Clip Into Jesus

Trust. Each of us treated it like a rare commodity, no one willing to share it with those around them. Our work team was dysfunctional, and the boss knew it. To fix that, he took us high into the North Carolina mountains to a high ropes course. It was that exercise that taught me how to trust, how to lean into a group of people I barely knew. Initially, I trusted the steel support cables I was clipped into, disregarding the support team on the ground. By the end of the program, I placed my trust in 3 people who held a rope, preventing me from falling 30 feet to the forest floor. I trusted these living, breathing human beings more than a solid steel cable specifically engineered to support me as I traversed the ropes course high in the trees. These people cared about me. They cared about my safety and had a vested interest in getting me back to the ground without harm. The steel cable was solid and strong, but it did not know me. It was clean, shiny, and highly capable of doing the job. I realized that this was how I was living my life, how I was treating my relationship with Jesus. I thought I was doing things by myself. I trusted very few. I was putting my trust in the latest shiny object when my Savior was there all along. He cared about me. He was my support. He was preventing me from falling. I was too focused on myself to see it, though.

The first exercise we faced after breakfast involved climbing a rock wall to reach a platform 30 feet above the ground, secured between large trees. Each person wore safety equipment consisting of a helmet, safety glasses, gloves, and a body harness. The body harness was connected to a rope by a carabiner, which was routed through an overhead pulley and down to a ground crew consisting of three of my colleagues. We did a random-order assignment, drawing numbers from a hat. I was selected to go first; after all, I was the newest team member and obviously expendable. I think it was rigged. I put on my safety equipment, getting help with the harness. I received final instructions from our guides and was told that my colleagues were ready as my ground crew, standing by to save my life should I slip and start to fall. Keep in mind that the three colleagues assigned to save my life in this exercise did not trust me, and the day before at work, I would not have trusted them to refill the copier. These were the cards He dealt me today. I just hoped they were not all jokers.

Moving into position to climb the rock wall, I started up the jagged surface, dotted with colorful cleats for my feet to grip, and headed to the first platform. I was not an experienced climber, yet this part seemed easy, and although I was slow, it went mostly without issue. I could feel the confidence building as I climbed higher up that wall, each cleat I passed easing my nerves a little more. Getting from the rock wall to the first platform proved more challenging, as I had to jump to reach it. The top of the rock wall was neither high enough to get me above the platform nor close enough to step over. As I reached the top of the rock wall, I knew I was overthinking the transfer to the platform and taking a serious "trust inventory" of the three people below who literally held my life in their hands. Should I jump and miss, what were the odds these three people would abandon me, allowing me to fall to my certain death in the NC forest? I know that sounds overly dramatic, yet it demonstrates the deep lack of trust among all of us, as well as the adrenaline rush in my brain as I planned my jump to the platform. Oh yeah, back to the platform. I did make it to the top of the rock wall and successfully transferred to the platform, yet almost thirty-five years later, I do not recall which method I used to get there.

On to the next challenge: stepping off the platform onto a one-inch-diameter steel cable fastened between two swaying trees. The guide said, "Just walk off the edge of the platform and onto the rope." Sure, do that. Full disclosure: there was the one cable you walked out on, plus another cable about six feet above it. We were instructed to hold on to the upper cable as we walked along the lower cable, with the upper cable providing balance and support. Every time I looked down, I was reminded that I was still thirty feet above the ground, like a squirrel racing along a power line. OK, a squirrel creeping slowly across a power line. My foot slipped, causing me to lose my balance, yet hanging on to the upper rope, I was able to reset my footing. A great reminder that I was still placing my life in the trust of my three colleagues, the three dots I could see below that I hoped were paying attention. After a slow process of moving along the cable, I eventually made it successfully across, never having to test the skills or trust of my colleagues, my buddies below. In other words, although I may have slipped a few times, the overhead cable saved me; I never fell off, never tested the crew.

At this point, I'm standing firmly on this massive wooden platform. I would estimate it was about fifteen feet wide by twenty feet long and secured to four huge, two-foot-round pilings driven deep underground into the North Carolina forest floor. At each end, about six feet above the platform, are two steel cables secured to the pilings with galvanized bolts and running parallel to the platform. Once on the platform, I am strutting around, celebrating, giving high-fives to the guides up there, and feeling like I just climbed Everest. I am walking around, looking over the edge, yelling down to my colleagues on the ground, and celebrating. One of the guides tells me he is clipping me into the two steel cables parallel to the platform. Sure, do what you need to do. I am officially a climber. He connects my harness to each cable with a lanyard made specifically for that purpose. The feeling of accomplishment is still washing over me; life is good, and I am basking in the glow of my recent accomplishment. Then he says he is going to disconnect the rope my colleagues are holding. Wait, they are my ground crew, my lifeline. Now, one climb does not a climber make, yet I believe he shouted, "coming off belay," when he unclipped me from the ground crew below. It is all a blur from there, though, because when he unclipped that lifeline, I instantly froze up. I could no longer walk around freely; heck, I could not move at all except to lean slightly one way or the other. Even though I was securely connected to two individual massive steel cables through lanyards that were directly attached to my harness, mentally I was not as secure as when my ground crew, my colleagues, were responsible for my safety and my life. The chasm between the rope and the ground seemed looming.

Don't allow your thoughts and actions to build a chasm between you and God. "And besides all this, between us and you a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who want to go from here to you cannot, nor can anyone cross over from there to us" (Luke 16:26). This leads me to how we got down from the platform. Great question. Once everyone was safely up on the platform, our second lesson kicked in. We were taught to rappel down from an elevated surface. No ladders, still playing with ropes, our safety harness, and our ground crew.

This story reminds me of my faith walk and relationship with Jesus. As I reflect on my life, there have been many times I unclipped from Jesus and instead clipped into something else. Something else I thought was safer, more secure, or a better option. When that happened, I never felt safe; I didn't feel secure walking around in life, and I never found a truly better option. Just like on that platform — even though I was securely connected to two massive steel cables — I did not feel safe until I trusted the process, trusted the equipment, and trusted the One who designed it all. Stay clipped in.