Clarity

An essay about a hike, clarity, and comfort

I am trying something new: essays. New things scare me because I am the ultimate creature of habit. Writing essays that are not focused on theology, church politics, or the latest New Times’ Bestseller in the category of theology is an invitation that I am extending myself to breathe and to use my writing as a respite from the busyness of church.

I will post these essays every Thursday and after the first month, the first essay will be open to all subscribers, but the subsequent weeks will be available to paid subscribers.

A few months ago, I went hiking with my family - my wife and our two children - in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I grew up hiking. I grew up with rocks in the treads of my boots, minor cuts on my legs as the result of not paying attention, getting too close to thorns on the edge of the trail, and reminding myself that I was “almost there.” The hike we took was at the suggestion of a friend. They said, “It’s a great hike for kids. Less than a mile and not too steep.”

When we were 0.8 miles into our “less than a mile hike” and approaching a rock face we needed to climb, I asked myself, “Did XXX know what they were talking about?!” Maybe our friend’s memory was not as clear as she thought it was when she suggested this hike. We were prepared for a walk through the woods but not maneuvering our way up a mountain.

Perception is everything, and without clarity, we can have no perception.

As we maneuvered the last few yards to the summit, it became clear that the hike (in addition to herding kids up a mountain) was worth the effort. We could see for miles in every direction. We could see the area where our cabin was. We looked out and saw the general direction of where our home was. We could look down and see the path we had taken, the same path we would take to return to our car. This clarity of sight would not have been possible at the base of the last 100-yard climb, but at the top of that 100-yard climb, it felt as though we could see for 100 miles in every direction.

A few months have gone by since that hike, and I have continued to think about the view from atop the mountain we were on. If only the view we had then was the view we had every day. I am not talking about the view of small towns below us or what appeared to be tiny people making the same undersold hike we took. I am thinking about the clarity of being able to see things just as they are, right in the moment. That day on the mountain was crystal clear. There was not a cloud in the sky. Had we made the hike a few days later, cloud cover would have disrupted the clear view.

There are days when the world appears to be crystal clear. The bad actors are obviously bad, while the good actors are obviously good. But then there are days when the lines are so blurred that we cannot clearly distinguish good from bad in the same way that on a cloudy day on a mountain, you cannot easily distinguish east from west.

Yesterday, a friend persuaded me to read the work of Robert Jenson. So, in order to have a clearer theological perspective, the idea did not seem like a waste of time. Robert Jenson wrote, "Clarity is grace. Grace is the essence of clarity." Clarity isn't just about thinking; it's like a moment of divine understanding that goes beyond just logic. It's when we see how everything fits together in life, even when things seem chaotic, and we find comfort in knowing that everything has a purpose and is connected.

In the pursuit of clarity, in any area of your life, the fears, doubts, and insecurities we attempt to hide may be exposed. Yet, through these struggles, we gain a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world around us, emerging from the shadows with renewed clarity and purpose. So, I am embracing the journey with an open heart and mind, continuing the trek up the mountain, even if it takes me longer to get to the top than a friend might suggest.