Have you ever had a moment that seemed to transcend your current reality and circumstances and filled you up with so much weighty joy? The kind that if you try to recreate it when it’s gone, like a junkie chasing a high, or that second bite of cake never as good as the first, you cannot seem to reattain the height of that feeling? These are moments of deep joy.
One night before bedtime, I sat in the rocking chair in my son’s room with him on my lap. We looked through an illustrated version of the Westminster Shorter Catechism, which was also put into verse. He leaned back against me, and my face was buried in his hair, muffling my voice. In his little boy voice, almost a whisper, he sang along with me, “What is the chief end of man? Man’s chief end is to glorify God and enjoy him forever.”
My heart felt full. That was an echo of Eden—a moment of deep joy.
Another such moment came when I discovered “my meadow.” One fall day, my wife and I were hiking sections of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail off the Blue Ridge Parkway in North Carolina. We stumbled upon a cleared-out cow field, dotted with thistles and cow pies. To the left was an overlook of farmhouses and forests. To the right, upon cresting a ridgeline, was a sweeping view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, utterly deserted. I sat in the grass, breathing in the cool air, and quietly soaked it in.
Joy in Wordsworth and Romanticism
I first heard the term “deep joy” on the podcast Classical Stuff You Should Know. The hosts discussed how Romantic poets like Wordsworth pursued this feeling in their work. In Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, Wordsworth revisits a memory of deep joy and reflects on its power to sustain him:
“While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.”
For Wordsworth, such moments are fleeting but transcendental. Appropriately, they point us back to God, who grants them as he pleases, by his grace. They capture a bit of Eden, what it was like in that place before the fall. However, Romanticism’s pursuit of joy often veered into obsession, seeking to manufacture these experiences. This disordered longing echoes our own struggles when we try to claim joy for ourselves, leading to addiction, dysfunction, and even despair.
Consider the tragedy in Dead Poets Society. A group of young men, inspired by poetry’s promise of beauty and transcendence, are undone by disordered affections. One boy’s relentless pursuit of personal fulfillment ends in despair and suicide. Like our first parents in Eden, when we grasp at joy apart from its Giver, we find only death.
What Do We Do with These Moments?
If these moments are gifts from God, how should we respond?
- Record Them: Write them down while they’re fresh. Don’t worry about sounding like Wordsworth—Simple and plain language is just as nice if it clearly describes what made you feel that way. The act of recording helps preserve these memories as fuel for the future.
- Thank God: Every good gift is from above. As the Heidelberg Catechism reminds us, our only comfort in life and death is found in him. Seek ye first the kingdom and all these things shall be added unto you (Matt 6:33).
- Prepare Your Heart: Last, though we can’t manufacture these moments any more than a farmer can make it rain, yet like the farmer we should prepare our hearts and lives for when they come. That means creating boundaries against the encroaching wilderness of social media, Netflix, and other distractions. Slash and burn, baby.
Plow your field and cultivate a life that as you work and play, eat, drink, and be merry, you can enjoy the moments of deep joy as echoes of Eden glimpses of what will one day be restored. As Wordsworth writes, they provide “life and food for future years.” Treasure them—not as ends in themselves, but as gifts that point us back to our Father who gave them.
Awake! Put on strength! 