SO YOU’RE TELLING ME THERE’S A CHANCE

The other morning, before I woke up, I had a dream.

My childhood friend Berry Bennion was in it. We were doing some kind of dreamy nonsense—the sort of thing that makes perfect sense while you're asleep and almost no sense whatsoever five minutes after you wake up.

But two things remained:

That's it.

Normally, perhaps, I would wake up, think Well, that was weird, and get on with my morning.

But something different happened.

And the different is the point of this thought piece.

Because I have a growing suspicion that Jesus is getting me used to different.

I Woke Up and Wondered

I woke up and wondered.

And lately I have been doing a whole lot more wondering as I wander with Jesus.

I wonder as I wander...

And, to borrow and bend another familiar hymn:

I wondered:

Was Berry simply random dream furniture? Was “Dog & Butterfly” merely some old song floating around the strange jukebox of my sleeping brain?

Entirely possible.

Most of my dreams are weird, interesting stuff.

But then another possibility presented itself:

So I Chose

And here is where something important happened.

I chose.

I essentially said:

So I did.

Within minutes I went to Berry's Facebook page and left a comment on one of his posts. I told him I had dreamed about him. I told him about the song. And I ended with some lyrics from my Jesus-redeemed version of “Dog & Butterfly.”

Now comes the interesting question:

Do I know Jesus told me to do that?

No.

Do I believe I may have been doing God's will?

Sure.

I might say, using conventional religious language:

But there is another phrase I increasingly like because it leaves room for both faith and humility:

Could I be wrong?

Absolutely.

Jesus can be hard for me to hear sometimes. Especially in dreams.

But I think that uncertainty may actually be part of what Jesus and I are working on.

Choose, Choose, Choose

Because apparently Jesus isn't merely teaching me to hear.

He's teaching me to choose.

Choose.

Choose.

Choose.

Choose to believe.

Choose to wonder.

Choose to make careful guesses.

Choose, more and more often, to sacredly imagine that Jesus really is with me—that He really is inviting, enticing, persuading, whispering, nudging; that His Spirit really can be wrought upon me and other people in the ordinary little movements of an ordinary day.

Which brings us to this ridiculous picture:

That's increasingly how I understand belief.

Not:

But:

And sometimes I choose:

YEAH!

JESUS, THE GOOD OPERATOR

This practice has even started changing something as mundane as making a telephone call.

I sometimes tell close friends:

Fortunately, some of them play along.

And I love that they do.

Because it lets me practice imagining Jesus not only as the Good Shepherd, but as something much more peculiar:

Remember telephone operators?

Well, in my Jesus-Greg WORLD, apparently Jesus sometimes works the switchboard.

I pick up my phone because I think Jesus might be telling me to call somebody.

I dial.

And then I let go of the outcome.

Trust Instead of Anxiety

That little imaginative practice has brought me a surprising amount of peace.

Because I don't have to sit there wondering:

Maybe.

Or maybe they're taking a shower.

Or maybe their phone is underneath the couch.

There are a thousand perfectly ordinary explanations.

But I can also choose to leave room for Jesus.

Maybe this simply isn't the moment for us to talk.

And if Jesus doesn't want me talking to somebody right now, then I don't want to talk to them right now either.

We've both got Jesus-business to do.

The Practice Works in Reverse Too

The practice works in reverse too.

My phone rings.

Now I get to wonder:

There it is again.

The choice.

The guess.

The sacred imagination.

The possibility that an apparently ordinary interruption might contain an invitation.

And sometimes I call someone I haven't spoken with for years. Maybe they don't particularly like me anymore. Maybe they never did. Maybe life simply carried us in different directions.

The old Greg could worry about all that.

The emerging practice says:

They don't owe me an answer.

They don't owe me a return call.

They don't owe me anything.

Even if I called one of the Twelve Apostles or President Nelson or somebody else I dearly loved, the principle would be exactly the same.

I make my little faithful guess.

They make theirs.

And Jesus gets to be King.

I think.

I guess.

I believe.

An Experiment in Belief

That's important.

This isn't certainty masquerading as revelation.

It's an experiment in belief.

Some people might look at this and call it sign-seeking. Some might think the whole thing is nuts.

Fair enough.

This kind of wild believing isn't everybody's cup of tea.

So here's my standing disclaimer:

And please—

I'll probably choose to believe that's your modus operandi whether it actually is or not.

Which also allows me to torment my brother and friends whenever they do pick up:

Either way:

I'm glad you picked up.

Leave Room for Jesus

And underneath all the silliness is something quite serious.

I'm practicing living in a world in which Jesus might be closer than I ordinarily imagine.

A world in which a dream might prompt a Facebook comment.

A song might prompt a memory.

A memory might prompt a phone call.

A ringing telephone might prompt a prayer.

And an unanswered telephone might prompt trust instead of anxiety.

Do I know Jesus orchestrated any particular one of those things?

No.

But...

And apparently Jesus is teaching me that where there is a chance—

there is also a choice.

Believe.