw grain or pick fruit off of a tree. He knew what it was like to be rained on; to be cold. He knew what it meant to have no home.
His palace grounds had been spotless; now he was exposed to filth. He had never known disease, but was now surrounded by illnesses of all kinds. In his kingdom he had been revered; now he was ridiculed. His neighbors tried to lynch him. Some called him a lunatic. His family tried to confine him to their house. Those who didn’t ridicule him tried to use him – they wanted favors; they wanted tricks. He was a novelty. They wanted to be seen with him — that is until being with him was out of fashion. Then they wanted to kill him. He was accused of a crime he never committed. Witnesses were hired to lie. The jury was rigged. No lawyer was assigned to his defense. A judge swayed by politics handed down the death penalty. They killed him. He left as he came — penniless.
He was buried in a borrowed grave, his funeral financed by some compassionate friends. Though he once had everything, he died with nothing. He should have been miserable. He should have been bitter. He had every right to be a pot of boiling anger. But he wasn’t. He was joyful. Sourpusses don’t attract a following, but people followed him wherever he went. Children avoid soreheads, but children scampered after this man. Crowds don’t gather to listen to the woeful, but crowds clamored to hear him. Why? He was joyful. He was joyful when he was poor. He was joyful when he was abandoned. He was joyful when he was betrayed. He was even joyful as he hung on a tool of torture, his hands pierced with six-inch Roman spikes. Jesus embodied a stubborn joy. A joy that refused to bend in the wind of hard times. A joy that held its ground against pain. A joy whose roots extended deep into the bedrock of eternity.
What type of joy is this? What’s this cheerfulness that dares to wink at adversity? What’s this bird that sings while it’s still dark? What is the source of this peace that defies pain? Some call it a sacred delight. It’s sacred because it’s not of the earth. What is sacred is God’s. And this joy is God’s. And it’s delight because delight can both satisfy and surprise. Delight is the Bethlehem shepherds dancing a jig outside a cave. Delight is Mary watching God sleeping in a feeding trough. Delight is white-haired Simeon praising God just before he’s about to be circumcised. Delight is Joseph teaching the Creator of the world how to hold a hammer. Delight is the look on Andrew’s face at the lunch pail that never came up empty. Delight is the dozing wedding guests who drank the wine that had once been water. Delight is Jesus walking through waves as casually as you walk through curtains. Delight is a leper seeing a finger where there’d once been only a nub . . . a widow hosting a party with food made for a funeral . . . a paraplegic doing somersaults. Delight is Jesus doing impossible things in crazy ways: healing the blind with spit, paying taxes with a coin found in a fish’s mouth, and coming back from the dead disguised as a gardener.
What is sacred delight? It’s God doing what gods would be doing only in their wildest dreams —wearing diapers, riding donkeys, washing feet, dozing in storms. Delight is the day they accused God of having too much fun, attending too many parties, and spending too much time with the Happy Hour crowd. Delight is the day’s wage paid to workers who had worked only one hour. . . the father scrubbing the pig smell off his son’s back. . . the shepherd throwing a party because the sheep was found. Delight is a discovered pearl, a multiplied talent, a heaven-bound beggar, a criminal in the kingdom. Delight is the surprise on the faces of street folks who’ve been invited to a king’s banquet. Delight is the Samaritan woman big-eyed and speechless, the adulteress walking out of the stone-cluttered courtyard, and a skivvy-clad Peter plunging into cold waters to get close to the one he’d cursed.
Sacred delight is good news coming through the back door of your heart. It’s what you’d always dreamed, but never expected. It’s the too-good-to-be-true coming true. It’s having God as your pinch-hitter, your lawyer, your dad, your biggest fan and your best friend. God on your side, in your heart, out in front and protecting your back. It’s hope where you least expected it; a flower in life’s sidewalk. It’s sacred because only God can grant it. It’s a delight because it thrills. And since it’s sacred, it can’t be stolen; since it’s delightful, it can’t be predicted. It was this gladness that danced through the Red Sea. It was this joy that blew the trumpet at Jericho. It was this secret that made Mary sing. It was this surprise that put the springtime into Easter morning. It’s God’s gladness. It’s sacred delight. And it’s this sacred delight that Jesus promises in the Sermon on the Mount.
Nine times he promises it. And he promises it to an unlikely crowd: “The poor in spirit.” (Beggars in God’s soup kitchen) “Those who mourn.” (Sinners Anonymous bound together by the truth of their introduction: “Hi, I’m _________. I’m a sinner) “The meek.” (Pawnshop pianos played by Van Cliburn – he’s so good no one notices the missing keys) “Those who hunger and thirst.” (Famished orphans who know the difference between a TV dinner and a Thanksgiving feast) “The merciful.” (Winners of the million-dollar lottery who share the prize with their enemies) “The pure in heart.” (Physicians who love the infected and escape infection) “The peacemakers.” (Architects who build bridges with wood from a Roman cross) “The persecuted.” (Those who manage to keep an eye on heaven while walking through hell on earth)
It is to this band of pilgrims that God promises a special blessing. A heavenly joy. A sacred delight. But this joy isn’t cheap. What Jesus promises is not a gimmick to give you goose bumps, or a mental attitude that has to be pumped up at pep rallies. No, Matthew 5 describes God’s radical reconstruction of the heart. And pay particular note of the sequence. First, we recognize we are in need (we’re poor in spirit). Next, we repent of our self-sufficiency (we mourn). We quit calling the shots and surrender control to God (we’re meek). So grateful are we for his presence that we yearn for more of him (we hunger and thirst). As we grow closer to him, we become more like him: we forgive others (we’re merciful); we change our outlook (we’re pure in heart); we love others (we’re peacemakers); and we endure injustice (we’re persecuted). It’s no casual shift of attitude. It’s a demolition of the old structure and a creation of the new. The more radical the change, the greater the joy. And it’s worth every effort, for this is the joy of God. It’s no accident that the same word used by Jesus to promise sacred delight is the word used by Paul to describe God: “The blessed God. . .” (1 Tim. 1:11); “God, the blessed and only Ruler . . . .” (1 Tim. 6:15)
Think about God’s joy. What can cloud it? What can quench it? What can kill it? Is God ever in a bad mood because of bad weather? Does God get ruffled over long lines or traffic jams? Does God ever refuse to rotate the earth because his feelings are hurt? No. His is a joy that consequences cannot quench. His is a peace that circumstances cannot steal. There’s a delicious gladness that comes from God. A holy joy. A sacred delight. And it’s all within your grasp if you’re one of “those.”
Grace,
Randy
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