A New Look at Miracles
Bert told me a story about an experience he had one day when he rode his motorcycle down Lookout Mountain in Mentone, Alabama to Atlanta to see a friend. As he pulled into the drive, the friend’s young son ran out the door, excited at seeing the big bike in his drive and wanting a ride. Before Bert could warn the boy, he began scrabbling to get up on the bike. In the process, he placed his little hand on the manifold cover. Bert heard the sizzle and smelled the burning flesh. All of this happened in a blink. Before Bert could do anything, the boy’s mother arrived summoned by his wail. She had not been there for the sizzle or smell of burning flesh. Not knowing what had happened, she just meant to comfort her child, folding his little hand in hers and telling him lovingly he was fine. And yet a miracle occurred. She soothed and held him until he stopped crying, kissing his hand still cupped in hers. She said, “See, you are fine,” as she gently uncurled his fingers to show him. The hand was perfect, no injury whatsoever. Bert just smiled. Such things were not new to him.
The wonder of us lies in an even greater capacity for so-called miracles. For even if we did hear the sizzle and smell flesh burning, we still can produce the same results. For truth is truth. IT doesn’t change with happenstance. If we know the operative truth—that at some level of consciousness all is perfect, we could unfold the child’s tiny little hand without a mark on it, even having heard the sizzle and smelling the burnt flesh.
We spend so much time, money and focus trying to make life safe and secure, trying to get all those wild strands of unruly hair perfectly in place, trying to gain favor from the universe by demonstrating our aptitude for control. I’ve noticed life’s not much fun lived that way, not to mention we don’t believe those efforts will succeed, for peace forever eludes us. Any honest rich person will tell you they fear losing their money. Any vital healthy person will privately admit to their fear of sickness and disease. Anyone who has someone they love could never lie by telling you they didn’t fear their loss.
Would our time not be better spent encouraging our curiosity about what we call the miracles of life – the anecdotal healings, the creation of consummate art, the heart that can love and forgive violence upon it?
Now, I’m not a religious person nor interested in affiliation with such. Let’s face it, Jesus wasn’t a Christian. But Jesus made some rather astounding comments in his short stay on this planet. Here’s one that people don’t touch on too often: Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do also; and greater works than these shall he do….
Scholars do get hung on the part— and greater works than these— thinking maybe he meant miracles of deeper impact since the disciples were already performing miracles. And that is one level of interpretation. But Jesus lived far beyond that level of perception. What if he were referring instead to what we’re actually capable of, to a different level of awareness? What if we could slip out of the confines of our named identity, Joe Bush or Sally Brown, the one that could only see our child as burned, to a different order of human being where we could focus on our underlying perfection so powerfully as to bring that vision to the surface: the sweet, unmarked hand of the child.
Rather than trying to protect our lives from every imaginable horror that comes to mind, what if we took some of the air-time we spend in “what if” scenarios (always more like Stephen King than Walt Disney) and sponsored a few different programs, committed time each day to pondering one outrageous notion or seemingly irreverent view. Like maybe the implicit meaning in “the Father and I are one” was actually “the Father and I are one and the same.” Where might that take you? What might your next question be? Feel the sudden surge of energy and satisfaction in such curiosity. And there you’d have it, a ticket to a new life, one of wonder and beauty and strength, the one you were born to—galactic explorer in the starship, Truth.
Our willingness to take that on, explore life more actively, and model the nature of true curiosity—that is the greatest gift we could ever give to our children.
If you would like further exposure to alternative views of human nature and life lived from them, consider reading: Dying to Know.
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