A dead man suddenly came to life and began to pound on the lid of the coffin. The lid was raised; the man sat up. “What are you doing?” he said to the assembled crowd. “I am not dead.” His words were met with silent disbelief. Finally one of the mourners said, “Friend, both the doctors and the priests have certified that you are dead. So dead you are.” And he was duly buried.
I laughed out loud when I first read this story. And I told myself that this–when certainty petrifies into inflexibility–is not a metaphor about me.
It happens, of course, to others.
Certainty can be comforting. I know that I know. I feel tethered to some unmovable truth. And it feels oh-so-good to be right all the time.
Here’s the sticky wicket. My need for certainty changes my focus. I clutch, my fist (and mind) tight, unwilling to let go. My quest is no longer driven by belief (or trust), but fear; afraid I may be wrong. So I spend my energy protecting my turf.
We could learn from the wisdom of a beagle. Snoopy is on his doghouse at his typewriter. He’s telling Charlie Brown, “I’m writing a book on theology.” “Do you have a title yet?” Charlie Brown asks. Snoopy types, “Has it ever occurred to you that you might be wrong?”
Our need for certainty is exacerbated by a condition called scotoma (literally, blind spot). Or it can mean, seeing only what you want to see. I have done that. I’ve allowed my assumptions (my bias, my need for certainty) to color all my relationships. And this I know: Once you label someone (or something), you dismiss them. I see only how you (or they) are different, and therefore “wrong”. With my fists clenched, I fail to notice that I am, therefore, unable to receive. From you. From God. I have forgotten that prayer is best with empty and open hands.
Meister Eckert is right: If we only learn one prayer, it is this: “Thank you.” The need for certainty is replaced with humility and gratitude. And with open hands and a receiving heart who knows what may happen?
Sabbath Moment Terry Hershey
If we surrendered
to earth’s intelligence
we could rise up rooted, like trees.
Instead we entangle ourselves
in knots of our own making
and struggle, lonely and confused.
So, like children, we begin again
to learn from the things,
because they are in God’s heart;
they have never left him.
That is what the things can teach us;
to fall,
patiently to trust our heaviness.
Even a bird has to do that
before he can fly.
Rilke
