Complete

I love watching folks who are good at what they do, and are passionate about it. I remember a presentation by a National Geographic photographer; not only was his work breath-taking, but his joy in his work made everyone in the room jealous.

The apostles were like that. When I read the letters of Paul, Peter, James and John, I can easily become jealous of the way their discipleship consumed their lives.

That's what I feel when I read the opening of John's first letter (1John 1:1-4) "That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked at and our hands have touched –this we proclaim concerning the Word of life. The life appeared; we have seen it and testify to it, and we proclaim to you the eternal life, which was with the Father and has appeared to us. We proclaim to you what we have seen and heard, so that you also may have fellowship with us. And our fellowship is with the Father and with his Son, Jesus Christ. We write this to make our joy complete."

John was an eye-witness to the Good News that he was spreading as the gospel truth, and he "proclaims eternal life" by testifying first-hand to what happened. He saw the dawning of our new life, he gloried in his new-found fellowship with God and Jesus.

But John needed one more thing: He needed to share the good news. He wanted everyone to feel what he was feeling. So, he says in verse 4, "We write this to make our joy complete." Sharing his new-found treasure was the final missing piece.

Too often, I think my joy will be completed by more stuff, or by more leisure, or by ice cream. My approach to joy is shallow. I don't remember ever thinking, "Wow, the only thing that could make me happier would be to go tell someone about Jesus."

Why not? The only true joy I've ever had has been at the foot of the cross, or along the road that leads from it toward heaven. Since I know that to be true, why am I so reluctant to give up the things of this world to make time for telling others? I don't even have to proseletyse on street corners; I, like John, can write.

And when I do, I feel joy. When I don't, I feel guilt. Should be a no-brainer, huh?