Choice

I have been pondering the beautiful, terrible thing that is human choice. Following on from my musings on the grapefruit, I am so grateful that I get to choose to drink deep of all that is life. I get to choose to accept abundance, to partake of both the bitterness AND joy of the human adventure. But the terrible thing is that I am also free to choose NOT to receive all that is available to me. I am also free to choose to hide, choose to opt out whenever I feel like it. And even more than that, other people are free to make choices too...! I can’t control anyone else’s choices (even more importantly, I should never try to), however they might affect me; and it is good.

Choice is empowering. Choice means that I get to play a part in the unfolding of my own life; in the writing of my own story. Choice is the Father’s invitation to me to be a co-creator, co-author with him. Here’s where it gets tricky though. If I never make powerful choices, if I just go along with the flow, I never have to take responsibility for the consequences. Or at least, that’s how we feel about it all. The truth is that even when I opt out of making a decision – well, I’ve actually chosen not to choose, and therefore the go-with-the-flow results are really something I DO have to take responsibility for after all! So what’s tough about choice is that it comes with consequences, and therefore requires ownership. And we are petrified (in the fear-filled as well as the turned-to-stone sense of the word) by the fear of the consequences of our choices. So we opt out of them. Or we make hurried choices that we later regret. Now, I am no stranger to putting up the “no responsibility hands”. Here’s a demonstration:

Thanks Asanda!

These are VERY helpful in certain situations. Picture this: you and your friends want to watch a DVD, but can’t decide which one. You make a suggestion, which is then followed through on... except everyone hates it. You are now responsible for having chosen the movie everyone hates. Well done you. What you should have done, right as you made the suggestion, was put up the no-responsibilty-hands, thus absolving yourself from all future fall-out. Very helpful indeed. What is NOT helpful is when the figurative no-responsibility hands come out to play – warning bells should start ringing. I have to go ahead and make a choice, regardless of whether it’s the “right” one or not. I can’t be afraid to make a choice in case it’s wrong. Chances are, it may be the wrong choice, but what is important is that I MAKE it, and later figure out my way through the consequences. Madeleine L’Engle says, “We don’t know. We can only make guesses, and our guesses may be wrong. Far too often in this confused world we are faced with choices, all of which are wrong, and the only thing we can do, in fear and trembling, is to choose the least wrong, without pretending to ourselves that it is right.”

If it is so easy for me to make the wrong choice, why is it still so important for me to actively make decisions in my own life? Why not let everything take me where it wills? You see, I believe in an intentional God, a God whose image I am made in. I don’t think he planned a go-with-the-flow life for me. He is the God of structure AND creativity (just look at a sunset – the sun always rises, but it looks different every day), the God of form and improvisational spontaneity. But my life is not a consistently improvisational melody – it’s more like a call and response song between the Creator and me. I am meant to be intentional about my life. When Jesus went willingly to the cross to do what no one else could do for me – to renew the broken places in me, and restore my relationship with the Father – one of the things his sacrifice achieved for me was the beautiful gift of choice. If Jesus hadn’t died for me, I wouldn’t be ABLE to choose him; I would have had no choice but to continue with existence without him. What’s wild is that in giving me the gift of choice, he also enabled me NOT to choose him – let that sink in. He is so committed to me having the gift of choice that he gave it regardless of whether I would use it to walk towards or away from him. What else says “unconditional love” more clearly than that?!

When I extend love to someone – boy does it (usually) mean that I’m hoping they’ll return it (in some way or another!).  And if they don’t, of course I’d feel deeply rejected. And perhaps I might resort to some kind of manipulation to try win a response. But to love fully, to give the gift of love from a completely open heart, knowing that it may never be returned – that is true vulnerability; that is courage in action. As Ghandi said: “A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave.”

Now, I don’t know how to simultaneously wrap my brain around the fact that I have free will and a choice, and the fact that God is completely sovereign and knows every day of my life before I have lived it. But what I think this means is that he trusts my heart more than I do. If I have chosen to allow my heart to be the place where he takes up residence, then I can trust it to lead me true. And I can also trust that even if I make the wrong choice (and chances are strong), it is not the end of the world. There is always hope. I can’t control 90% of what happens in my life (and perhaps I should not try to control that 10%), but I CAN choose how to respond (not simply react) to it all.

Have you ever thought about the phrase “this made me feel (x)”? When I say, “You made me [feel] sad,” to someone, I am essentially putting up the no-responsibility-hands in regards to my own emotions. I am saying, “I had no choice, I was forced [by you] into feeling like this.” But as vindicating as that phrase may feel to trump out (because if how I feel is the other person’s fault, then it is not mine), it is untrue, and it is evidence of me giving up my choice. It means that I am going through life reacting to everything instead of choosing a response. Regardless of how someone treats me, I have this beautiful (and terrible!) endowment of choice, that it is my responsibility to make use of. I can’t do a thing about their choices, but I have to make use of the gift given to me. When I was a kid I had this wonderful gift from my parents: a little tape player that could be plugged into the wall but could also work on batteries. I remember listening to audio books on long roadtrips – that tape player went everywhere with me. It was always so sad when the batteries eventually ran out. But then, once we got home, I could plug it into an electricity source, and listen to stories for hours, as I painted my way through the weekends or holidays. Perhaps the gift of choice is a little like that – I can make some good decisions on my own battery power for a while,though I’ll eventually run out of my own wisdom and natural instinct. But the Holy Spirit is a source that I will never be able to diminish through use, and he always makes himself available to me. The gift that he has given me will work best when I use it in partnership with him. And what a glorious partnership that is.

Observations on the Grapefruit

I have always loved all kinds of citrus – the zing freshly-squeezed lemon juice adds to a meal; the satisfying sweetness of a naartjie (similar to a mandarin/tangerine, for my international friends); and above all, the orange. This is because some of my fondest childhood memories include reading Asterix or The Famous Five with my dad – and stopping to find a snack because the Famous Five were ALWAYS picnicking, and we weren’t about to be left out. I remember lying across the bed, book propped open on the floor below, sucking the juice out of an orange sliced through its equator. Once it had been drained of the last drop, you could invert the half and eat the left-behind bits of halved and sapped segments. To this day, the merest whiff of orange takes me back to my dad and those books.

All citrus, that is, besides grapefruit. I developed an early loathing for the grapefruit, which my father’s assurances about its excellent flavour and deeply refreshing qualities did nothing to assuage. I remember attempting *minute* pieces of the fruit, always spitting it out hastily, repulsed by its bitterness. As a child, I was always a seeker of sweetness, and I could not fathom why anyone would choose to eat this tart fruit.

It is only recently that I have developed a deep affection for the grapefruit, and learned an appreciation for its unique taste and scent. Here is my new-found conclusion about this fruit: if you eat a grapefruit tentatively, hesitantly, all you will discover of it is its bitterness. In fact, as happened to me as a child, that bitterness may overwhelm you and prevent you from ever wanting to sample a grapefruit again. But if you eat a whole chunk of grapefruit, if you go ahead and chew away on it all at once... it is only then that you discover the (best kept) secrets of the grapefruit: its sweetness, its incomparable flavour and the bouquet of its scent.

The grapefruit requires an all-or-nothing approach. Another childhood memory: standing on the edge of a pool, wondering if I dared leap, shrieking, into the cool depths. Sun beating down on me, toes curling away from the blazing heat of cement beneath them, the water beckoning – and yet all the fears of the cold and the unknown of the water tugging me back. Teetering on the brink – do I dare? Will I dare? Now! Not yet. Now! Not yet... But once the courage had been summoned, and the leap leapt, the water was usually always more delightful than you thought it would be. The same holds true, I find, for the grapefruit. One can’t simply dip one’s toes in. One must dive headfirst into the eating of the grapefruit.

I think the reason why I am appreciating this fruit now more than I ever have before is that this all-or-nothing response to this particular citrus is how I feel life should be lived. Forrest Gump taught us all: “Mama always said life was like a box of chocolates – you never know what you’re gonna get,” and although I will always remain appreciative of Mr Gump and his views, I’d rather compare life to the grapefruit. Life is NOT consistently sweet, but one can’t creep around the edges of it, recoiling at the first contact with bitterness. Every time we flinch back, we miss discovering the sweetness on the other side of the acerbic. When South African rugby boys are learning to tackle, they are taught, “Hoe harder jy ingaan, hoe minder maak dit seer” (the harder/more aggressively you go in for a tackle, the less painful it will be). Perhaps this is an oversimplification, and I’m sure many a rugby player has looked back on this advice ruefully... but I am still convinced that it is far better to embrace life – ALL of life – wholeheartedly, than only receive the gifts wrapped in the prettiest paper.

I have tasted something of the soul-rending bitterness which accompanies the human condition and existence; though perhaps I cannot equate my experience with many others who have suffered far more than I (is it possible to measure and compare individual suffering though? I remain unconvinced). When I take the time to truly *see* another person, especially someone who seems to know more of life’s pain than I do, I wonder if this advice – this charge to embrace all of life fully, even recklessly – is folly; is insulting. But what I know to be true is that every time I have attempted to numb my heart to pain, inoculate myself against sadness, I have succeeded only in dimming joy right alongside hurt. And that is something I never want to do. Joy is the Spirit, it cannot exist apart from him, and I never want to place him behind a locked door, nor even a veil. There are moments when I am overwhelmed by the bitterness I taste in the world, and my mind balks when I hear something like “God allows in his kindness what he could easily prevent in his power” (Graham Cooke); but my heart knows that to be true. Because my heart knows HIM to be true, his nature consistent, and consistently good. His joy will always be my compass, keeping me facing the truest North through bitter waves and the sweetest of waters.

As a child, I was always a seeker of sweetness – and I am still, and it is something I refuse to lose: joy is the serious business of heaven. But sometimes the sweetest moments lie just beyond the most bitter. So let us dive in, drink deep; let us eat up!