Happy are they: the beginning of happiness is knowing its true source--and it's closer than you think.

HAPPINESS IS ARGUABLY AN IMPORTANT CONCEPT in American life. "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" are three things presumably safeguarded by our form of government. Personally, I'm all in favor of happiness and don't mind having some for myself. But from time to time I've also felt confused by the priority placed on that word. Life is fundamental, and nothing could be more American than the idea of liberty. Yet other cultures might add duty, honor, or justice to that list of essentials. In such company, happiness, even the pursuit of it, seems less of an absolute necessity, even a mite bit self-centered when you think about it. Why don't we list service as our great communal pursuit, or purpose, or a contribution to society? Why do we assign such an improbably high value to the pursuit of happiness?

Recently I had the opportunity to travel to China with my niece Sarah. Throughout our journey in this delightful land, our guide Jian pointed out the Chinese character for "happiness," which appears on monuments, floors, ceilings, garments, and objects of every kind. In ancient China some emperors chose titles such as "Guardian of happiness," or "Eternal happiness," as the motto of their reign. The notion of happiness seemed almost inescapable in that culture, and I wondered why so much emphasis was placed on such a relatively fragile goal. Gradually over the days, as I stared at yet another representation of that now-familiar symbol among the Chinese characters, understanding dawned on me.

"Jian," I asked our guide, "happiness is not just a good feeling in Chinese, is it? It means something more than cheerful emotions, right?"

Her eyes went wide with perception. "Oh, I see. Yes, it is more. It is--everything...." She hesitated, the meaning lost in translation, as it is so often between cultures.

I offered an idea. "In Hebrew, there is the word shalom. In English, we translate shalom as 'peace,' but that is inadequate." I waved two fingers in the now-trite peace sign, and Jian laughed sympathetically. "Shalom is not simply peace of mind or peaceful feelings. It means the fullness of God's blessings, the way life was meant to be." I paused. "It means--everything. Everything we need."

"That's it," Jian breathed with relief. "That's what we mean by happiness. Not just feelings but all that makes life good." And for a moment, across worlds, we felt a deep sense of communion.

Since we took that journey, my niece and I have continued to express wonder at the episodes of common understanding we experienced in a land and culture so far removed from ours. Sarah and I, both born in Pennsylvania and tracing our genes through Europe, discovered an amazing affinity with Jian, who was raised among a people whose history unfolded preserved from Western influence for thousands of years. What people want--here, there, everywhere, across space and time and culture and politics--is happiness, the shalom of God, the deep peace of having what we need for our well-being. It may not surprise us that this is so. What is surprising is how often we concern ourselves with our own individual happiness and remain indifferent to the fate of others, as if personal well-being were likely or even possible when others are in need.

WHERE CAN WE GO TO FIND THE shalom of God? HOW does the pursuit of happiness lead to its attainment? The disciples find their answer in Chapter 6 of the Gospel of John, often referred to as the chapter of crisis. Jesus has been offering his Bread of Life discourse, a long sermon that identifies his own body as the food that satisfies all human hunger. The crowds that have been following Jesus up to now are repulsed by this teaching. They call it "a hard saying," and refuse to accept it. Although many have been willing to follow Jesus the miracle worker--the one who provided bottomless draughts of wine at a recent wedding in Cana and supplied bread and fish to thousands at the sea of Galilee--they are shocked to consider that the messianic soup kitchen is really offering bread from heaven that sustains all takers for life everlasting. If this is happiness, not the good life on earth but absolute fullness of life in a world yet to come, most followers decide they want no part of it.

So Jesus, finding himself deserted by all but the Twelve, puts the question to them directly, "Do you also want to leave?" Now that you know what I'm really about and what I've come to offer, are you still with me?

Peter rises to the occasion: "Lord, to whom shall we go?" Happiness is here, or nowhere. The deep peace of God resides in you, Lord, and is not of this world.

Maybe all of us breathe a collective sigh of relief when Peter answers so clearly and assertively. Where else can we go to find the fullness of God's blessings? If the words of eternal life don't do it for us, what will?

I wish I could say that the response of the church is as unambiguous as Peter's vital words of attachment to Jesus. But the church is necessarily both a universal, mystical reality and an all-too-human, historically limited local entity. In that local expression of church, known to the world only through you and me, we may close the doors and hold onto the words of eternal life like private property. The shalom of God, once intended for all, may be treated like the privilege of the few. Bread from heaven, shared liberally with sinners for the sake of their salvation, becomes curiously interpreted as the holy food of the worthy. Those most in need of the "peace that passes understanding" are too often given the impression they are not eligible to receive it.

THERE ARE TWO WAYS THAT SEEKERS OF THE HAPPINESS OF God may be turned away by the same church that proclaims this great gift. One is when they are actively told they haven't lived up to the rules, and the other is when they are passively excluded because no place has been provided for them. Consider the divorced folks who are often still misinformed that the church has nothing to offer them except the double whammy of a barred sacrament. To whom should such people go, if not to Jesus and his church? And where should our gay and lesbian sisters, brothers, friends, and children go, if not to the Lord of life? What about the young people who look to us for challenging youth ministry and are offered yet another basketball game instead? Where is a place prepared for single adults or for women ready to give their gift of leadership in the parish community? Do we seek ways to include those who do not speak our language, or do we simply insist they catch up to us overnight?

The average Catholic parish, teeming with folks who come to Jesus and cling to him despite being told they are not worthy and are not welcome, continues to astonish me and give me hope. The Sunday Mass is routinely packed with sinners who know they fall short of church teachings but who dare to throw themselves on the mercy of God, even when the mercy of their fellow Christians fails them.

Many who similarly felt betrayed by the broadsiding of the Second Vatican Council--when the church they knew seemed to vanish overnight--stayed in the pews nonetheless. Others, initially uplifted by the promise of change, are now discouraged by the apparent repealing of that spirit; yet still they claim their seats. We can all tell stories of those injured by representatives of the church or teachings that are exclusive of them, yet they remain in the assembly--because indeed, where else would they go? If God is for us, who can be against us? Not even God's church on earth, we must dare to hope. Because here alone do we find, as Peter says, the words of eternal life, and we have come to believe in them more than we believe in the power of our own sinfulness and inadequacy.

FOR SOME, PERHAPS FOR MANY, THESE WILL SOUND LIKE hard sayings, unacceptable in their magnitude and challenging to a worldview grounded in the certainty of hard-and-fast rules. Among the many things I expect to answer for on the day of reckoning, I would prefer to face the music for having spoken too warmly of God's mercy than to have guarded the gates of our assembly too fiercely. There is no place else to go but to Jesus. Who would bar the way?

By ALICE CAMILLE, author of Invitation to Catholicism (ACTA Publications), and co-author of A Faith Interrupted (Loyola Press).