For the last month, I have been playing a game every morning with my son called Connections. There are 16 words in a four-by-four grid, and you have to try to connect them into four thematic groups without making more than four mistakes. We routinely miss the ways the words are related. When the answer is revealed, the connections are obvious. How did we fail to see?

Last week, one of the puzzles contained the words BARRE, PLIE, TUTU, along with KING and GHANDI. The ballet theme was a ploy, and I wasted three guesses trying to make it work. I persisted for more than ten minutes locked into a singular (pink) understanding of tutu, forgetting that it is also the name of the great South African liberationist and teacher Desmond Tutu. 

Even though his book on forgiveness has changed my life, I struggled to see the word differently than my first read presented it. And the associations between the other terms reinforced my wrong answer. I did eventually see it and solved the puzzle just in time. 

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But the experience hit me deeply: How often does this happen in the rest of my life? The stakes are higher, and I don’t lose a guess as a sign that something is not lining up the way I think it is. I might be misinterpreting my loved ones’ words or emotions, misreading context, or failing to see relevant facts. I can feel so certain, armed with decades of experience, education, and instincts. And I can still be so very wrong. 

Every morning, for as long as I can remember, I try to turn my heart to God as the very first thing I do. This practice has revealed to me a God who is much more concerned with big questions than right answers. Every time I think I have something pinned down and certain, God expands my vision, understanding, and capacity for love. God is always bigger, deeper, more than I previously understood. 

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The spiritual world has been frequently tempted to (at least) two equally dangerous solutions in light of the tentative nature of human knowledge. On the one hand, we can lock into what we are absolutely certain of and limit questioning of the status quo. At the other end of things, we can embrace a relativism that doubts that things can be fully true or known. Ironically, people in both of these worlds isolate themselves from the others to avoid conflict and being challenged. These two solutions are the perfect recipe for “cancel culture”. 

I long for spiritual and intellectual flexibility. And what is true for the mind and soul is also reinforced in the body. If we spend all our energy lifting weights and bulking up muscle, but ignore our endurance and flexibility, we are prone to injury. Knowing many things does not protect us from what we do not know and are not willing to see. 

Playing the game with Atticus also points to some of the ways we can practice flexibility. Spending time with and loving people who think and see differently than we do opens us to difference, exposes our biases, softens our hearts. Also, sometimes we have to try things and fail before we can be motivated to try something new. Sometimes we need more information, context, or a broader view in order to make sense of something we haven’t seen before. 

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All of this reveals something I need to remember about myself too. I love puzzles and solving them brings me an embarrassing level of joy. But the real gift, in games as well as life, is expanding vision. To be able to smile with delight at what evaded me just moments before. Instead of living in fear of being wrong, to anticipate with joy the moment the blinders fall away. To stretch toward a wider view. To love deeply the myriads of people whose thinking and view enriches mine. My heart beats stronger beside their hearts.

Give us eyes to see, O God. Give us the flexibility to see more deeply and understand more broadly all that is true, and good, and beautiful in the world. Amen.