Pierced by Joy

She allured men to many places,

She who is fatally coy.

Men, who knew not her embraces,

Called her by the name of Joy.

Joy true Joy stabbed first.

Not the lighthearted, smiling kind that fills greeting cards and vacation brochures. Not the happiness of sunny days and full stomachs. But a sharper, deeper ache. A hunger I didn’t recognize at first. An otherworldly longing that burned a hole through my earthly pleasures and left me reeling. Bewitched. Haunted. Homesick.

She was no shallow cheerfulness. She arrived as a sovereign, robed in splendor, and shattered my illusions. Every other delight became dull beside her. Every lesser pleasure, counterfeit. She did not satisfy; she seduced. She teased a glimpse, then vanished. And I couldn’t stop chasing her.

Haunted by Longing

I saw her shadow at salsa clubs, mid-spin. I heard her voice in storybooks of other worlds. I caught her scent in sunsets, her whisper in symphonies, her smile in the thrill of a touchdown. She laughed through children, cried through strings, danced in dreams.

But always, just beyond reach.

“Beauty has smiled, but not to welcome us,” wrote C.S. Lewis. “We have not been accepted, welcomed, or taken into the dance.” (The Weight of Glory, 41)

She left behind perfume, but not presence. I was pierced and left panting. Not for what I had, but for something more. Something beyond.

The Ache of Eden

Ecclesiastes whispered, “I said in my heart, ‘Come now, I will test you with pleasure.’” But vanity answered. Joy was not found under the sun. Not in music, sex, money, fame. She would not be pinned down. She would not be bought.

So why this ache? Why this homesickness for a home I’d never seen?

Because, as Lewis once wrote, “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” (Mere Christianity, 136)

She was no cruel illusion. She was a herald. A signpost. A psalm sung from a far-off shore. A hunger better than any fullness; a poverty better than all other wealth. She wasn't the destination. She was a summons.

The One She Served

Joy herself didn’t save me. But she pointed me to the One who could.

When Jesus spoke, it was as if Joy’s true Master had stepped onto the stage. “If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink.” (John 7:37)

He didn’t condemn my hunger. He claimed to be its fulfillment. “I came that [you] may have life and have it abundantly.” (John 10:10)

He knew the longing. He made the longing. He was the longing.

In him, the ache became clarity. The pain became praise. The hunger, finally, began to be fed. “In your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” (Psalm 16:11)

Joy, Now a Servant

But even now, even after Christ found me, Joy hasn’t stopped stabbing.

She still catches me off guard in music, in mountains, in memories. But now, I understand her role. She is no longer a goddess; she is a guide. She serves the Savior. She reminds me, “This is not home. Not yet.”

As Lewis wrote, “The old stab, the old bittersweet, has come to me as often and as sharply since my conversion as at any time of my life.” (Surprised by Joy, 291)

Of course it has. Because I’m still waiting. Still groaning. Still longing for the fullness to come. (Romans 8:23)

We Wait in Joy

She used to haunt me. Now she humbles me.

Joy is no longer my aim Jesus is. And when Joy pierces again, I know what she means:

He’s coming.

She is the ache that keeps me awake. The homesickness that keeps me from settling. The bell that tolls for Zion.

So I say what she says, when she visits with her bittersweet kiss:

“Come, Lord Jesus.” (Revelation 22:20)

If Joy has ever stabbed you, you’re not alone. Share this with someone who needs help interpreting the ache. Or subscribe for more reflections on Christ-centered joy.