Watching Les Miserables the other night really got me to thinking about the paradoxes inherent in life. Think about it. Jean Valjean is arrested and spends seventeen years of his life in prison for stealing bread to feed a starving child. He’s beaten and abused. After doing his time, he is finally released, yet even then he is scorned and mistreated by society. He spends his life taking care of a child not his own. He makes sacrifices for her, dedicating his existence to providing her a safe and loving home. He even risks his life to secure her happiness. And all the while, he must remain ever vigilant because he is hunted by a man obsessed with vengeance. Put like that, it doesn’t sound like much of a life, does it?
And yet, when I get to the end, I am completely overwhelmed with the beauty that was his life. Jean Valjean’s story is the perfect allegory of the Christian life. “I have purchased your soul for God,” the Bishop tells him, and Valjean is never the same. The sacrifice was too great, too awesome to comprehend. And so he honors the gift with a life of love and sacrifice.
In a world where we’re encouraged to “go for the gusto” because we’re “worth it,” sacrifice and self-control just don’t seem to work. We go to business school to learn how to fight our way to the top of the ladder. We argue for our rights, we elbow our way in and claim our share, and we sue anyone that gets in our way. We pamper ourselves, and gorge ourselves, and buy all kinds of things to make our lives easier. We expect handouts, and exemptions, and are ever ready with long lists of excuses (It’s our parents’ fault, the teacher’s fault, the government’s fault, my boss hates me, nobody understands . . . ). We tell our spouses to get it themselves, we wish our kids would be quiet and leave us alone, we hope our aging parents don’t inconvenience us. We’re protecting o
urselves, and rewarding ourselves, and entertaining ourselves. So why aren’t we happy?
That’s the paradox. What we so avidly pursue eludes us. But a beautiful life is possible. And we’ve been given the answers: If we want to truly live, we have to die to self. If we want to receive, we have to give—love, mercy, help, friendship. If we want to be exalted, we have to humble ourselves. If we want to be strong, we have to admit our weakness and live in a state of trust. If we want to be the greatest, we must become servant of all. The last shall be first, and the first shall be last.
My heart honors the beauty of this truth when I see it in the lives of others, but I feel a lot like Paul here. What I want to do, I don’t. What I don’t want to do, I do. “Oh, wretched woman that I am . . .” Living the beautiful paradox is not easy; it’s a constant upstream battle against the river of selfishness. I can pray with the poet Robert Burns: “Thou knowest that Thou hast formed me / With passions wild and strong; / And list’ning to their witching voice / Has often led me wrong.” But I can also pray with the psalmist, “O give thanks unto the Lord; for he is good: for his mercy endureth forever.”
And yet, when I get to the end, I am completely overwhelmed with the beauty that was his life. Jean Valjean’s story is the perfect allegory of the Christian life. “I have purchased your soul for God,” the Bishop tells him, and Valjean is never the same. The sacrifice was too great, too awesome to comprehend. And so he honors the gift with a life of love and sacrifice.
In a world where we’re encouraged to “go for the gusto” because we’re “worth it,” sacrifice and self-control just don’t seem to work. We go to business school to learn how to fight our way to the top of the ladder. We argue for our rights, we elbow our way in and claim our share, and we sue anyone that gets in our way. We pamper ourselves, and gorge ourselves, and buy all kinds of things to make our lives easier. We expect handouts, and exemptions, and are ever ready with long lists of excuses (It’s our parents’ fault, the teacher’s fault, the government’s fault, my boss hates me, nobody understands . . . ). We tell our spouses to get it themselves, we wish our kids would be quiet and leave us alone, we hope our aging parents don’t inconvenience us. We’re protecting o
urselves, and rewarding ourselves, and entertaining ourselves. So why aren’t we happy?That’s the paradox. What we so avidly pursue eludes us. But a beautiful life is possible. And we’ve been given the answers: If we want to truly live, we have to die to self. If we want to receive, we have to give—love, mercy, help, friendship. If we want to be exalted, we have to humble ourselves. If we want to be strong, we have to admit our weakness and live in a state of trust. If we want to be the greatest, we must become servant of all. The last shall be first, and the first shall be last.
My heart honors the beauty of this truth when I see it in the lives of others, but I feel a lot like Paul here. What I want to do, I don’t. What I don’t want to do, I do. “Oh, wretched woman that I am . . .” Living the beautiful paradox is not easy; it’s a constant upstream battle against the river of selfishness. I can pray with the poet Robert Burns: “Thou knowest that Thou hast formed me / With passions wild and strong; / And list’ning to their witching voice / Has often led me wrong.” But I can also pray with the psalmist, “O give thanks unto the Lord; for he is good: for his mercy endureth forever.”
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