Friday night I stood atop the New Frontiers Zipline here at SpringHill Camps, connecting an endless line of women to a thousand foot cable and then counting down—3… 2… 1… —until they scooched, walked or ran off a 40-foot tower into darkness.
“Is it safe?” they always ask. “I have kids at home.”
“Of course it’s safe,” I always tell them, making reference to the 14,000 pound rating of the caribeeners or the 5/8” stranded steel aircraft cable that could hold a bus or two. "You're not heavier than a bus or two, are you?"
The truth is, once your harness and helmet are on, once you are clipped in with redundant hardware, once you’ve been triple-checked, you’re safer than you were when you walked to the platform or drove to the camp. I always tell them that, and I believe it, but I don’t really want them to believe it.
The thrill of climbing an artificial wall, ziplining a thousand feet in the dark, or testing your balance on a high ropes course, all comes down to risk.
If it were perfectly safe, there would be no risk. If there were no risk, there would be no challenge or thrill, no overcoming, no relief at the end, no satisfaction at the accomplishment.
And yet it’s perfectly safe. The risk is an illusion.
Following Christ is the same.
There is no greater risk than to take up a cross and give up the world. And somehow, this also is perfectly safe. This risk is also an illusion, for you are never more safe than when you are walking in His will.
Paul, in his second letter to Timothy, reminds us of God’s protection and promised deliverance.
17 But the Lord stood with me and strengthened me, so that through me the proclamation might be fully accomplished, and that all the Gentiles might hear; and I was rescued out of the lion’s mouth. 18 The Lord will rescue me from every evil deed, and will bring me safely to His heavenly kingdom; to Him be the glory forever and ever. Amen. (2 Timothy 4, NASB)