The Music That Came from Ruin

In the summer of 1741, George Frideric Handel was a man undone. At fifty-six, he had suffered a stroke that left his right side partially paralyzed. His operas had fallen out of fashion. Creditors circled. London audiences who once packed his performances now stayed home. By every measurable standard, his career was finished.

Then a librettist named Charles Jennens sent him a scripture compilation — passages from Isaiah, the Psalms, and the Gospels arranged to tell the story of the Messiah. Handel locked himself in his Brook Street home and began to compose.

For roughly twenty-four days, he barely ate or slept. Page after page poured out of him — the tender promise of "Comfort Ye," the triumphant thunder of the "Hallelujah Chorus." When his servant found him after completing that chorus, Handel was reportedly weeping. "I did think I did see all Heaven before me," he said, "and the great God Himself."

What emerged from that small London room was Messiah — a work performed continuously for nearly three centuries.

Faith does not wait for ideal conditions. It does not require health, wealth, or applause. Handel's hands were weakened, but the Almighty who inspired those scriptures was not. The Most High met a broken composer in a cramped room and gave the world music that still lifts our eyes toward Heaven.

Whatever ruin surrounds you today, it is not the final movement. The God who brought Messiah out of devastation is still composing.