Sad, But Not Unhappy: Fighting for Joy Alongside John MacArthur & Treebeard

Do you suppose even the trees grow weary because of sin? Not their sin, mind you—but ours. The Fall claimed more victims than mankind only: “For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons of God. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God” (Romans 8:19-21).

Beautiful as the many trees of this world may be,—oak, ash, cedar, pine, birch, maple—something of their former glory was lost in the Fall, yet to be recovered.

As the wind whispers amongst leaves in the gathering shade of dusk, do the trees themselves take up communion with one another? With outstretched roots grasping like fingers in the deep,—ever searching, aching for Eden—can it be that these sentinels of the wood exchange tales from long ago when they too were young, mere saplings planted in a young Earth by their Creator? Though, perhaps the stories they exchange through their rustling voices are not so much memories as they are myths and old-wives’ tales. Much time has passed, you see; what was once memory has now passed into mist and legend.

Indeed, when their knotted boughs ache and groan in the evening light, is it merely on account of the wind? Or, is there some deeper, more sorrowful sighing taking place that neither night or wind or the long wane of time can possibly explain?

The trees—in their own way—bear the mark of the curse, just as we do. Whereas the trees feel it in root and branch, we in Christ feel it in our very souls. It is an ache that goes beyond sight, bone, and marrow, piercing the heart with a deep sense of home-sickness and sin-weariness.

We have joy, such as will never be robbed from us if we are united to Christ. And yet, sometimes it feels as though we are fighting for that same joy with every fibre of our being. Therein lies the mystery of what Paul writes in Philippians: “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice” (Philippians 4:4). We are in Christ, filled with His Spirit, and so we rejoice with a supernatural joy that is deep and inexpressible; but we are still in this world, and so we must fight for that same joy—daily.

Joy, then, is both a response to God as well as a command from God. Even the heartiest and most mature among us must fight for joy.

When I think of the late, great John MacArthur, I can’t help but remember him as a mighty tree: strong, resolute, and unmoving, no matter the winds of culture or criticism that swirled about his feet. And yet, like all men—even the mightiest of men, mighty trees though they may be—he too grew tired and weary, longing for home.

In addition to preaching multiple sermons each Sunday at Grace Community Church, Pastor John also hosted regular Question & Answer evenings, open to any and all in the congregation. If there was a burning question about the Bible and Christianity on your heart, Pastor John would answer it—and answer it well.

On one such occasion, he was asked what he looked forward to most about Heaven. Of the many countless hours spent listening to Pastor John, his response to this question, simple as it was, remains perhaps my fondest memory of him. I did not know Pastor John personally, but because of moments like these I felt as though I did. He took a moment or two to think about the question, though I suspect his intended answer was never far out of his mind’s reach—how could it not be near at hand? Doubtless he meditated long and often on this very topic, particularly as his years increased, growing like a long shadow behind him.

When he finally began to speak, it wasn’t Pastor John MacArthur, the respected preacher and prolific author, who spoke. Rather, it was John the man—John the Christian—who answered. He seemed older as he responded, more bent and battle-worn than usual. More homesick. Ever joyful, though weary. As though the question itself stirred up a fresh longing in his heart; a breeze echoing through the leaves of his inner-man from some far-off place. “When people ask me what appeals to me about Heaven,” he began, “it isn’t the streets of transparent gold or gates made of pearls; it’s the absence of sin. I’m tired of sin.”

Far from Grace Community Church, California, deep in the forest of Fangorn in the land of Middle-Earth, there was another tree: his name was Treebeard. Older he was than Pastor John; far, far older. Though, perhaps, less mighty than John, while still being great in his own way. As Treebeard, the great Shepherd of the trees of Fangorn and indeed a tree himself, roused the forest for war against the forces of darkness, a young hobbit made this observation amidst the clamour of Treebeard’s battle procession:

“Treebeard marched on, singing with the others for a while. But after a time his voice died to a murmur and fell silent again. Pippen could see that his old brow was wrinkled and knotted. At last he looked up, and Pippen could see a sad look in his eyes, sad but not unhappy. There was a light in them, as if the green flame had sunk deeper into the dark wells of his thought.”

In The Two Towers, Gandalf describes Treebeard as Fangorn itself, “the guardian of the forest; he is oldest of the Ents, the oldest living thing that still walks beneath the Sun upon this Middle-Earth.” Treebeard’s roots run deep, and his memory deeper still. And his sorrow? Perhaps deeper yet. He was upon the Earth when the first Shadow fell: the Dark Lord Morgoth. And Treebeard he remains, knotted as he may be, to see the battle through to the end as another Shadow cloaks the land in the form of Sauron. As they march to war, Treebeard tells Pippen that, though the age of the Ents is fading, “we may help the other peoples before we pass away.” Sad he may be, but not unhappy: though his sorrow be deep, it has not yet outmatched his usefulness or zeal.

Before the sight of oaks and men, I may not be very old, or even considered aged at all. In some ways, I am not much more than a sapling in the eyes of either. Yet, even saplings can be bruised and beaten by the wind—mere youth will not exclude anyone from the elements of this world.

As believers, it would seem that the more we age, evermore keenly do the joys and sorrows of life grow with us. Life gets both better and harder. More joyful and yet, somehow, more sorrowful and just plain heavier. The deeper our roots dig in the soil of a fallen world and the wider our boughs fan outwards in a place hostile to us, the more we long for that wood beyond the world. We grow more and more sorrowful at the dark realities of sin, both in this world and particularly in ourselves—“I’m tired of sin.” But, we do not descend into unhappiness because we know that perfect justice, peace, and redemption awaits those in Christ. As Paul writes, “We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed” (2 Corinthians 4:9-10). Perplexed, but not despairing; sad, but not unhappy.

Indeed, we are a sad people, but not an unhappy people. Our sorrows are real, but our joy in Christ far greater. And one day, when sin within and sin without is done away with, we shall be happy only. Christ will soon return; then we will be roused, slipping off the rags of the curse once and for all as if it were an old, half-forgotten dream. Until that day, fight, fight for joy. Again I say: fight for joy.

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Photo by Fabrice Villard, Unsplash

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