We have to stop and be humble enough to understand
that there is something called mystery.
I am attracted to mystery, to what cannot be easily explained, if explained at all. I was the child who believed Santa would squeeze himself down our chimney, and magicians were truly magical. I’ve never really understood how electricity works, although loads of people have tried to explain it to me, and surely there’s a bit of milk in the milky way. There are mysteries that surround and infuse our lives. Humans, I find, like to know things, and most love a mystery as long as it can be solved. We dissect and dismantle and build and exhume to find reasonable answers. We seek to explain the mysteries of life when perhaps, we should just live this mystery that is life.
And now, we’ve hit upon the scariest mystery of all. Why am I alive, while others are not? What lies beyond this life defined by the tangible and rooted on this earth beneath our feet? We can read all sorts of books that have a variety of answers from different perspectives: scientific, philosophical, theological, mathematical. But at night, in the dark, when we become aware of our heart beating and our breathing, do we find any comfort in those explanations? It is hard to accept that we simply cannot know for certain what lies beyond our last heartbeat. It is a mystery.
This is the season of mystery. I invite you to draw inward to think upon the miracles that are birth, light and love, for there remains, even in this age of instant information, mysteries that we can choose to embrace or dismiss. Do we need to know how the magician works his magic to be in awe of the result, or can we simply pause, and be humbled?