When The Music Requires A Leap

In 1741, George Frideric Handel was broke, paralyzed by debt, and half-crippled from a stroke. His operas had flopped. London's elite had moved on. By every measure, his career was finished.

Then a libretto arrived from Charles Jennens — a collection of scripture passages about the Messiah. Handel locked himself in his room on Brook Street and began to compose. For twenty-four days, he barely ate or slept. His servant would find him weeping over the manuscript, ink-stained and overwhelmed. When he finished the "Hallelujah" chorus, Handel reportedly said, "I did think I did see all Heaven before me, and the great God Himself."

Messiah premiered in Dublin in 1742 to a packed house. It has never stopped being performed since.

Here is what strikes me: Handel did not wait until his circumstances improved to trust God with his gift. He did not demand proof that the work would succeed. He sat down at the keys in the lowest season of his life and poured out everything he had — trusting that the One who gave him the music would do something with it.

That is what trust looks like. Not confidence that the outcome will be comfortable, but the willingness to offer what you have to the Almighty before you can see the result.

You may be in your own Brook Street season — depleted, overlooked, uncertain. The invitation is the same one Handel accepted: sit down, open your hands, and let God compose something through your surrender.