When I took the leap, I had faith I would find a net; Instead, I learned I could fly. — John Calvin

Weeks ago, I gave into curiosity and clicked on a sky diving video that popped up on my Facebook feed. As you can imagine, I’ve since been deluged with similar videos of men and women bungee jumping, skydiving, cliff diving, base jumping–people leaping from places so incredibly high that even the videos terrify me. Most of these people smile with abandon as they leap from mountains, planes, and buildings. They simply let go and give themselves to the air.

Granted, some of these thrill seekers were outfitted with harnesses (and parachutes, of course), but many took to the air with wind suits or nothing at all. Years ago–when I was a young 54–I joined my daughter in a tandem paragliding adventure in the Swiss Alps. After the tram took our professional paragliding partners and us straight up the mountain, we reached a point where we had to get out and continue the trek on foot. When we finally reached the spot where we’d be outfitted with harnesses and bound to our partners, I was so oxygen deprived at that point that I remember thinking that death would be merciful. So when my partner told me to begin running down the mountain, I did. Within yards, we were airborne, gliding through the cold, clear air of the Alps just ourside of Interlaken. Sometimes I think back to this eventful day and can’t believe that I actually leapt off a mountain with nothing but manmade wings–and a partner who appeared skilled, healthy, and wholly intact. I did scrutinize him for evidence of past injuries before I got into the tram!

Truth be told, for much of my life, I haven’t thrown caution to the wind unless there was a strong net–or two or three–ready and able to catch me if I fell. My paragliding adventure was an anomaly, a freak departure from the common sense and persistent worry that had always influenced my decision-making. On that day, however, I ran when my partner told me to, I pulled my legs up when he told me to, and I gave into the incredible sensation of flying.

John Calvin, a pastor and reformer during the Protestant Reformation, never leapt from a mountain or plane. Still, he knew much about leaping. As a man of faith, his leaps were spiritual as he literally let go and let God. As a pastor and theologian, Calvin believed that we are wholly dependent upon God’s free grace which can help recover our original relationship with God before the Fall. This process he referred to as “quickening.” To begin this process of recovery, we must make the proverbial leap of faith.

I recall a difficult conversation with a biology colleague years ago during which he tried desperately to school me in the true account of creation. For over an hour, I listened as he brought forth biological evidence to support his claims of evolution. Finally, I interjected and said, “I understand and wholly agree with your examples of micro-evolution, changes within a species. But what I want to know is where did the original matter come from? Before the Big Bang, what was the source of the matter that exploded?” He began again to bombard me with even more examples of evolution within species until I asked again, “Where did the matter come from? Using a scientific explanation, help me understand the source of this matter.” Frustrated, he threw up his hands and said, “You don’t understand! We don’t start there!” Oh, but I did understand that he didn’t start there. I knew that his explanation of creation began with the premise that matter already existed. Because we’d been at it for close to two hours by this time, I brought the conversation to a close by leaving him with this: “Everyone takes a leap of faith to explain the universe’s creation. You take a leap of faith to assume that matter existed at the very beginning, that something came from nothing. I take a leap of faith to believe that God not only gave us matter but shaped the universe, that something came from a Creator.” I could’ve pointed out that his scientific explanation of creation–of something coming from nothing–was about as unscientific as you could get, but I was tired and hungry. We parted amicably and walked to the faculty parking lot, spent.

As we prepare to celebrate the birth of Christ, we might take a moment to ponder our own leaps of faith. Many of us tend to look to all sorts of nets to catch us from our loneliness, worry, and despair: possessions, money, work, and people. Trusting that these nets will catch us, we are more prone to leap, to put our faith into those people and things that have always been our safety nets. But Elizabeth, Mary, and Joseph took unimaginable leaps towards God, trusting that, in spite of their extraordinary circumstances, He was the only net they would ever need. They leapt, and oh, how they flew!

Have a blessed Christmas!

This is one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind. –Neil Armstrong

Since Neil Armstrong broadcast these famous words from the moon at 10:56 p.m. on July 20, 1969, most of us who are old enough to remember may have associated big leaps with space travel, moon suits, and inhospitable-looking, cratered landscapes. As the world watched, Armstrong planted his left foot onto the lunar surface, and the rest was history. There was, however, some discussion of what Armstrong actually said. I’ve heard many misquote him saying This is one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind. Some later questioned whether or not Armstrong meant, and should have said, one small step for a man–not man, in general. Armstrong claimed that he did say a man, and a computer programmer Peter Shann Ford found the missing “a” with his software in 2006. A 2013 study confirmed this finding. Armstrong was keenly aware that his step as a single human being was a step for all humanity. His courageous big leap onto the moon continues to influence and inspire us today.

What can a single individual with courage accomplish? There are far too many examples to convince even those of little faith that one human can change the world. Take Mary’s betrothed, Joseph, for example. Here was a simple man, a carpenter who spent his days working with his hands. Even a simple man, however, had his reputation to consider. Even a simple man would’ve known the shame that a fiancée carrying another’s child would bring. Even a simple man could see how terribly and painfully stories like this play out.

Some may argue that anyone who leaps into parenthood must be a brave individual, for parenting is not for the faint of heart. I remember the moment that my mother pulled away from our home after the birth of my daughter. She’d come to help for several days, making meals, taking a night feeding so I could sleep, and offering the wisdom that only a veteran parent can offer. As she pulled away, I stood at the screen door and began to cry even before she’d driven 100 yards. How was I supposed to do this without her? What if I made a mistake or didn’t know what to do? I cowered in the face of parenting and imagined all sorts of terrible scenarios in which I failed to keep my daugher safe, fed, and happy. I was not brave–not by any sense of the word. Undoubtedly, many have had similar fears as they brought their babies home and began their lives as parents.

Still, one could–and should–argue that Joseph’s leap into parenthood was a gargantuan leap that required the kind of courage we only read about and see on movie screens. He could’ve quietly broken his engagement to Mary and left her pregnant and without a husband. For the Jews, betrothal was serious business, a pledge made one year before marriage that required a writ of divorce to break it. Joseph might’ve chosen to publicly break his pledge, for believing Mary to be pregnant with another man’s child would’ve given him just cause. Breaking this pledge, however, might’ve condemned Mary to death. But an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying: Joseph, son of David, Do not be afraid to take to you Mary your wife, for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit [Matthew 1:20]. Waking, Joseph made a big leap, pledging his life as a husband and an earthly father to the Son of God.

There are so many unknowns in parenthood. No matter how much we’ve planned, how proactive we believe we’ve been, and how committed we’ve been to fulfilling our roles well, things happen. A child falls from the top bunk where we dutifully secured a safety rail; a child with a peanut allergy unknowingly eats a treat made with peanut butter; a teen skids off the road driving home during her first winter storm; a young adult loses his first love to another. Each day, parents all over the world wake and take a deep breath, praying for their children’s safety and happiness. For many parents, it often takes courage just to get out of bed. But imagine the courage it would take to rise each morning as the earthly parent to God’s son. Imagine the host of unknowns Joseph faced daily. Imagine his fear in the face of his own limitations as a mere mortal.

Like Mary, however, Joseph leapt bravely into parenthood with the assurance of God’s love. Though Armstrong’s giant leap for mankind is genuinely impressive, it pales in comparison to this simple man’s courageous leap. Sheltered in a stable in Bethlehem, Joseph gazed into his infant son’s face and understood that, in his earthly arms, he cradled the Messiah who’d come to change the world.

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore. . . Edgar Allen Poe (“The Raven”)

Opening with a line from Edgar Allen Poe’s poem, “The Raven,” may be a strange way to begin a post about Mary, the mother of Jesus. But Poe’s narrator understands that stillness and mystery are necessary bedfellows. To still your heart as you encounter mystery is the best, perhaps the only, response. Even as a teenager, Mary refused to run in the face of mystery. Though she was understandably frightened and confused at the sight of the angel Gabriel, she listened as he revealed the destiny that would not only change her life but ours:

 “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. And the Lord God will give to him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob orever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.” [Luke 1: 30-33]

Brazilian novelist and lyricist Paulo Coelho contends that [w]e have to stop and be humble enough to understand that there is something called mystery. And Mary did just this. She stood humbly in the face of the greatest mystery of all–a virgin who would bear the son of God–and stilled her heart, proclaiming: “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.” At the time she uttered these words, many historians believe that Mary was most likely between 12 and 14 years old. A babe herself, Mary gave herself wholly to this mystery, embracing her role as handmaid of the Lord.

We may believe ourselves to be mystery people, but in truth, we’re generally logic people bent on rational explanations and solid answers. If something seems too good or too strange to be true, we argue that it undoubtedly is. In the face of mystery, we often become rational, turning to science as authority. For to embrace mystery as Mary did requires a big leap out of ourselves and beyond reason. The young woman in this photo throws herself into the air, trusting that she will hang suspended above the earth, magnificently held in the mystery of the moment. She has faith that, for a time, her leap will defy reason and explanation. She leaps into the air, proclaiming let it be to me.

Author and theologian Frederick Buechner believes that [r]eligion points to that area of human experience where in one way or another man comes upon mystery as a summons to pilgrimage. In a traditional sense, a pilgrimage is a journey taken into an unknown or sacred place in search of wisdom and transformation. An encounter with mystery, as Buechner maintains, is a summons to begin that journey, which may be physical and/or spiritual. Mary and Joseph travel from Nazareth to Bethlehem, separating themselves geographically from their home and families. Their greater journey, however, is spiritual as they leave behind the selves and lives they’d imagined and step boldly into God’s love and assurance. Their pilgrimage is one that changed the world.

In my own life, I’ve stood in the face of mystery many times. Clearly, my encounters have been small and personal when compared to Mary’s. Still, there have been times when I’ve known things before they happened, when, beyond explanation, I saw in remarkable clarity how things would play out. This mystery occurred first when I was a teenager, and thus began my lifelong pilgrimage. On the night my father died, I went to bed, only to wake an hour later, certain that I should go to him. As my sister and mother slept, I walked to the hospital bed where my father had spent his final weeks and knew, even before I touched his hand, that he’d died. In the presence of this mystery–his soul having departed and the peace that passes all understanding washing over us–my heart was still.

Mysteries abound where most we seek for answers. Thus writes author Ray Bradbury. As we search for answers, we often slog our way forward, one logical, purposeful yard at a time. But when mysteries abound, we often leap, becoming servants to something, to someone bigger than ourselves. We leap, trusting in the sacred pilgrimage from reason to faith.

The Leap

When twilight eases into the tall grass
and the air groans under its own weight,
a girl leaps,
and there on the windless meadow hangs suspended 
above the foxtail and bushclover. 

And the leap--
call it abandon, call it rapture—
splits the plane of possibility.
Arms and legs take the evening by wing,
while gravity lies spent and breathless,
completely undone.

Such an extravagant offering:
the height and breadth of mystery,
this kinder air.

photo by Collyn Ware

A wounded deer leaps the highest. –Emily Dickinson

Barren. What a wound this word inflicts! Though I’ve been blessed to mother four children, I will always bear the scars of infertility. Like Elizabeth–a Levite, wife of Zacharias, a priest–I have known the longing of a barren woman. But unlike Elizabeth, my longing was relatively short-lived, for 19 months after adopting my daughter, Megan, I became pregnant with my daugher, Collyn, followed 15 months later, with my daughter, Marinne. Elizabeth’s longing for a child spanned decades; she became an old woman whose barrenness followed her well beyond child-bearing age.

Every time I look at this photo, I’m struck with the utter abandon with which this young woman throws herself into the air, her head and arms thrown back, defying gravity. This is, indeed, a big leap. Yet, aren’t all big leaps made with such abandon, often with the pain of one who’s been wounded and casts her longing away in hopes that it will find favor with God, the holy One who can breathe life into it?

In Luke 1: 6, we read that Elizabeth and her husband, Zachariah, were righteous in the sight of God, observing all the Lord’s commands and decrees blamelessly. Bad things happen to good people. Suffering comes to the righteous and blameless. Early in my infertility, I was desperate to find a logical explanation for my condition. For months, I believed that I was quite possibly being punished, and the conditions of my punishment were barrenness. Infertility is a lonely business, for even today, a stigma surrounds it. Infertile women often don’t share their pain, believing their condition to be shameful, a mark of their inadequacy, a consequence of their sinfulness. Elizabeth’s story gloriously testifies to the foolishness of such thinking and to the blessing of God’s timing. For God sent the angel Gabriel to Zachariah to announce that Elizabeth would finally bear a child even though she was well beyond child-bearing age. After years of patiently, faithfully waiting, Elizabeth would bear a son, John the Baptist, the prophet who would proclaim Jesus as the promised Messiah.

When a pregnant Mary comes to visit her, Elizabeth welcomes her cousin in spite of the shame of Mary’s supposed “illegitimate” child. As she opens her arms to embrace Mary, her own baby leaps inside her womb, and she is immediately filled with the Holy Spirit. In Luke 1: 42-45 we read of Elizabeth’s great joy as she greets Mary:

 In a loud voice she exclaimed: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the child you will bear! But why am I so favored, that the mother of my Lord should come to me? As soon as the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy.  Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!”

Elizabeth’s story is often understandably overshadowed by Mary’s. She may have been a wounded deer for most of her life, suffering the stigma and hopelessness of being unable to bear a child, but she, like her cousin Mary, makes a great leap into the arms of hope. And the fruits of this leap come miraculously in both her own child, John, and her Savior, Jesus. Elizabeth proclaims that she is favored, for the mother of her Lord stands in her presence.

I suppose that one might make the argument that, for most of us, greeting each day requires a big leap into hope. Hope that we might find favor with God, that our longing might be fulfilled, that our deepest desires might be met. Hope that we might literally make it through another day, that we might put one foot in front of the other and plow through whatever circumstances befall us. Hope that the world might become a kinder, gentler place, restored with beauty and grace. Hope that the Holy Spirit might inhabit us, too, filling our hearts with peace and assurance. Yes, one might make the argument that living requires magnificent leaps into the hope necessary to sustain us.

And one might argue that the wounded often leap the highest, that they offer themselves wholly, feeling as though they have little to lose, for hope is their last resort. I think if Elizabeth were here to counsel us, though, she’d say that hope is our first, best resort. She’d remind us that when we leap with abandon into the arms of God, this is a life-giving leap. Although our lives are filled with seasons of big leaps, Advent, especially, beckons us to make a big leap from the darkness into the light, from the pain of our wounds into grace.

The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.
― W.B. Yeats

I know, he said, his face uncommonly solemn. Griffin nodded towards his elves, artfully clothed and arranged with their arctic pets on the coffee table in his living room. Oh, sweet boy, I thought, and for a moment, my words caught in my throat as I struggled for the right thing to say. For I knew how much he loved these elves, how, over the years, he’d painstakingly written letters to them requesting permission to touch them (forbidden in the world of Elf on the Shelf) and for them to return throughout the year (because he missed them so). I knew how the magic burned bright and true in these little elves and how its passing signalled a end to an era. Of course, I knew it must end, as the magic of all childhood fantasies generally ends. But just as with my children, I couldn’t help but wish for one more season in which all things seem possible. In the end, I said nothing but pulled him in for a hug.

 Using words to describe magic is like using a screwdriver to cut roast beef, writes American novelist Tom Robbins. I think Robbins is on to something here. How do you put into words the wonder, the absolute glory of magic? Even as I attempt to write this post, I’m painfully aware that I may be trying to finesse mystery and enchantment with a sledge hammer. Still, I’ve convinced myself, one must try. Because although we pull out all the stops during Christmas, dressing our homes and lives with the magic of the season, we tend to pack it away with the ornaments we stow in our attics. We ring in the New Year with resolutions about all sorts of practical things: health, time management, budgets and relationships. Out with wonder and in with self-improvement. So, I’ve convinced myself that even though my attempts to promote magic may be artless and oafish, they aren’t misguided. When it comes to the art of magic appreciation, most grownups are amateurs.

Oh, I know that keeping the magic of elves (and other things) alive is not for the faint of heart. It requires planning. It takes creativity. It often means rising earlier or staying up later. In short, it’s work. I’ve heard parents complain that such work is just one more holiday obligation, one that compounds their already large list of things to do before December 24th. But I’ve seen friends create incredible elf tableaus from household things: elves skiing down bannisters, swimming in bowls of marshmallows, ziplining from light fixtures. There is much magic at work in the creation of these tableaus. Worth the time and work? Those of us who are big fans of magic will respond with a hearty yes it is! After all, as Tom Robbins argues, [d]isbelief in magic can force a poor soul into believing in government and business, and no one wants that.

In his novel, A Hat Full of Sky, Terry Pratchett writes that [i]t’s still magic even if you know how it’s done. Years after I learned the truth about Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny–after I understood how it’s done–I held fast to their magic. I still do. In his famous editorial, “Is There a Santa Claus?”, Francis Pharsellus Church responded to Virginia, an 8-year old who really wanted to know if Santa Claus was real. Church concluded his response with these words:

You may tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.
No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood. [The Sun, Sept. 21, 1897]

We may know how it’s done and may tear it apart to see what makes it work, but Church reminds us that there is nothing else real and abiding but the unseen world which no one can tear apart. Thank God, he claims, the magic lives forever!

Frances Hodgson Burnett offers some sage advice in her children’s classic, The Secret Garden:

Of course there must be lots of Magic in the world . . . but people don’t know what it is like or how to make it. Perhaps the beginning is just to say nice things are going to happen until you make them happen. I am going to try and experiment.

This sounds like the kind of experiment I can get behind. When I forget what magic is like or how to make it happen, I can just say nice things are going to happen until I can actually make them happen. And if I can’t make them happen? Well, there will be a lot of magic in all the proclaiming and hoping. One of my granddaughter’s favorite authors, Kate DiCamillo, believes that hope and magic are probably connected. I have an unusually active imagination and a generous capacity for hope, so I begin my experiment with optimism.

On the evening that Griffin revealed to me that he knew about the elves, I gave him the elf clothes and the elf pet that I’d previously planned to smuggle into his house. Even armed with newfound awareness, he was excited to dress his elves in their new duds and place their new pet in the menagerie. As he worked, he said: Grandma, I just thought you should know that I know the elves came from my mom and dad’s closet–not the North Pole. Thank goodness it’s just the elves and not Santa! Ain’t that the truth!