The Oratorio That Rose from Ruin

In the spring of 1741, George Frideric Handel was a broken man. The once-celebrated composer had suffered a debilitating stroke four years earlier that paralyzed his right hand. Creditors circled. London audiences had abandoned his operas. At fifty-six, he spoke openly of debtor's prison and considered leaving England for good.

Then a libretto arrived from Charles Jennens — a collection of Scripture passages tracing the story of the Messiah, from prophecy through suffering to ultimate triumph. Something stirred in Handel. He picked up his pen and began to write.

For twenty-four days, he barely ate or slept. Music poured from him — not the fashionable opera arias that had made his name, but something rawer, something born from the intersection of ancient Scripture and personal desperation. When he finished the "Hallelujah Chorus," his servant found him in tears. "I did think I did see all Heaven before me," Handel reportedly said, "and the great God Himself."

The work that emerged — Messiah — has been performed every year since, bringing millions to their feet. But it was written by a man on his knees.

This is what the Almighty does. He does not always heal us by removing our suffering. Sometimes He heals us by meeting us inside it — giving us something to pour our brokenness into until it becomes, by His grace, something beautiful enough to lift others toward Heaven.