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- Written by: Don Goulding
For now we see in a mirror indirectly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know in part, but then I will know fully, just as I have been fully known. (1 Corinthians 13:12)
The periodical cicadas of North America spend seventeen years in the ground as nymphs. Then, in a synchronized metamorphosis, they hatch into millions of flying insects. The adult cicada investigates forests, finds a mate, and lives his entire above ground life in forty-five days. He chirps from the treetops about his new freedom, but he’ll never know anything about the scope of life—the stock market, literature, the planets—that lies beyond his short winged existence.
My knowledge of my larger surroundings is comparable to the cicada. When I made Jesus my Savior, it was like crawling out of seventeen years in the ground. I saw life through new eyes. There was far more than I could take in, and so it was easy to conclude this huge experience was all there is.
As difficult as it is to get my mind around this earthly life, I must, nevertheless, move beyond my tiny lifespan and embrace a larger existence. I am not a larva or bug. There is another life with angelic creatures, a restored planet, and perfect joy. There’s as much unknown for me in the spiritual dimension, as there is for the adult cicada in the physical.
My only hope is to move toward the one at the center of it all. Jesus is the creator and sustainer of all realms. Therefore, the more I know him, the more I integrate with his dominions. By learning of his faithfulness, grace, righteousness, and passion, I’m already using the currency of my future home. I want to move to Jesus, and away from the limitations of a cicada.
Prayer: Holy One, I attach myself to you in hopes of knowing fully.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
But those who wait for the Lord’s help find renewed strength;
they rise up as if they had eagles’ wings,
they run without growing weary,
they walk without getting tired. (Isaiah 40:31)
In the low mountain brush of California, I stumbled into a covey of quail. They had a comical chortle and funny bobbing crowns. They supposed their predator, me, would be upon them if they didn’t skedaddle. But rather than flying, they ran out of my path. I laughed as their tiny legs scissored in panic mode. Most scampered the whole way, and only when it was impossible to avoid my boots, did a few take to the air. They resumed their scuttle at the earliest opportunity.
I’m a spiritual quail. Oh I can fly, I’ve done it before. Soaring on the wings of faith is a glorious thing. I reach fantastic heights, escape eternal danger, and revel as the wind of the Spirit carries me. But my first tendency is to pedal the legs of self-sufficiency. Only when there is no other way out do I seem to remember my faith wings.
Why do I run on the ground, wearing out long before the end of each day? How can I forget that my strength is in trusting the Lord? I renounce these cursed little feet and their vain self effort. I must learn to press my weight onto God’s invisible provision, and feel the rush of strength under me.
When I do stretch out my faith and trust the Lord to carry me, it’s only for short distances. Then, I set my feet to running again. It’s not right. I should fly everywhere, not only when there are life threatening predators. Faith is for every part of life. Why not soar with Jesus when I brush my teeth, when I’m on blasé errands, and when I’m lying in bed? Why would I ever choose feet over wings?
Prayer: Jesus, make me into an eagle, not a quail.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
They exchanged the truth of God for a lie and worshiped and served the creation rather than the Creator, who is blessed forever! Amen. (Romans 1:25)
The plan was to wave hello to the planetary giant called Jupiter, exploit its gravity, and be flung beyond. Launched from the space shuttle Discovery in 1990, the Ulysses spacecraft approached the massive layered marble as it rolled across the black reaches of space. But could Ulysses break free of a pull 1,000 times that of Earth? As he rounded out his run through Jupiter’s orbit, he felt the allure of pink, rust-red, and beige dust swirls teasing of glorious mysteries below. The heroic Ulysses turned his eyes from the temptation, and blasted his rockets in a trajectory for the Sun.
What does Ulysses teach us about spiritual life?
God created earthly gifts for us to enjoy, but each has its gravitational pull. Dear family relationships, the tongue delights of an hors d'oeuvre, the thrill of a soccer goal—they draw on us.
“More,” they say. “Do you want more, to get closer?”
No matter how wholesome gifts begin, without moderation they change into false idols. They would keep us in their orbit forever, where we’d miss the far greater wonder of encountering their Creator.
A beautiful sunset, a vintage wine, an attractive person, or anything for which we can find an appetite—the Ulysses maneuver applies to them all. The blast used to jump orbit is a purposeful redirected focus. When the attraction tugs, we must remind ourselves that if Jesus is able to make something so exquisite, then he himself is infinitely more breathtaking.
The trick is to shear away and worship the creative qualities of our Lord, and do it until we feel the gravity of the created pleasure release its pull. I must turn my trajectory to him, for he is the only fulfillment of whatever Jupiter holds me.
Prayer: Father, may created gifts turn my eyes to your Son.