No. 014: Joy, but on the Other Hand Joy.

A little tribute to a classic carol.

Frankly I’m surprised no one has ever thought to tease me with the nickname “Melancholly”—I’ve always been a purveyor of the bittersweet. Cheerful in public? Usually. But I like to keep a little, melodramatic pot of heartache simmering on the stove, ready to sprinkle even upon my happiest introspections.

Consequently, my soul has often resounded the tidings of Advent more readily than it has the tidings of Christmas. Granted, I love the candy-colored fairy lights of Christmastide, but, to be honest, sometimes it’s hard for me to find God in the midst of all the sticky-sweet merriment. I see him more clearly in the wistful longings of Advent, when the emphasis falls more on the eschatological “not yet” rather than on the “already.” Even when I try to focus on the joyful news of the first coming of Christ, the persisting griefs of the present age cloud my periphery.

My favorite seasonal hymns have always been those that soberly acknowledge the cold and broken wasteland that Christ was born to save (“Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming,” “In the Bleak Midwinter”) and implore the final return of Christ (“Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus”). I resonate with hymns that measure joy with the yardstick of yearning. Singing these hymns is cathartic and comforting, and it stabilizes my heart in hope.

This past Sunday, the congregants of my church gathered around the piano in the lobby for a brief carol-sing. Together we sang the greatest hits of Christmas—“Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” and “Joy to the World.”

I enjoy singing “Joy to the World.” It’s hard not to smile when trailing my voice down the bright cascades of “heav’n and nature sing,” or when bouncing it up to hit the high notes. It feels like a small feat of vocal gymnastics. It’s fun.

I’ve never considered the song a spiritual “favorite,” though, on account of its peppy, almost hyper, temperament. The joy feels just a little too pure to account for the pain that still exists in the world or the hunger that still exists in my heart. It’s sweeter than my sensitive palate can handle.

This time, however, the hymn hit differently. I was surprised to feel my heart resonate, as though a tuning fork, as soon as the notes proclaimed “the Lord is come.” I felt fully enthusiastic to “repeat the sounding joy,” without an urge to nuance said joy with a “but on the other hand…”

Last December, you see, I witnessed the valiant hand of Christ chase me down into my soul’s darkest abyss—to the nadir of my fight with depression. I felt him lift me from where I had fallen in the valley of the shadow of death, and I felt him carry me into the warmth of day. I felt him pump fresh air into the lungs that had nearly drowned in despair, and I felt him bring light to the eyes that had been blinded by chaos.

A year ago I believed myself to be a lost cause. I had been working hard to heal my desperate soul for half a decade, but the darkness had only continued to encroach. I didn’t see a path forward. I was out of new ideas.

But Christ rescued me. And I don’t mean that “reading my Bible more” or “learning to pray better” or “improving my theology” rescued me. I mean Christ, the person—Christ himself, by his own power and in his own timing—rescued me. As Sufjan sings, “I was asleep, and he woke me up again.”

Over the past year, I have seen restored mechanisms of my soul I had formerly condemned as damaged beyond repair. I have seen green cotyledons sprout in ground I thought leeched and barren. “Healed” doesn’t seem to cut it; I have been transformed by the gracious agency of Christ.

In other words, I have seen that the lyrics of the carol are true:

He comes to make his blessings flow far as the curse is found!

Darkness is powerless against the redemptive light of Christ. There is only one appropriate response to Christ’s redemption, and that response is joy. Pure, peppy, and maybe even hyper joy. Joy, but on the other hand… joy.

Of course—you don’t have to remind me—I haven’t yet reached happily ever after. Even on my best days the tune of my heart is a little less “Let Earth receive her king!” and a little more “I can’t complain, but sometimes I still do.” Some hopes have been left deferred, and some hungers still pang. It takes little effort to shift my view toward the nations raging and the peoples plotting in vain. It’s easier to mourn than it is to hope, and it’s easier to hope than it is to rejoice.

I have much to celebrate this Christmas, and for the moment joy comes naturally. But I know the life ahead of me will bear many sorrows, from personal to universal. No doubt I’ll keep singing my hymns of yearning with ardor, and I will not close my heart to grief.

But now, more than ever before, I can imagine a day when I won’t need the salt of melancholy to balance the sugar of joy. We will sing around the throne, and our smiles will be sincere. “Now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face” (1 Cor. 13:12). The Day of Redemption is near. The Age of Joy is coming.