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!
