On Friday night, I played broomball for the second time this year. If you’re not familiar with it, it’s basically field hockey on an ice rink, plus at least one extra ball. It’s loads of fun. Slipping, falling, and laughter define the experience. Add in some friends, and you’ve got yourself a fun night. A happy night, we’ll say.
Later that night in my dorm, after I’d been asleep for a while, I awoke as the door crashed open and two people came in holding my roommate, Patrick. I didn’t actually see this, because I still had my eyes closed, but I could discern the situation from the dialogue of the voices. The first voice I heard was a neighbor from across the hall, Tom.
“How the heck did he get back here?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know.” This time, the voice was that of Patrick’s girlfriend, Nicole.
At that point, I think they must have figured out that Patrick would be needing a toilette, because they left and took Patrick to the bathroom next door before I even had a chance to look up. A minute later, I heard them reemerge from the bathroom (the door to my room was still open), but after listening to their conversation for a minute, it seemed they had left Patrick at the toilette. After listening for about a minute, I understood that Patrick was sick in the bathroom, having come back from a party with more alcohol than he could handle.
I decided to get up and see what was going on. When I came out of the room, Nicole quickly apologized for the commotion, but I tried to tell her not to worry about it.
“So I guess Patrick had a little to much to drink?” I asked. Indeed it was the case. I would find out the next day that the party Pat was attending had a special twist. There was a “sheriff” who could put people in “jail”, and the only way to get out of jail was to take a number of shots. So unfortunately for Patrick, he landed in the slammer, and he didn’t get out in his right mind.
I expressed concern and asked if Pat was going to be okay or if they thought if it was bad enough to warrant medical attention. They judged that he’d be okay.
At this time I think I need to explain my past interaction with Tom, the neighbor who helped get Patrick to the bathroom. I’ve had several conversations with Tom regarding my spiritual outlook, and I’ve defied many of his stereotypes of Christians (and he has many). When I come back from Christian events, he’ll often ask, “You guys make some good Jew baby sacrifices tonight?” to which I’ll jokingly reply in the affirmative.
Evidently, he went to a Christian elementary school and left with some rather scarred views of Christianity. So at various times he’s asked me what I think of the “heathens” who go out and party. I’ve generally responded that it’s not my business, and while I would hope that they would find a more productive way to enjoy themselves, it’s not really my place to judge them. This has shaken up his view of Christians slightly, but I don’t think he really bought it until Friday night.
When I came out after being rudely awakened and showed concern for this “heathen” who’d gotten himself sloshed, Tom suddenly asked with real exasperation, “How are you so freaking nonjudgmental? I don’t understand. You’re a Christian. You’re supposed to judge people. What is it with you?” Nicole was sitting rather shaken right next to us, so I didn’t think it was the best time for an explanation of how it’s a lot easier to not judge people when you’ve been saved from judgment, but I offered Tom the advice that his past experience with Christians might not be the best indicator of how Christians are supposed to live. The conversation was cut off by the need to check on Patrick, but I could tell that I had challenged the structural integrity of the Christian box Tom had put me into.
A few minutes later, Patrick was about done hurling in the bathroom, so we helped him back to bed to get some rest. He threw up a few times throughout the night all over his sheets. Somewhere during the night his iPhone was submerged in water (or something else). Not a good night for Pat. I was glad to have the opportunity to at least give some moral support even if he refused my offers to clean up. He genuinely appreciated the willingness to help, but I suspect that his ego was already amply crushed without accepting more assistance.
I’ve been thinking lately about the difference between happiness and joy. I can say that for all involved, this was not a night of great happiness. For me, however, every moment was dominated by joy. While it might not have been a terribly comfortable night, I felt like my actions carried potential for eternal repercussions. Tom’s view of Christianity was at least challenged if not changed. Patrick will hopefully remember a quiet offer in the night and somehow connect it to the love of God.
My experience of the night was largely informed by the conclusions that I’ve reached concerning happiness and joy. As I see it, happiness is pleasure in the moment. It is defined largely by circumstances. In contrast, I have come to see joy as hope in eternity. It does not go away. Even when I’m in the toughest of circumstances, I can reflect on the fact that I’ve been secured in eternity by my Creator, and I experience joy. The joy is increased upon realization of the fact that we can be a part of His eternal work in the present. As a result, it’s often the hardest times that bring the most true joy because it’s in those moments that we start seeing the long term importance of things. The worries of the everyday are eclipsed by the hope of eternity. A night of broomball begins to pale in comparison to a night of puke and shattered expectations. A night that could be filled with frustration and judgment suddenly makes so much more sense as a night full of God’s mercy toward others.
Truly, there are much greater things to pursue in this world than happiness. Happiness did not survive the night.
Joy did.
“How the heck did he get back here?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know.” This time, the voice was that of Patrick’s girlfriend, Nicole.
At that point, I think they must have figured out that Patrick would be needing a toilette, because they left and took Patrick to the bathroom next door before I even had a chance to look up. A minute later, I heard them reemerge from the bathroom (the door to my room was still open), but after listening to their conversation for a minute, it seemed they had left Patrick at the toilette. After listening for about a minute, I understood that Patrick was sick in the bathroom, having come back from a party with more alcohol than he could handle.
I decided to get up and see what was going on. When I came out of the room, Nicole quickly apologized for the commotion, but I tried to tell her not to worry about it.
“So I guess Patrick had a little to much to drink?” I asked. Indeed it was the case. I would find out the next day that the party Pat was attending had a special twist. There was a “sheriff” who could put people in “jail”, and the only way to get out of jail was to take a number of shots. So unfortunately for Patrick, he landed in the slammer, and he didn’t get out in his right mind.
I expressed concern and asked if Pat was going to be okay or if they thought if it was bad enough to warrant medical attention. They judged that he’d be okay.
At this time I think I need to explain my past interaction with Tom, the neighbor who helped get Patrick to the bathroom. I’ve had several conversations with Tom regarding my spiritual outlook, and I’ve defied many of his stereotypes of Christians (and he has many). When I come back from Christian events, he’ll often ask, “You guys make some good Jew baby sacrifices tonight?” to which I’ll jokingly reply in the affirmative.
Evidently, he went to a Christian elementary school and left with some rather scarred views of Christianity. So at various times he’s asked me what I think of the “heathens” who go out and party. I’ve generally responded that it’s not my business, and while I would hope that they would find a more productive way to enjoy themselves, it’s not really my place to judge them. This has shaken up his view of Christians slightly, but I don’t think he really bought it until Friday night.
When I came out after being rudely awakened and showed concern for this “heathen” who’d gotten himself sloshed, Tom suddenly asked with real exasperation, “How are you so freaking nonjudgmental? I don’t understand. You’re a Christian. You’re supposed to judge people. What is it with you?” Nicole was sitting rather shaken right next to us, so I didn’t think it was the best time for an explanation of how it’s a lot easier to not judge people when you’ve been saved from judgment, but I offered Tom the advice that his past experience with Christians might not be the best indicator of how Christians are supposed to live. The conversation was cut off by the need to check on Patrick, but I could tell that I had challenged the structural integrity of the Christian box Tom had put me into.
A few minutes later, Patrick was about done hurling in the bathroom, so we helped him back to bed to get some rest. He threw up a few times throughout the night all over his sheets. Somewhere during the night his iPhone was submerged in water (or something else). Not a good night for Pat. I was glad to have the opportunity to at least give some moral support even if he refused my offers to clean up. He genuinely appreciated the willingness to help, but I suspect that his ego was already amply crushed without accepting more assistance.
I’ve been thinking lately about the difference between happiness and joy. I can say that for all involved, this was not a night of great happiness. For me, however, every moment was dominated by joy. While it might not have been a terribly comfortable night, I felt like my actions carried potential for eternal repercussions. Tom’s view of Christianity was at least challenged if not changed. Patrick will hopefully remember a quiet offer in the night and somehow connect it to the love of God.
My experience of the night was largely informed by the conclusions that I’ve reached concerning happiness and joy. As I see it, happiness is pleasure in the moment. It is defined largely by circumstances. In contrast, I have come to see joy as hope in eternity. It does not go away. Even when I’m in the toughest of circumstances, I can reflect on the fact that I’ve been secured in eternity by my Creator, and I experience joy. The joy is increased upon realization of the fact that we can be a part of His eternal work in the present. As a result, it’s often the hardest times that bring the most true joy because it’s in those moments that we start seeing the long term importance of things. The worries of the everyday are eclipsed by the hope of eternity. A night of broomball begins to pale in comparison to a night of puke and shattered expectations. A night that could be filled with frustration and judgment suddenly makes so much more sense as a night full of God’s mercy toward others.
Truly, there are much greater things to pursue in this world than happiness. Happiness did not survive the night.
Joy did.