The Fork in the Road

I was privileged to sub for the regular organist at Trinity Lutheran Church in Jeromesville on Palm Sunday. I’ve played piano for years, but my organ gigs have been few and far between. The skill set was rusty at best, and didn’t return as smoothly as the proverbial riding of a horse.

As I practiced in the stillness of the sanctuary on Saturday, with light streaming through the glorious stained glass, my feet fumbled on the pedals, but the chords of the ancient hymns flowed sweetly through my hands. It had been nearly half a century since I dreamed of slipping off my shoes and sliding onto the organ bench in the choir loft at First Presbyterian Church as the new organist. Glenda was our organist then, a young woman I admired for her grace, kindness, and musical ability. I wanted to be like her when I grew up.

I was taking piano lessons, and after a bit of urging, my parents agreed to organ lessons instead. The ensuing story includes a piano-playing job offer for my instructor at Fantasy Island Amusement Park, leading to the question: “Would you like to take over my job playing the piano for a local church?” Unknown to me at the time, that question would lead to a fork in the road, one path toward the Presbyterian choir loft, and the other ultimately to the pulpit of The Salvation Army.

The fork in the road may come as a carefully researched decision to choose a specific profession or university, to take a new job or move to a new home. For some of my high school peers, the fork appeared in the form of a draft notice. At other times, the choice is spontaneous: a magical look across a crowded room, or the spur-of-the-moment decision to hop in the car and head to California. Regardless of the origin of the point of decision, we follow the advice of Yogi Berra: “When you come to the fork in the road, take it.”

Those of us who follow the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth are at the end of the period of Lent, the forty days on the church calendar leading up to Easter. Today, that period of self denial and attention to the things of faith is coming to an end. As Tony Campolo famously tells the story, “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming.”

As many Christians do during Lent, I’ve read the account leading up to the crucifixion and resurrection, “the passion of Christ.” While many begin with the Palm Sunday narrative, I started earlier in the story, with a verse in Luke 9:51: “As the time approached for him to be taken up to heaven, Jesus resolutely set out for Jerusalem,” or, in a different translation, “he steadfastly set his face toward Jerusalem.” Here was the cosmic fork in the road, the time of deciding to take the path of obedience.

At times, we follow the example of Jesus, sure of our choice and determined to follow the path to its end. At other points in our lives, we are as Lewis Carroll described in Alice in Wonderland: “Alice came to a fork in the road. ‘Which road do I take?’ she asked. ‘Where do you want to go?’ responded the Cheshire Cat. ‘I don't know,’ Alice answered. ‘Then,’ said the Cat, ‘it doesn't matter.’”

We chuckle at Alice, but sometimes we’re in a similar position. The fork comes, and we have no clue which way to turn. We make our lists of pros and cons, but the math doesn’t convince us on either side of the equation. That’s when I agree with the Cheshire Cat: perhaps it doesn’t matter.

Here’s why. In 1980, long-time pastor Eugene Peterson wrote “A Long Obedience in the Same Direction.” I read that title and I get it: it’s not the individual forks in the road that change us; it’s the direction. For me, that direction was through faith and music. For you, it may be integrity or hard work, kindness or a passion for adventure, as you seek the direction of your life through your values, your convictions. So when the next fork appears, take it!