Locked In

A few weeks ago, I was helping Claire and our daughters get ready for School. Other than being a bit cold and wet, it was a normal Tuesday morning and all was going according to our usual routine. Running slightly late, I was busy with the painful, nearly futile task of trying to hurry two toddlers to the car, while Claire packed the last of their bags. Eventually after some frustration Emily and Grace were strapped in and ready to go. We said our goodbyes, Claire jumped in the car and the three of them raced off to Pennington. I was impressed because it looked as though they would get to school on time. Still in my pyjamas, standing in the drizzle, I waved them goodbye and watched the electric gate close behind them.

I love my children, they are wonderful but I declare, with a degree of shame, that this is my favourite time of the morning; that half an hour at home by myself before going to work. In these thirty precious minutes I indulge in a highly treasured, desperately selfish ritual of quiet and relaxed coffee drinking.

But on this terrible Tuesday when I got to the front door and turned the handle, my heart sank. The door wouldn’t open, it was locked and the keys were on their way to school with Claire and the girls. “Oh bother!”, is an edited version of what came out my mouth, but Like Pooh Bear I was stuck, no getting out, no getting in, no phone, no way of squeezing through the electric fence, no caffeine either, my chin began to quiver.

When the self pity finally passed I realised I couldn’t sit there all day in the rain in my pyjamas, I had to do something, I had to get out of this trap. Suddenly a number of options came to mind, the kitchen window was ajar, there was still a key on the hook behind the door, and I had access to my tools because the garage was open. In no time I was humming ‘Mission Impossible’ while hatching my escape, “da da dada da da dada,”. Now I can’t share any details about what happened next, but suffice to say MacGyver would have been proud and without any damage to church property I got into the house and reclaimed my coffee. You may take my keys but you will never take my freedom!

I wonder if it’s a problem that I got the same ‘locked in feeling’ last week as I stood before synod and got accepted for ordination? I was a bit anxious but the oral exam went without any real drama. Tinges of claustrophobia only set in when I had to make public promises in commitment to God and the church.  I was reminded that when you commit to something or someone you wilfully restrict yourself, you in effect say, “I choose this and by choosing this I eliminate the other options. Whatever happens I lock myself in, if everything goes well I’m in, if things go badly I’m in.”

Perhaps it’s because freedom, choice, and options are so much a part of how we think. I’ve grown up in an era that teaches to never be tied down, never get trapped, because that’s bad strategy. Ironically, real freedom, true liberty, is found in becoming a slave. Or as Jesus put it, it is only in giving up your life that you really find it. Because a life that only ever partially commits, that forever holds back and hedges its bet, thinks it will be free but instead turns restless and fearful and absent and never actually lives.

So yes committing to Christ means dying to so many things and forgoing certain choices, but there really is nothing better than the life God offers. I’m learning to love the occasions that come along that require I be locked in, left with only one path to follow. They give me the opportunity to discover, like Peter, that there is nothing more free than being able to say, “I have nowhere else but you Lord.”