The Hand of Fate, or The Will of God?

The wind is picking up and the temperature is falling. Outside, dead leaves tumble across my lawn from the towering oaks across the street. Its finally stopped raining. My oldest and her husband are on the road here from Columbia while temperatures plummet. From Nashville my son sends me a screenshot of today’s conditions. There is a minus sign to the left of the number 2 and a bit of snow on the ground. They won’t be on the highway for home until Monday morning. Over all of these things I am powerless.

As I listen to the wind now lashing the house it occurs to me how powerless I am over a great many things. It is perhaps the most stubborn lie we tell ourselves, isn’t it? This idea that we are the captain of our own ship, that we set our own course, that we are masters of our own fate. Despite a lifetime of difficult lessons teaching us how fragile we are in this life, we have the amazing ability to cling to seductive things—and nothing is quite so seductive as the notion of personal autonomy. Yes, we have agency. We enjoy the gift of free will. But no matter how many wise choices we make in this life, there is nothing protecting us from random encounters with the laws of physics. Car accidents and cancer diagnoses—like rain— fall on the just and unjust alike.

I have made my living helping people plan for the future, specifically to see to it that they don’t run out of money before they run out of life. It is a wise and prudent thing to do. Besides, I’ve found that if a man doesn’t make plans, he will always become victim to the plans of others. But there is space in the planning business for that rarest of human qualities…humility. We do our best to be good stewards of money and resources, but we also have to remain open to the hand of fate. For people of faith, the hand of fate is translated… the will of God.

This morning I saw a beautiful photograph of a young woman who lost her life earlier this year in a horrible accident. There she was, bundled up in a winter coat, a knitted scarf snug around her neck, her hands covered in warm black gloves with a face that radiated hope and potential. Her mother had posted the picture. Of course she would. It was beautiful. I know her mother and father. I know of their great faith. But I cannot fathom the depths of a loss so overwhelming. I fret as my daughter drives home for Christmas. But for my friend, her daughter will never be home for Christmas.

But as I studied the photograph closer the thought occurred to me that I might have it all wrong. My understanding in this matter could very well be spectacularly wrong. Maybe…she is home. To my unbelieving friends this at best is a harmless fantasy, at worst a delusion of the simple minded. I can offer not one shred of physical evidence to prove my belief in God and an afterlife. I only have scripture and the tender urging, sometimes feint but never silent voice of the Holy Spirit…absent from the body, present with the Lord. It is the hope of the Gospel, that transcendent story that began in Bethlehem. One of the pastors at my church has a catch phrase that he is famous for…You go nowhere by accident. Its his summary of something that the old prophets said thousands of years ago…A man’s heart plans his course, but the Lord directs his steps. 

Something to ponder on this blustery day.