Though the fig tree does not blossom,
and no fruit is on the vines;
though the produce of the olive fails
and the fields yield no food;
though the flock is cut off from the fold
and there is no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord
A few years ago, I had the opportunity and honor to sing in a community sacred choir. The community was Christian, but held a wide array of types – Baptists, Lutherans, Episcopalians and many Seventh Day Adventists. We sung two concerts a year, and the music and lyrics were very different than the sacred music I was accustomed to – and lovely. One year, we sung an inspirational rousing piece, drawn from this section of Habakkuk. The verse pined on, in a somewhat sad tone about the fig tree that doesn’t blossom, or the fields have no olives, and there are no herds. But then the music swelled, and we proclaimed Yet I will rejoice in the Lord.
It was a little hard to imagine being so incredibly grateful, despite all the crummy things that had happen to the author. It seemed incongruous to the words said just prior. Everything is rotten, and broken. And yet, I will rejoice.
Today, this sentiment makes a whole lot more sense to me. Just yesterday, I was at work, swamped with things to do, worrying about my sick loved one, and my tumultuous year, and I looked out my window and was overcome with God’s mercy and light and love. It actually brought tears to my eyes.
This morning, I’m thinking about that gift of faith, that lets me be so joyful and happy, in the midst of this storm. While we don’t have olive fields that are failing, or missing cows, we all have plenty of personal challenges, that wax and wane. How is it the author of Habakkuk was able to conclude his lamentations with, ‘yet I will rejoice?” How is it we do that? How do we cultivate that, to do it even more? I think practice helps, whether it’s a gratitude journal, or prayer, or reflection. And it certainly is a gift.
And yet I will rejoice in the Lord.
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