True Joys

Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be always acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer.

Lord, give us eyes to see and ears to hear, that we may learn Your Word together as a family. We give You all praise and honor and glory, in Jesus’ holy Name. Amen.

Good morning again, Encouragers.

The Gospel this morning may strike us as a little strange for Eastertide.

Our Lord says to his disciples, “I go my way to him that sent me.” And at first, that sounds less like triumph and more like loss. He speaks of going away. He speaks of sorrow filling their hearts. Then he says something that must have seemed almost impossible for them to understand: “It is expedient for you that I go away.”

Expedient? Better? How could that be better?

They’d walked with him. They’d heard his voice with their own ears. They’d watched him heal the sick, rebuke the wind, and call the dead to life. And now he says it’s for their good that he should go?

That was hard for them. And if we’re honest, it’s hard for us too.

Most of us think we’d do better if things were a little more settled. A little more visible. A little more manageable. We’d like the path to be clearer. We’d like the losses to be fewer. We’d like the changes to slow down.

But the Collect this morning speaks with great honesty about our condition. It speaks of “the unruly wills and affections of sinful men,” and then of “the sundry and manifold changes of the world.”

That’s exactly where we live.

The world changes. Circumstances change. Health changes. Work changes. Families change. Nations change. Friendships change. Seasons of life change. Even our own hearts can feel unstable and unsettled. One day steady, another day anxious. One day thankful, another day restless.

And our Collect this morning doesn’t pretend otherwise. It prays that God himself would order what’s disordered in us, so that our hearts may be fixed where true joys are to be found.

That’s the theme of our readings this morning: true joys.

There are pleasures that pass quickly. There are comforts that help for a time. There’s a kind of happiness that rises and falls with the news of the day. But true joy is deeper than that. True joy remains because it’s grounded in God.

And the lessons all press us there.

Job isn’t speaking from comfort. He’s not speaking from a good season. He’s not speaking after all his questions have been answered. He’s a man in misery. A man wounded. A man misunderstood. A man brought low.

And yet, out of that place, he says, “I know that my redeemer liveth.”

That’s one of the great confessions in all of Holy Scripture.

Job doesn’t say he feels better. He doesn’t say he understands it all. He doesn’t say everything is about to become easy. He says, “I know that my redeemer liveth.”

That’s where the heart begins to be fixed. It begins with a living Redeemer. Job’s circumstances are dark, but his confession is clear. His body may fail. His friends may fail. His understanding may fail. But … his Redeemer lives.

And because his Redeemer lives, Job knows that death itself will not have the last word.

That’s Easter faith.

And it’s that same Easter faith our Lord is teaching in the Gospel. When he says, “It is expedient for you that I go away,” he’s telling the disciples something they can’t yet bear to understand.

His going to the Father will bring them the Comforter. His departure will bring the fruit of his finished work home to them.

They won’t have less of Christ. They’ll have Christ made known to them by the Spirit of truth.

The Holy Ghost doesn’t come to replace Christ, as though the Son steps aside and another takes over. Our Lord says of the Spirit, “He shall glorify me.”

The Spirit brings the people of God into the truth of Christ. He takes what is Christ’s and shows it to Christ’s people. He opens blind eyes. He convicts of sin. He bears witness to righteousness. He declares that the prince of this world is judged.

He brings us more deeply into the faith we already have in the crucified, risen, and ascended Lord.

That matters for us, because we’re often convinced that what we need most is a change out there. A change in conditions. A change in pressures. A change in the people around us.

And sometimes those changes would be welcome. Sometimes they’re worth praying for. But our Lord points us to a deeper need. We need the Spirit of truth. We need the heart to be taught, corrected, steadied, and fixed in Christ.

That’s why St. James says, “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.”

There it is again.

The world is full of variableness. Full of shifting shadows. Full of change.

God is not.

The Father of lights doesn’t flicker. He doesn’t revise himself. He doesn’t grow uncertain. He doesn’t wake up in a different mood. He’s faithful. He’s constant. He’s true.

And St. James goes on: “Of his own will begat he us with the word of truth.”

That’s strong language. Begat. Brought forth. Gave life.

The Christian life begins with God’s will, God’s mercy, and God’s gift. He brings us forth by the word of truth. And because that’s true, James tells us to be “swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath,” and to “receive with meekness the engrafted word, which is able to save your souls.”

That word “meekness” matters.

The unruly heart wants to argue, manage, justify, react, and seize control. The Christian heart is taught to receive. To hear. To be corrected. To be governed by the word of truth rather than by the latest fear, the latest irritation, or the latest desire.

And isn’t that exactly the prayer of the Collect?

“Order the unruly wills and affections of sinful men.”

In other words: Lord, bring this disordered heart into right desire. Teach me to love what thou commandest, and desire what thou dost promise.

That’s a deep prayer.

The real trouble isn’t only that the world changes. It’s that our hearts so easily fasten themselves to things that cannot last.

We expect too much from health, from security, from human approval, from comfort, from plans working out, from life staying as we prefer it. These things may be good in their place, but they were never meant to bear the full weight of the soul.

So when they shift, as they always do, the heart becomes troubled.

The Prayer Book teaches us to ask for something deeper than a calmer set of circumstances. It teaches us to ask for a heart fixed where true joys are found.

And where are they found?

They’re found in Christ.

In Christ, who has gone to the Father.

In Christ, who has sent the Comforter.

In Christ, who has conquered death.

In Christ, of whom Job says, “My redeemer liveth.”

In Christ, who by his Spirit still speaks, still convicts, still comforts, still guides, and still keeps his people.

That’s why the Psalm can say, “Turn again then unto thy rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath rewarded thee.”

Life hasn’t suddenly become easy for the Psalmist. But the Lord has delivered “my soul from death, mine eyes from tears, and my feet from falling.”

The Christian soul finds rest because the Lord is steady, even when everything else is moving.

And then the Psalm says, “I will receive the cup of salvation, and call upon the Name of the Lord.”

The Church has always heard those words with special fitness as she comes to the altar. We come because the Lord is merciful. We come because every good and perfect gift is from above. We come because Christ still gives himself to his people.

So this morning the Church teaches us to pray honestly, and to pray well.

Lord, order my unruly heart.

Teach me to love what thou commandest.

Teach me to desire what thou dost promise.

And among all the changing things of this world, fix my heart where true joys are to be found.

Because they’re found in one place only.

They’re found in the living Christ.

And if our Redeemer lives, then we may live with hope.

If the Father of lights doesn’t change, then we don’t have to be ruled by every shifting shadow.

If the Comforter has been sent, then we’re not abandoned.

If Christ has gone to the Father for us, then even what feels like absence may be mercy at work.

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.