Fearless Faith

I love the fall palette of colors: burnt oranges, bronzes and yellows, deep gray greens and dazzling reds. I also love the anticipation that accompanies them, anticipation of holiday gatherings, cooler nights and campfires, fall sporting events and the company of friends. Yet for all their wonder, colors alone are never enough to evoke the full sense of fall. That takes a bit more; texture in the form of flower petals and knobby gourds, dry rustling corn stalks, creases and stems of pumpkins and bearded seed heads on perennials.

Fall harvest kicks open the door, allowing us to observe the wonders of late summer gardens and field crops like millet revealing themselves one windrow at a time. Neighbors share their bounty with one another, not knowing when they will rely on grace in subsequent years. It can be humbling to ask for help. True neighbors never flinch. It is texture that brings their colors to life, and between the two, an infinite number of variations begin to emerge. Edges and arcs converge, planes intersect, tepid landscapes become marvelous wonders. Creation continues to unfold before us as the seasons change and as we discover the full texture of our own lives. Texture begs engagement. It invites a hands-on approach, a desire to be close and to share in the diversity before us. Christ calls on us to open our minds to the possibilities of life and living.

Jesus said, “You’re tied down to the mundane; I’m in touch with what is beyond your horizons. You live in terms of what you see and touch. I’m living on other terms… If you don’t accept the trustworthiness of the One who commanded by words and acts, none of it matters… (John 8:23-26, MSG).”

Each of us has a texture all our own, a sense of being and belonging and of knowing oneself that is completely and wonderfully unique. It is not only the colors of life we comprehend, it is the dips and the valleys, the knobs and gnarls, the creases and rough places, even the glassy smoothness of still water. It is an invitation to touch and experience and revel in creation. It is not to be observed as much as experienced.

Now and again we safely witness fall colors from the shelter of our vehicles or through the lenses of distant cameras. What if we were determined every day to walk among the leaves, feel the rough bark of the trees, and smell deeply the scented air – to live a life that is an invitation to others to see and be seen, to enjoin a pulsing vibrancy in our interactions with one another? Jesus implores us to come alive with that kind of living texture, to move beyond mere color or observation. And once enabled, there is no turning back.

We should not be content to be mundane Christians, colorful as we fancy ourselves to be. Rather, we ought to get in the fine habit of offering ourselves up in ways which invite others to experience the textures of divine place, a place where senses come to life and where the hand of God is discoverable in all.