Cliff Jumping & Free Falling

I have experienced some pretty crazy and radical things in my life. I’ve gone places few feet have tread and had opportunities that others just dream about. I’ve rafted rivers, climbed towering mountains, and hiked into a communist village where no American had ever spent the night. But one adventurous thing I really do not like is jumping off cliffs. I’ve done it, but not without some significant motivation.

The first time might be the most memorable. I had a few days left in Hawaii and the friend that I was staying with decided we should spend some of my remaining hours jumping off a cliff into the ocean. The height has fluctuated through the years in the telling of the story from 30 to 50 feet. I honestly believe the distance from leap to impact was somewhere in the middle, but it was more than long enough to feel the adrenaline rush in my core and to think I was going to die.

My friend went first. He jumped. He splashed down. He swam back to the cliff and scrambled back up.

It was now my turn.

I crept over to the edge and looked down at the waves below. My stomach wasn’t impressed and it shouted strong survival signals to my brain that were much louder than the machismo messages from my pride. I stood there for a long time and then backed off. I knew that others had survived the jump. I had seen it with my own eyes, but it just wasn’t translating into desire.

I turned to my friend. “Tell you what. You jump again so I can watch you closely, once you surface in the water I’ll follow.”

He jumped. I watched. Fear gripped me and I stood my ground.

My friend tried to bribe me to jump, tried to soothe my fears, but when nothing else worked he found some words that pushed me off the edge. “That’s fine. We can go home now. I just need you to know that my mom has jumped from that spot and she’ll be waiting for us at the condo when we get back…”

I jumped and I survived to tell the tale.

I love adventure, but I also love to be safe. And having performed some funerals for some people that didn’t respect safety, I know how important it can be.

But sometimes in my life I’ve used safety as an excuse. I’ve avoided things that would make me uncomfortable. The truth is that I’ve been afraid.

I’ve been afraid to leave my job at the church. I’ve stood on the edge for awhile now, looking over the edge at what could easily be a ministry grave yard. I’ve seen some people dog paddle at the bottom in senseless circles after leaving their jobs. I’ve seen some drown in despair after taking an entrepreneurial risk. I saw my mother thrown from the ledge of her occupation by the bosses who no longer had any need of her.

I’ve relished the power, the prestige and the (limited) profit that the ministry has fed me, but it’s made me fat and lazy. It would be good to let go, but based on fear I just.cant.let.go…

But then the word came yesterday, I have become expendable. "Pick up your last check, and God Bless you."

Push.

Falling.

Fear and freedom all in one flight.

This bird is no one’s baby and the nest was no longer a fit. This is a good thing. A God thing.

I have not jumped in presumption. I know that Father won’t let me crash into the rocks.