Recently I was making my way back to the church we sleep in at night, and walking along the roadside pastures in the 30-degree darkness I looked up at the shinning stars and was overwhelmed by joy. (Rob Bell describes these as kavod, you should read Velvet Elvis’ if you haven’t.) So I continued this thought and was wondering what it means to have joy: as an American man, what does it mean for the tribesman, the orphan, people all over the world, for the human being, as a follower of the Way? Freedom? Is that it? This intangible and fleeting substance that we here in the U.S. would fight to death for and then neglect while others all over the world starve for it (literally).
I’m free. I felt it in the cold air on my face just the other night, and in my sleeping bag and as I feel my food being crushed in my teeth. Freedom, just to do what I want? But that misses the entire point. I am an American citizen and in that I have pride and strength, but I am also not bound by that identity. In fact, I’m bound by no physical, spiritual or emotional paradigm. So do I rejoice in this?
The first followers of the Way came and reported to their leader of the miraculous power that came through them on their travels through the surrounding lands and they were rejoicing. But their guru pointed out that this was the wrong thing to celebrate; instead he told them to revel in the fact that their names were written in the book of Life.
This joy is mine.