The Perfect Pearl

Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Saviour and my God.

Jesus told a short story – a really short story – about a man and some buried treasure. He says there’s a guy, and somehow – who knows what he was up to – he finds hidden treasure in someone else’s field. Obviously he’s over the moon – this is the greatest find imaginable, he’s set for life – and he puts the treasure back where he found it, runs home, sells everything he has and scrapes together the cash to buy the field. And he gets the field and the treasure. And everyone lived happily ever after, except possibly the original owner of the field, when he notices that the poor guy he sold that field to is suddenly some kind of dancing-for-joy, lottery-rollover millionaire.

Anyway, straight away Jesus told another two-liner story. He said there was a merchant looking for fine pearls, and then one day he came across one of immense value – a lot like that guy in Toy Story 2 when he finds Woody in the jumble sale – and just like the other guy he runs home, sells everything, absolutely everything, and buys that pearl.

And Jesus said that the kingdom of God is like that treasure, and that pearl.

And my favourite bit is where it says – about the buried treasure guy – “in his joy he went and sold everything he had”. Just imagine selling all your stuff. Imagine selling your fridge – complete with a few carrots and some yoghurt – your kitchen table, your phone, your favourite clothes, that thing you’ve had since you were in primary school, your mattress, your bed, your house. Imagine watching the boxes go out the door and into the van and off to auction. Imagine the hammer falling again and again as memory after memory, useful tool after beautiful thing goes for some amount or another.

Now try to imagine doing that, joyfully. Imagine running to greet the van and skipping a bit as you run back to grave the first box of stuff; imagine grinning inanely at all the people as they walk out holding your phone and your ipod and just bursting our laughing when you hear them whispering to each other, trying to work our if you’re crazy or you just racked up a lot of gambling debts. Imagine striding up to the auctioneer as the last person leaves, taking his hammer and having a go at banging it yourself, laughing with him and giving him a massive hug. And it’s not as if you hated your stuff, it’s just that you’re not really thinking about it – you’re thinking about what you’re about to get. And every time you do the temptation to woop or clap is overwhelming.

That is how good God is. He’s that good. And if we could just grasp how high and wide and long and deep Jesus’ love is – we would burst out into some ridiculous dance, or just lie down and laugh for hours, or run and hug everyone in sight. Every moment of beauty we’ve known, every burst of joy, every overwhelming surge of love for another human being is just a shadown, a tiny glimpse of this ultimate beauty, this perfect pearl.

And I say all this because this week I’ve been a bit like the original owner of that field. Woefully oblivious to the awesome, awesome, awesome thing that I’ve had all along. I realised today that I’ve thanked God for plenty of things this week – he’s given me real joy in my teaching, some genuine Malawian friends, a great relationship with the other Standard 6 teacher, a brilliant day-after-Valentine’s Day, a lovely chat with my parents and all sorts of little things – but it all felt a bit weird, a bit empty, a bit hollow. Because I forgot to thank him for him. I forgot to praise him. I took my eyes off how beautiful Jesus is. I ended up thiking his goodness consisted of the stuff he does for me, but this goodness is way, way bigger than that. He’s the one who moulded the galaxies between his fingertips, and invented the dragonfly. He’s the brains behind smiling, and the touch of someone else’s skin, and that feeling when you’re out in the open air at night, and B flat minor.

He’s the Dad who’s so desperate to have us home that when we come crawling back he tells us to forget about the money we stole and the crap we spent it on because he’s invited the whole neighbourhood over for a party. He’s the shepherd who picked his way through the dangers of the night to try and find us wherever we’ve wandered off, because he won’t let us go through it alone. He’s the one who took on death and won.

He’s worth selling everything for. Easily. He’s worth giving up Rachael for. Easily. He’s worth giving up my family for. Easily. And that’s far too easy to forget, but when I remember it – I know it sounds pretentious but I think the only way to say it is – then I am alive.