A man, standing on the edge of a cliff, holding a woman in his arms. Their summit is high, so high it’s impossible to see what waits below. He gives her one kiss and then–they leap.
This is the image that races through my dreams: man and woman, loving security and unfathomable risk. We do not see what happens to the reckless lovers. There is no glimpse of what waits at the bottom, no rubric to measure those depths. Is it death or flight? Suicide or kenosis? One kiss, and then–
Like most amateur intepreters, I gloss the scene as commentary upon my own uncertainties: the delight of a future with him, the terror of leaving so much behind, the fall from prestige and profession and certainty. Counting the costs together, he can only say, “We cannot know God’s will in the ways we’ve known before.” And though I have heard the Spirit say, “I will go ahead of you,” I cannot help crying, “Yes Lord, but the way is still so dark.”
God, let it be not a fall from grace, but a vault into faith, a leap into hope, a descent into love.
Listen, and you’ll learn it isn’t just your story that matters. You dream–the man, the woman, the fall–and the next day you hear the words of a martyr. Imprisoned by wicked men, she smuggles letters beyond her prison walls. She dies, but the words ring out: “By God and by your prayers, I have felt tenderly cradled in free-fall.” (Kayla Mueller).
“Tenderly cradled in free-fall.” With the clarity and authority of one who suffers, she puts words to the baffling, hopeful image of my dreams. Her words are not about me, and yet their consolation reaches farther than her own brave witness. My dream is not about her, yet in that image I see her hope: strong arms and a fall that ends in loving mystery.
For our sins, we do not often see the patterns of God’s words and acts. “He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end.” (Ecclesiastes 3:11). Eternity is within us, hidden in the rhythms of our time-bound hearts, but we cannot find it out. Only sometimes does it find us. With a still, small voice, it echoes through the dark hour, translates the chronic pain, kisses us at the edge of a cliff.
Only the One who emptied himself, who descended from the heights to the depths, can hold us safe against the terror of falling. Having plunged into flesh for our salvation, it is now he who cradles us, so tenderly, in free-fall.