"Well done, my good and faithful servant . . . Come, share in my joy!" (Matthew 25:23)

In modern Christianity there is a great deal of emphasis on the joy of living a God-guided life. Joy is the subject of countless sermons, books, and personal testimonies. I wonder, though, if we have reached a point where the expectation of Christian joy is over-emphasized or its meaning misunderstood.

Has your life been a consistently joyous journey? Mine hasn't. Frankly there are times in which my walk with Christ seems like a march, not a journey, and a toilsome one at that. During those joyless times, I have wondered if something in my life was amiss or askew, or if my faith was somehow faulty.

Over time, those concerns have given way, and my long-held perspective on joy has given me stamina for the marches within my journey. Joy is not an emotion evoked by a sense of well-being. Joy is a gift ... a reward for a job well done, for faithfulness with much or little, for trusting when we cannot see.

During the stretches between the promise and the reward, we do well to concentrate on the march, not on how we feel as we move forward. Joy will come! It is our heart's response to the Spirit's whisper, "Well done, my good and faithful servant. Come, share in My joy!"

"Send the people away so they can go to the surrounding villages and countryside and find food and lodging because we are in a remote place here." (Luke 9:12) 

The remote place to which Luke referred was near Bethsaida, a town on the Sea of Galilee. Jesus and the twelve had gone there to rest and do some catching up, but it was not to be. Word of their whereabouts spread and a crowd gathered, many of them caught in the crosswinds of disease and illness. Compassionate always, Jesus began teaching and healing.

As the sun faded, the disciples were ready to call it a day. They asked Jesus to send the crowd away so they could find food and lodging. The men were puzzled when Jesus told them to feed the mass of people. "All we have is five loaves of bread and two fish." To their credit, the apostles were not unmoved by the crowd's circumstances. Their remedy, though, was to let them fend for themselves.

Jesus used the moment to teach, among other lessons, that sympathy includes responsibility. His wondrous multiplication of the bread and fish is the only miracle besides his resurrection that is reported in all four Gospels.

The miracle also highlights the difference between compassion and pity. Compassion is recognition of another’s distress with a desire to alleviate it. Compassion includes responsibility. Jesus made that clear by saying, “Give them something to eat.” Pity, on the other hand, implies a mildly condescending sympathy and evokes the response, “Send the crowd away.”
 
The Lord urges us to go where our sympathy leads, but not just to family and friends. Most of the people who gathered in that isolated place outside Bethsaida were strangers to Jesus, but they received compassion, not pity. The Lord expects us to follow our sympathy even when the path leads to a place that is far removed from the comfortable and familiar.

Offer praise as your sacrifice to God ... (Psalm 50:14)

On first reading, obedience to this directive seems too effortless. Offer praise as your sacrifice to God.  Aren't sacrifices supposed to be difficult, even painful? How can it be that praising our Creator is a form of sacrifice?

Compared to the religious ritual of sacrificing the first of ones harvest or flock, offering up praise to God seems too easy. It comes without cost. Weighed against the many times you and I are called to surrender our time, plans, or money for someone else's benefit, praising God seems to require nothing from us at all.

But, perhaps it does.

When times are continuously hard at work, then, yes, praising God for the gift of secure employment is a form of sacrifice. It requires us daily to tamp down impatience, to rethink attitudes, or to set aside the conviction that problems lie within the company or co-workers, and not within ourselves.

When turmoil arises in our families, then, yes, thanking God for loves one, each of them, is a form of sacrifice. It requires that we let go of past hurts. It obliges us to relinquish notions of what a family should be like and to find what is precious in the imperfect one of which we are a part.

And when the crosswinds of loss or illness sweep over us, it is indeed a sacrifice to embrace a life that's so different from what we thought it would be, and then to praise God for all that it is.

"Offer praise as your sacrifice to God. Fulfill your vows to the Most High. Then call on Me in time of distress. I will rescue you, and you shall bring Me honor."

The man said to him in reply, "Sir, leave it alone for one more year, and I'll dig around it and fertilize it. If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down." (Luke 13:8-9)

The parable of the barren fig tree never fails to touch my heart. Jesus employed the story to teach in part about God’s patience with those of us who are slow to repent. Jesus spoke of a fig tree found by a landowner to be barren for three years. The man instructed his gardener to cut down the unproductive tree, but the gardener appealed to his employer to wait a year. The gardener promised to give the tree special care, believing it would bear fruit given the chance to live.

The exchange between the landowner and the gardener reminds me that, but for God’s patient love, I could have been that tree, chopped to the ground and discarded during a prolonged barren time in my life. My guess is that many of you have felt rooted in that same unwelcoming orchard. How utterly tragic if God had let our lives be defined by our failures to bear fruit in that place, at that time.

But ours is the God of second chances, the Great Gardener of our lives who tends and cares for us. He prunes here to encourage growth, protects there to withstand a crosswind, sends sun and rain without our asking, and eagerly nourishes with love, compassion, and truth.

I thank God for all my second chances, and for the promise that they are granted not just for a fleeting season.

And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God. (Micah 6:8)

In many modern societies, humility is for the most part overlooked as an admirable character trait. Confidence, assertiveness, and determination gain more respect. Yet Jesus taught that a deep desire of his followers should be humility of heart.

The humble heart acknowledges that without God's mercy there would be no forgiveness and no promise of eternal life. It recognizes that even when we desire to live moral lives, we often fail. The humble heart also concedes that without God we can accomplish little in this life of lasting value.

Humility allows us to be unmoved by unavoidable irritations or by serious wrongs brought against us. Beyond that, humility permits us to look with compassion upon those who frustrate or discourage us, and even upon those who knowingly cause us pain.

A humble heart endures patiently, harbors no malice, and defers graciously to the needs of others. Without humility, we are constantly ruffled, permitting the gusts of daily life to raise internal crosswinds. Our spirits become a churning sea that cannot be at rest.

The word "humble" is derived from the Latin "humus", meaning fertile soil. When a seed is planted in fertile soil it comes to life. Cast upon hardened earth, seeds dry up and decay, never becoming what they were meant to be. Likewise, only in a humble heart can the seeds of God's peace, love, and joy come to life within us. Then we can become more like Christ, which is what we are meant to be.

No matter what society insists, Jesus calls us to be humble toward one another. But where does the journey to humility begin? Perhaps the answer is found in the prophet Micah's counsel. We begin by walking humbly with our God.

Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life. (Proverbs 4:23)

Benjamin Franklin is reported to have said that the viewpoint which had most influenced his life was, “Some people grumble because God placed thorns among roses. Why not thank God because He placed roses among thorns?”

The longer I live, the more I respect the profound impact that attitude has on one’s life. A person’s outlook, in my view, has greater bearing on his or her destiny than circumstances and upbringing, than failures and successes, than education, ability, or giftedness. Our attitudes also shape how we face everyday trials and how we emerge from life’s crosswinds.

Even though our attitudes are commanding forces, we have the power to control and to shape them. With the assistance of the Spirit, we can choose in every moment of every day either to be grateful for the roses or to grumble about the thorns. To achieve this perspective requires that, above all else, we guard our hearts and minds. The apostle Paul understood this and to assist us, he left a powerful and beautifully expressed exhortation: “Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable —- if anything is excellent or praiseworthy —- think about such things."

"How can a young man keep his way pure? By living according to Your word." (Psalm 119:9)

Some years ago, as a story goes, musicians noticed that errand boys in a certain area of London had begun to whistle out of tune as they went about their daily work. The peculiarity was discussed and someone suggested that it was because the bells of Westminster had become discordant. The chimes, it seems, were out of tune. The young boys, not knowing that anything was amiss with the peals, had unconsciously copied their imperfect pitch.

Day in and day out, each of us is exposed to the peals of society’s bells. Some chimes ring true. Their messages are consistent with God’s word, as we understand it. The sounds uplift, encourage, and motivate us to love God above all and our neighbors as ourselves.
 
Many cultural bells have become grossly out of tune. Their clangs are so jarring that we quickly detect their discordant messages: unchecked injustice; sexualizing young children and minors; discrimination against people of faith, particularly Christians and Jews; and a growing disregard for honor and dignity.

But many of society’s bells are not sufficiently out of tune to consistently catch our ear. As a result, we sometimes unconsciously copy the imperfect pitch of their peals: misplaced priorities and situational ethics; rationalizing broken promises and justifying duties not met.
 
Jesus lived a life in perfect pitch with the will of God. By taking his teachings into our minds and hearts, we become ever more adept at recognizing what is and what is not in harmony with the word of God. When the perfect pitch of God’s word is our standard, we can detect when something is amiss in the messages that ring out in society. And, with the grace of the Spirit, we can perfect the peal of our own bells when the music of our life is off key.

The king of Israel said to Jehoshaphat, "I will enter the battle in disguise, but you wear your royal robes." (1 Kings 22:30)

The Books of Kings describe the history of the kings of Israel and Judah in the light of God's covenants. The central thesis is that the welfare of Israel and her kings depended on obedience to their obligations under the Mosaic covenant. The kings who receive the most attention in the books seem to be those whose reign either honored God's covenant or breached it. King Ahab is an example of the latter, husband of the infamous Jezebel.

When Ahab was preparing to go to battle for the city of Ramoth-Gilead, God's prophet Micaiah warned the king that he would die on the battlefield. Despite the forewarning, Kings Ahab and Jehoshaphat assembled their soldiers and moved out. As they neared the city, Ahab's courage failed him. Thinking he could divert attention from himself, Ahab discarded his royal regalia and disguised himself as a common soldier. As predicted, Ahab died on the battlefield. Wounded by a random arrow, he bled to death in his chariot, wearing a disguise rather than his royal robes and insignia. With their king dead, the Israelites withdrew dispiritedly and returned home.

Not unlike Ahab, we have all tried to escape reality with the help of a disguise. We change jobs, move to a new town, even change spouses. Personally, I have used disguises many times in an effort to conceal internal struggles or conflicts. I suspect I am not alone.

Likewise, when facing life's crosswinds, we are tempted to conceal from others, even from ourselves, the struggle going on within us. We worry that admission of fear, weariness, or despair is admission of weakness. When we feel helpless or uncertain, we are inclined to don the disguise of self-confidence and forge ahead with false courage. To do otherwise feels too much like lack of faith.

Clearly, we must always use discretion when opening up to or confiding in other people. How foolish, though, to disguise our struggles from our Creator, foolish and impossible. Jesus, in an expression of deep compassion, said, "Come to me, all who are weary and  heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." To disguise our internal struggles, to deny when we are burdened is to refuse God's promise to help.

Jesus presented himself alive to them by many proofs after he had suffered, appearing to them during forty days and speaking about the kingdom of God" (Acts 1:3)

Luke considered especially sacred the interval between the resurrection of Christ and his ascension into heaven. He framed the period in terms of the sacred number forty, writing about a visible ascension of Jesus after forty days.

For the ancient Israelites and for Jesus himself, forty symbolized a time of intense training and groundwork for a great mission. The Israelites, in preparation for entry into the Promised Land, spent forty years in the wilderness. Moses fasted on Mount Sinai for forty days when receiving the Ten Commandments.

According to the gospels, Jesus fasted in the desert for forty days before he was led by the Spirit to return to Galilee and begin his ministry there. Similarly, before his ascension, Jesus spent forty days preparing the apostles to be guided by the Spirit at Pentecost and to begin their ministry to the ends of the earth.

Each of us has experienced a personal forty days —- periods in which we waited for God's guidance, for answers to prayer, or for an opportunity to accomplish something of lasting value. For some of us, the periods were painful times in which we trusted God to untangle knots from our foolish decisions or to clear away fallout from serious wrongs.

The temptation during our personal forty days is to resentfully grumble the time away or to forge ahead unrestrained. Sadly, that seems to be our nature. We would be wise, though, to pray for insight and discernment, for patience, and for an attitude of expectation.

When I reflect on the forty-day occurrences in my life, I appreciate that the most difficult ones turned out to be periods of tender preparation for something very special. I suspect it is the same for you. One thing is certain. Our forty-day experiences have all manner of purposes, but they are never a cruel testing of our faith. Our God is kind and loving. He sacrificed His son for us. What more could Our Creator do to assure us of His love?

Cast your burdens on the Lord and he will sustain you. (Psalm 55:22)

Years ago, a woman named Mary pushed a shopping cart along the streets of south Austin. Her daily route included the sidewalk in front of our funeral home. Month by month, the task grew visibly more grueling as the woman aged and the contents of her cart swelled to overflowing.

As a rule, when I greeted Mary she shouted at me angrily, demanding that I stay back and leave her alone. Occasionally, she permitted me to approach her, to exchange a few words, and to admire her little dog resting comfortably on a blanket in the child seat. Those rare instances allowed me a glimpse of what Mary had wedged, layered, and piled into her cart: old shoes, tattered clothing and threadbare blankets, empty cellophane wrappers and crumpled plastic bags, and dozens of items so scrunched and soiled as to be unidentifiable.

During the time I knew Mary, to the extent that knowing her was possible, the crosswinds of her untreated mental illness never abated. By any measure, her life was unspeakably  hard, most visibly the strain of maneuvering her cumbersome cart. On some level, Mary probably knew that most of what she hauled in her cart had no utilitarian value at all, yet there it remained.

I found it puzzling that Mary was unable to part with the very things that made her life harder. And yet, at times, we do just the same thing. In our emotional and spiritual carts, we add rubble from painful experiences to layers of accumulated debris. Sometimes we even wedge into the space futile worries about tomorrow. Like most of the things in Mary's cart, the bits and pieces we lug around serve no purpose at all. They are burdens and nothing more. It's no small wonder that at times we travel life's journey with a heavy heart.

In Psalm 55, the author writes, "Cast your burdens on the Lord and he will sustain you." But what does that mean? How does a person go about that? It's an important question and one that I would not presume to answer. In my mind, though, casting cares upon the Lord evokes images of Mary. She is finally shedding layers of accumulated clutter from her cart and accepting the help of a Compassionate Friend. "Come to me," Jesus said, "all who are weary and I will give you rest."