Erickson Tribune

Spirituality Today

UPDATED: Monday, April 21, 2008

Learning from the simpler things

Posted on Tuesday, April 01, 2008
 

By Jeff Watson
THE ERICKSON TRIBUNE

Sometimes our most powerful lessons arise from the simpler things in life.

Simplicity in Scripture
When some first-century folks got twisted in a knot about fashion and wardrobe, Jesus quipped, “Why do you worry about clothes? Consider … the wild flowers …. They do not labor or spin … Yet … not even Solomon … was dressed like one of these.”

When the ancient prophet Balaam veered down the wrong path, his donkey got the message and lay down. Spiritually dull, the boisterous rider scolded the burro and beat her with a stick. As a last resort, heaven spoke through the mule and an argument erupted—between Balaam and the jackass! The story begs the question: “How dull can we be?”

Simplicity in outlook
After publishing more than a thousand Spanish plays, Lope de Vega discovered the joy of contentment. “With a few flowers in my garden, half a dozen pictures, and some books, I live without envy.” Alexander Pope later underscored the power of plainness: “There is … majesty in simplicity … far above … the quaintness of wit.”

In our day, the acclaimed National Geographic photographer William Albert Allard boils it down: “The work of most photographers would be improved immensely if they could … get rid of the extraneous.” Equally straightforward, the novelist Charles Dudley Warner concludes: “Simplicity is making the journey of this life with just baggage enough.”

Simplicity in nature
The life of simplicity is not one of blind reductionism. As Einstein put it: “Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler.” When we become simplistic, we fall under H. L. Mencken’s indictment: “For every problem there is a solution which is simple, clean, and wrong!”

Simplicity in experience
A few years ago, I was struck by the power of a simple lesson. In the midst of a happy vacation in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, we were startled by a sad phone call. “Daddy is gone,” the caller said. “Can you get to Bluefield, West Virginia?”


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Before long, I found myself on the smallest aircraft I had ever flown. Lifting off from a sunny airfield, I felt like Sky King. Peering out into the bright afternoon, my mind began drifting: “What could I say about this veteran? Which are the key memories?

What kind of example did he set?” My eyes fell shut to the rhythm of the  engine.

“Crack! Crack!” Thunder shook the little sevenseater. Instantly awake, I saw nothing but lightning from every window. With the downpour we instinctively went silent, leaning into the aisle. Like us, the pilot and copilot were staring through a dark-gray windshield. I felt as if we were in a submarine, deep in the ocean. “No chance they can see,” I mouthed. “The Bluefield Airport is on the side of a mountain,” a passenger whispered. “Bad landings there before …” his voice trailed off .

Blind with the human eye, the pilots adjusted their headsets. Listening and chattering, the two connected with unseen friends far away—a reassuring rapport across the miles.

A black folio came out. Opening the spiralbound notebook on the console, the two no longer gawked through dismal windows; instead, they gazed at their destination: a diagram of the landing strip. They began memorizing altitude,  angle, length.

Drawing guidance from the book, the pilots trusted their  instruments and flew by faith. Constantly in touch with the control tower, they believed in the runway—though they couldn’t see it. Steadily slowing, carefully descending through the torrent, pilots and passengers held their breath together. As the clouds parted, the green earth reached up to grab our wheels. I had my sermon.