On the Precipice of Possibility
I know this is a holy moment. It is one of those crossroads of life, two roads diverged, a benchmark, a bookmark, a chapter title, a pause, a respite, a rest stop, the foci of change. It is a holy moment, a moment set apart – set apart from the everyday, the usual, the rote, the normal, the mundane, the possible, the same ole, same ole.
It is a scary place. As I stand at this doorway, this threshold, this precipice, this entrance and exit, this portal, I wait for the whirlwind. I wait for the fire, the burning bush, the cloud by day, the milk and the honey. I wait for something so utterly ‘other’ to grab hold of me and shake out a decision, the right decision, the right decision for right now.
It is a perplexing thing, having to choose between good and better. I want to be the Mary at Jesus’ feet and not the Martha in the kitchen: food is good, silence is better; working is good, learning is better. It is a holy moment, this precipice, because very few like it come along. When faced with decisions, some are easy to make. We form lists with pros and cons, checks and stars, do the math and move forward. We say yes to open doors and listen to the no’s of closed ones. Those moments are not holy to us. They may be God-given or centered, but we go boldly on, only because we call it stupid or illogical to decline the invitation.
But those other moments of decision, those moments when we risk it all on one game of pitch and toss, when we scream at the gale to take us where it will if we are but willing to jump, we are faced with the scary reality we simply call “future.” We try to plod onward with our careful calculations, but each step begins with the uneasiness of the ‘what if,’ the uncertainty of itself, the sheer admission that we cannot possibly know every effect of all of our causes. But we step anyway, into the holiness that is this pathway, into the trust that must overcome us, that we must relent to if we are to have any inner sanctuary.
And the goodness of the holiness lies in the very ambiguous uncertainty itself. Although the future is scary, it can also be bright. Without it, possibility is dead, and if there be no possibility, there be no resurrection, no hope, no chance at greatness tomorrow. All of our tomorrows are like the box of Pandora. We want to open it, to see our destiny: what is it? Is it all I hoped and dreamed of in the dark night of my wilderness? Is it less than I reckoned because I tried to tread safely and lightly? Is it even there?
And so we open the holy box, our ark of all covenants, peering inside, uncommitted, with only a toe in the shallow end, hoping to see the rainbow before we prepare for the storm. We soon learn, however, that the contents of the future cannot be viewed slant-eyed, squinting into the distance. It must be accepted, like the daylight after a hibernation, like the sunrise that interrupts our slumbers. It must be embraced, like the chill that signals Christmas and family, or like the vulnerability that births close marriages.
On the precipice, I can either retreat into the safety of my yesterdays, complete with their predictability and constancy. Or, I can jump into the future of tomorrow’s hopefulness, into the holiness that is uncertain possibility and her sister unlimited potential. In that holiness I find my God and myself. I see the two of us, years from now, upon another precipice. Sinfully, I will reconsider my yesterdays again for infinity. May I have the courage to jump again.
It is a scary place. As I stand at this doorway, this threshold, this precipice, this entrance and exit, this portal, I wait for the whirlwind. I wait for the fire, the burning bush, the cloud by day, the milk and the honey. I wait for something so utterly ‘other’ to grab hold of me and shake out a decision, the right decision, the right decision for right now.
It is a perplexing thing, having to choose between good and better. I want to be the Mary at Jesus’ feet and not the Martha in the kitchen: food is good, silence is better; working is good, learning is better. It is a holy moment, this precipice, because very few like it come along. When faced with decisions, some are easy to make. We form lists with pros and cons, checks and stars, do the math and move forward. We say yes to open doors and listen to the no’s of closed ones. Those moments are not holy to us. They may be God-given or centered, but we go boldly on, only because we call it stupid or illogical to decline the invitation.
But those other moments of decision, those moments when we risk it all on one game of pitch and toss, when we scream at the gale to take us where it will if we are but willing to jump, we are faced with the scary reality we simply call “future.” We try to plod onward with our careful calculations, but each step begins with the uneasiness of the ‘what if,’ the uncertainty of itself, the sheer admission that we cannot possibly know every effect of all of our causes. But we step anyway, into the holiness that is this pathway, into the trust that must overcome us, that we must relent to if we are to have any inner sanctuary.
And the goodness of the holiness lies in the very ambiguous uncertainty itself. Although the future is scary, it can also be bright. Without it, possibility is dead, and if there be no possibility, there be no resurrection, no hope, no chance at greatness tomorrow. All of our tomorrows are like the box of Pandora. We want to open it, to see our destiny: what is it? Is it all I hoped and dreamed of in the dark night of my wilderness? Is it less than I reckoned because I tried to tread safely and lightly? Is it even there?
And so we open the holy box, our ark of all covenants, peering inside, uncommitted, with only a toe in the shallow end, hoping to see the rainbow before we prepare for the storm. We soon learn, however, that the contents of the future cannot be viewed slant-eyed, squinting into the distance. It must be accepted, like the daylight after a hibernation, like the sunrise that interrupts our slumbers. It must be embraced, like the chill that signals Christmas and family, or like the vulnerability that births close marriages.
On the precipice, I can either retreat into the safety of my yesterdays, complete with their predictability and constancy. Or, I can jump into the future of tomorrow’s hopefulness, into the holiness that is uncertain possibility and her sister unlimited potential. In that holiness I find my God and myself. I see the two of us, years from now, upon another precipice. Sinfully, I will reconsider my yesterdays again for infinity. May I have the courage to jump again.
|
Comment (1)
9:20 PM
Ascent, my friend.
Post a Comment