Learning to fly, but I aint got wings.
And coming down is the hardest thing...
—Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, "Learning to Fly"
Flying
and Catching
Henri Nouwen was a well-known Catholic priest and
author. He at one point spent time getting to know the members of an
acrobatic troupe[1].
Among them were flyers and catchers. Flyers captured the
public eye as they soared through the air—they got all the applause. Catchers
worked behind the scenes, lurking in the shadows, just out of view, waiting for
the critical moment during the act when they reached out of the darkness to
catch the flyer and bring them safely home. I can only imagine that the flyer
was “very glad” every time that moment came.
Nouwen once asked the leader of the troupe what the secret
was to making the act work. His response was simple but profound: The
secret is that the flyer does nothing; the catcher does everything.
“When I fly to Joe, I simply have to stretch out my hands and wait.”
While I see the point of the sentiment, I don’t necessarily
agree that the flyer does “nothing.” In fact, I actually think he ultimately
makes the choice that makes the whole act possible. You see, the flyer is
the only who can decide to jump.
There can be no dramatic catch until the flyer makes the
fateful choice to "let go" and fly.
Once we're flying, then I agree, the outcome is sort of out
of our hands, but I don’t think we should diminish the importance of that
initial choice to "let go[2]."
Sounds
all well and good, but humans don't have wings!
It looks routine, but it actually takes lots of practice to learn to fly. |
I think what makes
us spectators “ooh” and “ah” when we watch the
remarkable performances (like the one Nouwen got to experience) going on above
our heads is that they seem to be doing something humanly
"impossible." We know what they are doing is very
dangerous; injury or even death is possible if things go poorly. We're on
the edge of our seat to see how it turns out. This kind of thing doesn’t
come naturally to anyone, and yet as these flyers and catchers do it night
after night, such death-defying acts begin to look routine—like the
outcome was never in doubt.
We ask ourselves: How in the world do they make it look so
natural?!
Having never done a high-wire act, I can only guess, but, in
a word, I would say the answer is: practice.
More specifically I would imagine that they would have to:
·
Get to know each other—very well. Flyers
and catchers no doubt spent lots of time together. I would imagine a
troupe like that even lived together. A flyer had to know that
the he could count on his catcher to do his job well—and vice
versa.
·
Work together—a lot. Something this
difficult to do only looks routine and effortless to the audience
because the performers have put in long hours working together as a
team. The flyer and the catcher have built a
strong connection that enables trust between the two. Each almost
knows instinctively what the other will do in any given situation. They can
anticipate each other's moves and adjust accordingly.
But even after all that training, imagine how it must
feel to climb that ladder and stand up on that platform before a packed
house. No matter how much you've prepared, to take that first step out
into nothingness must be hard. As you leap, you are leaning on all the practice that has bought you to this
point and on the trust you have
placed in your friends who are there with
you.
And then, in an
instant, it happens. Each does their part.
The flyer flies;
the catcher catches; and the crowd goes wild!
Choosing
to "Let Go" and Fly
Have you noticed that real life has a way of putting us
in a similar place as those flyers on a regular basis? While we’re not
usually literally hundreds of feet off the ground on a narrow ledge waiting to
jump, we often face critical moments in our lives where we have to make the
fateful choice to “let go”—or not.
Once we "let go," we might fail spectacularly or
we might succeed beyond our wildest dreams. We can't control the outcome
once we're airborne. But we can be sure of one thing:
Until we decide to let go and fly, nothing will
happen—good or bad. We'll be stuck in "neutral," plagued by
uncertainty and doubt, haunted by the notion that what we desire remains just
beyond our reach here on the platform.
So all this got me thinking:
Could our churches be "flight schools"?
Without a doubt, making that initial decision to "let
go" is hard. Flying out into nothingness and placing your trust in
"unseen hands" to catch you and bring you safely home
doesn’t come naturally to any human being. Left to our own devices,
most of us will probably never “climb the ladder,” much less have the
courage to “jump”. No, if we're ever going to fly, it will probably take
the support and encouragement of some friends who can perhaps help make the
"unseen hands" just a smidge more visible for us.
Could your church, small group, or other gathering become a
"safe place" to practice flying? Could we practice and prepare
together for our flights? Could we learn
to trust each other implicitly? Could we offer support and encouragement as we
each summon the courage to step to the "platform" and fly
toward that whatever it is we sense God calling us to do next?
Could we be there to catch one another when we fall—as will inevitably
happen from time-to-time? Could we offer congratulations and consolation
to one another as needed, and encouragement to keep flying even amidst the
turbulence of doubt, fear, and uncertainty?
Could we help each other mount the platform, take the
leap out into the unknown and fly, trusting the Divine hands that promise to
catch us and bring us safely home?
[1] Ortberg, John: Know Doubt: Embracing Uncertainty in Your Faith, Chapter 2, pp.
36-38.
[2] I think this is why Ortberg ends Know Doubt the way he does—see Chapter 11. The whole book is about dealing
with uncertainty and doubt in our faith, and his point is
that these only fade as we make the choice we are capable of making in this
process—to "let go" and experience the freedom God gives us to
"fly." And we must make that choice over and over again in our
lives.
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