blog first published on March 22, 2017
"On the cross, our illusions are killed off. On the cross, our small self dies so that the true self, can emerge. On the cross we give up the fantasy that we are in control, and the death of this fantasy is central to acceptance (Parker Palmer, The Promise of Paradox, 46)".
Before we pulled into the parking lot of the Johnson Ridge Observatory, we caught a glimpse of Mt. St. Helens in the distance. Majestic. A queen without an earthen crown, the horseshoe-shaped volcano was instead adorned atop with clouds. It looked like we were going to be granted a rare audience with the mountain monarch.
Thirty-six years and two months of time had elapsed since the fateful day when Mt. St. Helens unleashed its fury. The parking lot, where we parked the RV, was once a forest. You can see evidence of this previous identity surrounding the perimeter of the asphalt terrain. Like the immovable protectors of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, gray stumps stand on guard. Unlike their soldier counterparts, though, their appearance is less than tidy. The top of each stump looks ragged like someone snapped a pencil.
From the Johnson Ridge Observatory, we could see into the crater that was gouged out from the eruption. It took only 40 seconds for the blast to travel the five and a half miles from mountain to the very spot we were standing. A terrifying sense of futility fills my imagination; if I was standing then where I was now, would I have even known what was happening? Escape would have been an impossibility. Sound? Pressure? Would I have even felt a thing as life passed away? Would I have experienced a thousand horrible things as the shock wave crashed? Seeing what the blast did to the trees in an instant, I don’t want to imagine what would have happened to my unrooted being had I been there.
As I stood in that place, the truth that I have experienced before when looking at a dark sky came once again. I am small. In the big picture, I am but a tiny pixel. Any illusions of being the center of the universe fade quickly away. All those moments when I have boasted of my smarts, prowess, strength, wisdom seem like the churros at a pushcart in Fantasyland; full of as many empty calories as sugary, fried dough. The sense of being in control – the ultimate deception – also fades. I am in about as much control as the shredded dead stumps that litter Johnson Ridge.
At first glance, such realizations might seem depressing and to invite inaction. If I’m not IN CONTROL then why bother? Why even get up in the morning? These might be the questions that pop into our minds. They come from the place of fear. Part of the reason we buy into the lie of being in control, propagated by our consumeristic culture, is that it can be downright scary to not. Of course, deception is not real, and it misplaces our focus and attention from the truth.
Just because we join the rest of humanity in lacking complete control (as catastrophic events such volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, etc. reminds us), it doesn’t mean that the universe is empty of agency. It does mean, however, that it does not rest within our hands. We can’t buy it, build it, invent it, steal it, demand it, expect it, or achieve it no matter how smart, rich, privileged, documented, or ego-centric we might find ourselves.
The cross proclaims this larger reality. Our small self, as Palmer suggests, dies along with our fantasies of control. What remains ought not to be feared because it lives in a place that runs as deep as our fears, the essence of our created selves. What remains after the cross wipes our whiteboard clear of its pretensions and deceptions is an open space where acceptance can blossom.
Acceptance is a spiritual reality that honors the whole of created order (including the catastrophic elements) by receiving our place in it as a gift. We might not be the center of the universe, but we are certainly part of it. Our tiny pixels contribute to the light of the whole picture. Our Creator has reserved for us a place and a role – wonderfully small as it is. As we connect with this truth, we find purpose and meaning in our lives. What is more, when we live into the truth that we matter, along with the stars in the sky and the shock wave of a volcano, we start becoming a collaborator in the ongoing process of creation. Fear drives withdrawal from creation. Acceptance ignites engagement.
On the windy slope of Johnson Ridge, I breathed a different sort of breath. One not of horror but one that honored the magnitude of power beyond myself. It was a breath full of promise.
Permission granted to share with family and friends. Copyrighted 2017. Walt Lichtenberger