THE NEED TO BE SURE

 Even when we think we know, leaving usually means being unsure of what is next. A postcard I saw recently says it best. 

      “Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.

            ‘Pooh!’ he whispered.

                  ‘Yes, Piglet?’

      ‘Nothing,’ said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw.

            ‘I just wanted to be sure of you.’”

 

Taking Pooh’s paw, wanting to “be sure of.” How familiar. Nearly everyone wishes for a “Pooh’s paw” before going on, whether going on is off a diving board for the first tine or off to college. Whether leaving is ordinary or dramatic, it sure helps to be sure.

 

As a child I puzzled over adults in our church who were so sure ofHeaven’s floor plan that they spoke longingly of leaving, of being “with the Lord.” I was in no hurry to go to heaven. I still am not. There was a time when I worried that my hesitancy to leave indicated a lack of faith. Then I grew smarter. 

 

First, I recognized that some of what I had heard was rhetorical. Much leaving talk is just that, talk. Children create leaving talk well: “I don’t care if we have to leave. I don’t like this place anyway. I never really wanted to come here.” Language of that sort convinces children (and some adults) that leaving is preferred to staying. It is an infantile but effective way of coping, in the modern sense of the word Cope. They have not yet learned to separate well or how to treasure memories. But adults are better off knowing better.

 

As a youngster, I noticed that some leave-talking adults, when given the actual opportunity to fly heavenward, vigorously declined, instead clung tenaciously to hearth and health. Ah, clearly, it is an ideaof leaving that gets hugged to the heart! Leaving can be a good idea, but its exercise is a different matter. Like the frequent brisk walks we all need, it is easy to avoid when we are confortable where we are.

 

As an adult I realize that I am basically comfortable where I am. Where some songwriters and eager-leavers see “dreary sod,” I see fertile earth and Kingfishers diving for dinner. I smell the fragrance of Solomon’s Seal or orange blossoms, or see lives changed by faith, or by courage, or by help from people who loan themselves. The truth is, I am mostly satisfied here and seldom is anyone motivated to leave what seems good—even if it is a bad thing. 

 

I am not weary enough for a world-leaving. I do not suffer deprivation of food or shelter as many of earth’s inhabitants do. Even the worst members of my family are basically nice people. My mind and body are reasonably healthy, my pains seem surmountable, and so far at least, grace comforts more than sin condemns. I like knowing God here, where I am comfortable and feel relatively sure of things.

 

Anselm, I think, would understand. A great medieval theologian and Benedictine monk, Anselm was born the son of a priest in Italy and died in England serving as the Archbishop of Canterbury. Anselm was as brilliant as his travel was broad. Much of his time was spent forwarding “necessary reasons” for things concerning the existence of God. As nearly as I can tell, Anselm liked being “sure” of things.

 

If this were a chapter on philosophical theology we would investigate his Ontological Argument that seeks to define divine realities. It is impossible to remember Anselm without acknowledging his great contribution to Christology, the Satisfaction Theory of Atonement. But in my reading about Anselm, I got hooked by a very personal moment in his life, by his behavior at the time of leaving, by his desire to be sure. 

 

On April 21, 1109, Anselm died. It was a Wednesday before Easter Sunday. Apparently, on Palm Sunday, his friends tried to help him “leave.” One said,

      “Father and Lord, as far as it is given to us to know, you are leaving this world and are going to keep the Easter Court with our Lord.”

 

Anselm, in his gracious way, replied, “If it is His will I shall obey, but if He should prefer me to stay with you just long enough to solve the question of the origin of the soul which I have been turning over in my mind, I would gratefully the chance, for I doubt that anybody else will solve it while I am gone.”       

            L. Russ Bush, Editor, Classical Readings in Christian Apologetics

 

When my gentle grandmother died, she wanted to leave life. She was ninety-three years worth of ready. Linda did not want to leave, nor did Cal. Anselm did not—four people of sure faith. When I think of people I knew who died before their ideas tired, I remember few who, regardless of a state of assurance, wanted to leave. Anselm, believer extraordinaire, was not “sure” that anyone else would care as he did about the origin of the soul. In all fairness, do you know the soul’s origin or anyone who seriously inquires after it? Seldom do I see sign-up sheets for groups dedicated to its discovery. 

 

“I would gratefully accept the chance . . .” For what—to stay here? Here, where my ideas fit, where I am more sure of things. So would most of us, Anselm in many situations, not just at death.

 

Leavings produce concerns as quickly as a magician pulls silk scarves from a bouquet of flowers. Wanting to be sure of things before we embrace them is often instantly followed by a concern for safety. David and had not been out of California for more than two days before my need to feel safe said, “I want to go back home.”

COMING UP: “AH, THE NEED TO BE SAFE”

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