For Certain
“Experience the joy of certainty.”
That line from a radio ad for a psychic hotline gets to me every time. It punctures the bubble of my happy space as I drive or ride from A to B. It disturbs my peace even more than the commercials for prescription pharmaceuticals that dominate every station break of every television program. (Does this mean I watch shows that target old people? Probably.)
“The joy of certainty.” Really?
The silky voice coming through my speakers assures listeners that their gifted psychics—they reject most of their applicants, hiring only the cream of the crop—can provide a clear path for personal and professional success. Are you tired of waiting for love? Are you surrounded by happy couples, which only makes your alone-ness more pronounced? Guidance is only a phone call away.
Of course they go there, pressing on the most tender of spots: loneliness. We’re social creatures, designed to share joy and heartbreak. A day can bring a score of paper cuts—a last-minute project at work, a broken washing machine, a case of the flu—but their sting is lessened when you don’t have to bear them alone.
The psychic business preys on those lonely enough and desperate enough to try anything. It advertises hope and sells promises but delivers nothing. And don’t expect a refund.
But, as the Apostle Paul would say, there is “a more excellent way.”
I want to know what’s next. Even bad news shows me where I am on the map. Perhaps what I’m truly seeking is control; if I can see the future, I can fix it.
Foolishness. I’m a book trying to write myself.
Remember the former things of old,
For I am God, and there is no other;
I am God, and there is none like Me,
Declaring the end from the beginning,
And from ancient times things that are not yet done,
Saying, ‘My counsel shall stand,
And I will do all My pleasure,’
Isaiah 46:9-10 (NKJV)
You can slam your fist against this truth all day long, offering arguments against the existence of God, but you’ll only be left with bruises. Proclaiming faith in our own supremacy rings hollow after a time, for we know ourselves too well. Although my optometrist says I’ll need cataract surgery in a few years, I can see myself better than ever, and the view isn’t always pretty.
I do not write from the mountaintop, in continuous blissful union with the Trinity. Thanks be to God, I get to visit there from time to time, but I spend most of my days on the rock scrambles below the peak. And sometimes I find myself in the valley.
I persist. I triumph. I stumble. I rise. At times I struggle to untangle the workings of my own heart, much less the hearts of others. I reach out for clarity and grasp air.
Then I remember.
Jesus Christ, the same yesterday and today and forever (Hebrews 13:8), abides with me, as does the Father (John 14:23). The Holy Spirit teaches me things I could never understand on my own and prays for me when my words fail (John 14:26, Romans 8:26-27).
All this because I accepted Jesus as my Savior.
Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” John 14:6 (ESV)
My hope is not tied to wishes or fairy tales or warm fuzzy sentiment. It is anchored to the only One Who is omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent. The only One Who stands outside of time; in fact, He created it.
The One Who holds the future also holds me.
“I am the Alpha and the Omega,” says the Lord God, “who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty.” Revelation 1:8 (ESV)
Of this we can be certain.
“Thy Father’s Hand” by artist Garland Weeks is located in the Meditation Garden of Truth and Reconciliation at Mepkin Abbey, a monastery north of Charleston, South Carolina. According to the monastery’s website, it “embodies a powerful relationship to piety, suffering, redemption, mercy, forgiveness, and the possibility of reconciliation.” It was given by Dora and James J. Reaves Jr.
