As billionaires have been competing with each other to flaunt their larger-than-Earth wealth this year, I’ve dived into books and podcast episodes about space travel. Between you and me, if I had Bezos’ money, Musk’s science, or Branson’s resources, I’d have been in your newsfeeds this summer too.
I crave the experience of weightlessness. My heart longs to listen to worship music while looking at the glowing blue marble that holds all of us. I would pay thousands of dollars to feel the acceleration of launch and the uncertainty of reentry. Most of the indelible moments of my life happened right after, “Well, here goes nothing.” And the launchpad for space missions seems to hold more of that kind of adventure threshold than anything I’ve ever tried, and I’ve tried a lot.
Anyway, this daydreaming has been offset by some of the realities of long-term space travel I’ve learned to consider. The International Space Center isn’t for me. No showers (let alone hot), no hot cocoa, no disc golf, and no naps after I eat too many carbs. No hiking, no days off, and no breezes, either. It takes a long time for my body to contort and assuage my arthritic frame to fall asleep in a comfortable bed. I can’t imagine trying to sleep while strapped to a wall.
I was reminded of one of the odd challenges of life in space during a recent conversation with my buddies. We were reading a letter that Jesus’ little brother, James, wrote to his Hebrew friends. I’m not sure if Jesus called him Jimmy or Jimbo when they were kids, but Jesus must’ve given him some wisdom because James wrote some profound things for the biblical canon. James admonished his Jewish peers, “Dear brothers and sisters, when troubles of any kind come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy. For you know that when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow. So let it grow, for when your endurance is fully developed, you will be perfect and complete, needing nothing.” (James 1:2-4 NLT)
James wanted us to know that difficulty grows us up, makes us stronger, and demonstrates our faith. It’s not fun, but it’s good for us. The weight of our trauma, failures, and limitations don’t challenge God but do sovereignly challenge us. The gravity of our trials prepares us for the next stage of our spiritual journey and eventually leads us to maturity.
Scientists have long known that long-term space travel would lead to muscular atrophy. Engineers have built machines to help astronauts exercise in zero gravity. (Again: with no ability to shower afterwards? Yikes.) What proved more surprising was how quickly astronauts have lost bone density on the International Space Station. Depending on which source you read, space travelers lose between 1% and 3% of their bone mass per month in space. Some astronauts have easily broken bones during their first few weeks or months back on Earth.
Apparently, the human body knows that without gravity, it can divert internal resources elsewhere in our bodies. And then it does. Without the downward pull of gravity and the strain against it, we slowly lose the ability to stand on our own. We become more and more fragile. Thankfully, after returning to Earth, it doesn’t take long for exposure to gravity to restore previous bone density and rigidity.
Ol’ Jimbo explained this more than 1,800 years before humanity first took to the skies and 1,900 years before people first left earth’s atmosphere. Comfort doesn’t just lead to atrophy in the muscles of our heart; it leads to the frailty of our souls. A life in which faith isn’t needed leads to an existence where faith becomes hypothetical instead of practical. Daily, weekly, or otherwise-regular challenges don’t just make the story of our life more interesting, they prepare us for the inevitable moments of crisis—the loss of wealth, health, reputation, or a loved one. If our faith isn’t regularly tested against the gravity that pulls our shoulders toward our feet, we slowly forget where we get the strength to stand.
That doesn’t make suffering fun. Cancer sucks. The infidelity of a partner is gut-wrenching. A child who makes poor choices rips our hearts out. Losing our job or savings, our home or business is heavy enough to rob us of sleep. How we suffer, though, shows anyone watching the nature of our relationship with Jesus and whether we truly believe his gospel.
What I’ve found in those moments is not that Jesus dials down gravity. He doesn’t turn off the “fallen” setting on our world. What he has done for me is put a shoulder under my arm and walk with me in such a way that I’ll want to worship his heart and then share it. I still cry alone in the woods sometimes. But I feel utterly seen. I know he’s right there. And I know he’s up to something that’ll make me more mature.
Nothing Bezos, Branson, or Musk could ever buy will give them that.
—
Stock image purchased from iStockPhoto.com
