“You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.”

(Psalm 23:5b) 

I am ready to be happy.
To let myself be content, not striving.
I am ready to be free.
Lord, have your way in me.

I wrote these words in my journal last week as a declaration, a promise, and a hope. A wise friend had recently shared with me her practice of writing or speaking aloud, “I am ready to be happy.” This simple statement seemed so obvious, but after years of struggling to be happy in the midst of uncertainty, the pandemic, the death of loved ones, and depression, it occurred to me that it might be helpful to let myself and God know that I am, indeed, ready to be happy.

But as soon as I wrote the words, doubt crept in. I wondered, “Does my happiness deny the reality of others’ suffering?” and “If I am happy, then what do I do with my sadness?” and “Is it selfish to be happy? I know it’s possible to have joy in the midst of suffering, but isn’t happiness shallow, fleeting, and a bit superfluous?”

It may come as no surprise to you that I feel things—all things—deeply. I have been this way my whole life (my dear parents can attest), but when I got divorced and began the long slow process of healing from an emotionally abusive marriage, it was as if a dam broke open in me. It was as if all I could see was the myriad of ways the world is broken, twisted, and unfair. I was also working with abused women as a counselor at the time, so holding their horrific stories of abuse and trauma along with my own formed in me a deep identification with suffering.

If this is the way the world is, I determined, then I am going to dive in and figure out how to live within its brokenness. I am going to find beauty in suffering and redemption in stories of heartache. I will live in the wound of Holy Saturday—the sacred space between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, death and resurrection—and I will do my best to hold hope in one hand and grief in the other until I die and God makes all things new.

In that season, I connected with Jesus as the Suffering Servant and the Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief. Amidst my own grief, God was faithful to author new pages of hope and redemption in my life (enter Drew) and to surround me with a beautiful community of women who have journeyed with me towards healing to this day. “Beauty in brokenness” became my specialty, and it informed much of how I chose to live my days—not too happy, trying not to be too sad, telling myself “this too shall pass.” Tracing threads of gold across the tapestry of darkness is a courageous and rich way to live, but until I told myself “I am ready to be happy,” I did not realize how much I was holding happiness and joy at bay until certain conditions in my life were met:

When I publish my first book, then I’ll feel like I’ve actually accomplished something in my life and that will make me happy.

When I become involved with overseas mission work again, my heart will be fulfilled and exceedingly happy.

When I start making money through my writing, then I will be a real writer and I will be happy about that too.

When my body looks the way I want it to, then I will be confident and that confidence will make me happy.

When we finally live in a house that has two bathrooms, then mine and Drew’s marriage will be the blissfully best it has ever been and the sun shall never set upon our love.

Do you see the problem? My worldview had become one in which all I could see in my life and the world around me is what’s missing. During my season of deepest suffering, I assumed that was the way life would be forever, so I had better get used to it. I didn’t see it for what it was: a valley of darkness I was invited to pass through with Jesus by my side. Last week, I wrote about my frequent experience of the ache and invited us to lean into the ache as a sign that we’re created for more than what this world provides. But I forgot to mention a vital point: the ache is not what is eternal and lasting; joy is. The ache for heaven and home is only ever meant to be temporary. This does not diminish leaning into the ache and letting it speak to us about how we’re created for heaven as a vital posture; neither does it negate the necessity of gladness, happiness, and joy on earth as we await ultimate redemption.

Jesus is the perfect example of one whose joy was just as powerful as his grief. When Jesus is heading towards the cross, he has a beautiful conversation with his disciples in which he prepares them for his death and resurrection and their ensuing mission in the world. He tells them,

Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy. In that day you will no longer ask me anything.
Very truly I tell you, my Father will give you whatever you ask in my name. Until now you have not asked for anything in my name. Ask and you will receive, and your joy will be complete.

(John 16:22-24)

In this passage, Jesus is speaking about unshakeable joy following his own death and resurrection—not ours. In other words, Jesus tells the disciples that because of his life, death, and resurrection, complete joy will be theirs on earth as it is in heaven. There is an old movie about the life of Jesus in which the character of Jesus drove me absolutely nuts the many times I was forced to view this movie at church camps, youth retreats, etc. This Jesus had very white, straight teeth (and skin, for that matter) and was smiling and laughing all. the. time. This Jesus was downright bubbly—there’s no other word for it. And I didn’t buy it. How could Jesus be so ridiculously happy knowing that the cross was before him? For the past 15 years, I have viewed this Jesus movie with disdain and a massive eye roll. It just isn’t realistic. And when we look at the condition of the world, happiness is the most unrealistic response to the chaos and evil which daily swirls about us.

But.

Very recently, something in me has been softening to the point that I am willing to consider the joy and gladness of Jesus as an essential aspect of his character. I have felt nudged to love Jesus both as the Man of Sorrows and as the Bringer of Joy. Listen to what Psalm 45 says about the character of Jesus:

You love righteousness and hate wickedness; therefore God, your God,
has set you above your companions by anointing you with the oil of joy.
(Psalm 45:7)

When Jesus enters the synagogue and reads his priestly mission aloud from the scroll of Isaiah, joy permeates the language with which he describes himself:

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
because the Lord has anointed me to. . .
comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of joy instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

(Isaiah 60:1-3)

Jesus is a proclaimer of good news, a binder of the brokenhearted, a messenger of God’s freedom, favor, and justice, a comforter for the mourners, one who bestows beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and clothes of praise instead of a cloak of despair. In researching for this post, I came across a sermon by Charles Spurgeon which he preached in January of 1876 about Jesus and the oil of gladness referenced in Psalm 45. I love how Spurgeon describes Jesus:

I fully believe that there was never on the face of the earth a man who knew so profound and true a gladness as our blessed Lord. Did he not desire that his joy might be in his people that their joy might be full?
Does not benevolence beget joy, and who so kind as he?
…

The fact, probably, is, that he was both the greatest rejoicer and the greatest mourner that ever lived.

Why, after all, was Jesus able to endure the grief and suffering of the cross? For the joy set before him.

For the joy set before him he endured the cross,
scorning its shame,
and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.
(Hebrews 12:2)

Spurgeon goes on to say that Jesus wasn’t glad because of a denial or lack of suffering; instead, his deep and unshakeable joy is what enabled him to endure suffering. When we look at our lives and the world around us and see what’s missing, it is not realistic to be happy. There will never be a lack of suffering on earth until the end, which will be our beginning. But Jesus died to make our joy and his complete; this is a joy that makes absolutely no sense apart from him. His great joy is to give us his own. Could it be that the Man of Sorrows is also the Gladdest Man who ever lived?

***

The day after I wrote my tentative declaration of happiness, Drew and I went hiking on Mt. Rainer. As we descended a craggy summit which afforded panoramic views of ethereal mountains and verdant valleys, patches of light kissing the land’s face of darkness, and wispy clouds racing past the late-afternoon sun, Drew asked me, “What are you thinking about?” For a while, my only response was the crunch of dry mountain gravel beneath my feet. I stopped in the middle of the trail on a narrow ridge to look around me and realized that for the first time in a very long time, I was not thinking anything. I was just be-ing, communing with God through the beauty of the earth and the heavens and delighting in the sound of marmots whistling to one another across fields of wildflowers as the wind wove its way through timberline trees and straight into my soul. I recognized a deep gladness in my heart at being someplace in which the only response required of me was wonder and rejoicing. And I was happy.

***

In the week following my mountain of happiness, the following Edna St. Vincent Millay poem called “Afternoon on a Hill” has been running through my mind:

I will be the gladdest thing
    Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
    And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
    With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
    And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
    Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
    And then start down!

Perhaps the bravest and strongest thing to be in this life is the gladdest thing under the sun. So how do we receive the oil of gladness in our own lives? I believe Jesus’ question to the paralyzed man by the pool of Bethesda is a good place to start:

“Do you want to be well?”

Jesus could have easily healed this man and sent him on his way, but it is the kindness of God to invite us to participate in our own healing. The abundant life Jesus came to give us begins with our willingness to receive what God longs to give. Is there something you need to release into the capable hands of God in order to receive the gladness of Christ? If so, I offer you this:

Are you ready to be happy?
Are you ready for the oil of gladness to be poured upon your head, for Christ’s eternal joy to become both your source and your destination?
Are you ready for joy to be as strong as sorrow, and one day stronger?

For the joy set before him, he endured the cross.

Beloved, you are the joy that Christ saw before him.

May we be ever open to receive Christ’s joy in us as our very own.

I hope you will receive these lyrics as your own prayer to the God who anoints his beloved with the oil of gladness:

You bring the gladness;
I'll bring the gleaming.
You bring the glory;
I'll bring the singing.
You bring the table;
I'll bring the feasting.
Somewhere in the distance,
I hear wedding bells ringing.

-Andy Squyers, You Bring the Morning

To Go Deeper: Listen to “You Bring the Mourning” by Andy Squyers. It is a song of supplication in which joy and sorrow become the same beautiful thing.