"Tears of joy are like the summer rain drops pierced by sunbeams"
About this Quote
Tears of joy rarely get treated as serious weather, but Ballou gives them atmosphere: not a contradiction, a climate. The image is almost disarmingly simple - summer raindrops lit through by sunbeams - yet it smuggles in a full theology of mixed feelings. Joy, in his telling, is not the absence of sorrow; it is sorrow made translucent. The tear remains a tear, but light changes what it means.
As a Universalist clergyman writing against harsher Calvinist currents of his era, Ballou had a stake in rehabilitating emotion as evidence of grace rather than proof of weakness or sin. The metaphor does that work quietly. Summer rain is brief, warm, even refreshing; it doesn’t threaten the harvest the way a storm does. Paired with sunbeams, it becomes a visual argument for reconciliation: pain and happiness occupying the same instant without cancelling each other out. That’s a consoling message for congregations living through early American volatility - epidemics, child mortality, precarious labor - where “pure” joy might feel dishonest.
The subtext is pastoral and political in miniature: if the world can hold rain and sun at once, a person can hold loss and gratitude without being morally incoherent. Ballou’s line offers believers permission to cry without surrendering to despair, and to celebrate without pretending they’ve never been wounded. It’s a devotional sleight of hand: aesthetic beauty standing in for doctrine, tenderness doing the persuading where argument might fail.
As a Universalist clergyman writing against harsher Calvinist currents of his era, Ballou had a stake in rehabilitating emotion as evidence of grace rather than proof of weakness or sin. The metaphor does that work quietly. Summer rain is brief, warm, even refreshing; it doesn’t threaten the harvest the way a storm does. Paired with sunbeams, it becomes a visual argument for reconciliation: pain and happiness occupying the same instant without cancelling each other out. That’s a consoling message for congregations living through early American volatility - epidemics, child mortality, precarious labor - where “pure” joy might feel dishonest.
The subtext is pastoral and political in miniature: if the world can hold rain and sun at once, a person can hold loss and gratitude without being morally incoherent. Ballou’s line offers believers permission to cry without surrendering to despair, and to celebrate without pretending they’ve never been wounded. It’s a devotional sleight of hand: aesthetic beauty standing in for doctrine, tenderness doing the persuading where argument might fail.
Quote Details
| Topic | Joy |
|---|---|
| Source | Help us find the source |
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