Houston, we have Ignition

"Houston, we have ignition"--It's a phrase we're all familiar with. When every system light is green, when the countdown has burned itself down to zero, the command to ignite is relayed. It signals the time has arrived to transition: from poised potential to kinetic flight. Ignition is the hinge between what is known and what is not yet perfectly mapped but the direction is up. The moment the known world loosens its grip and the craft slips through the bonds of earth.

In Ancient Latin, the word "ignition" is derived from the Medieval Latin ignitionem, meaning "a setting on fire". This, in turn, comes from the Latin word ignis, which means "fire". The moment a spark leaps from flint to tinder, the instant when latent heat becomes visible light.

I once thought Mormonism had failed me. Its answers stopped at the edge of my questions; its horizon too close for the hunger inside. I mistook the pad for the destination. The Church was never meant to be the orbit; it was the gantry, the movable framework for supporting and servicing a rocket prior to launch. It was the scaffolding, the precise sequence of valves and prayers that pressurizes the soul until the only honest response is thrust. It did not fail. It prepared for ignition.

Every doctrine, every ordinance, every late-night wrestle with scripture was a checklist item: oxidizer loaded, guidance aligned, spirit willing. When the final hold lifted, the command was not audible but undeniable: *Ignite.* My flight plan was and is incomplete and blurry to me at best. It is updated only according to my faith. God knows my scope is finite but I need only enough fuel and guidance to get to the next pad and once again await the signal to ‘ignite’--the divine go-ahead to once again slip through the known to explore the deep.  My job?  A willingness to leave the atmosphere behind.

Ignition is never the whole mission. It is the dramatic yes that follows years of no. It is the acknowledgment that curiosity is a form of worship, that the unknown is not a threat but an invitation. We do not launch because we are certain of the stars; we launch because staying grounded guarantees we will never touch them.

Light the fire. Let the known last only long enough to bear the weight of departure. When you do, the pad falls away, the sky widens, and the voice from the deep—whether Houston or Heaven—confirms what the heart already suspected:

We have ignition.

Signed

John The-Not-So-Beloved

Are You Sure You’re Right?

The Paradox of Doubt: Proving Ourselves Wrong to Find What’s Right

The pursuit of truth—whether in science, faith, or human relationships—demands a disciplined approach that embraces a counterintuitive principle: to discover what is right, we must first strive to prove ourselves wrong. This paradox lies at the core of genuine inquiry, uniting the rigor of the scientific method, the introspection of spiritual journeys, and the fairness required in judging others.

Consider the scientist’s method. A true scientist begins with a hypothesis, tests it with evidence, and then subjects it to relentless scrutiny, attempting to disprove it. Only when the hypothesis withstands this gauntlet of skepticism does it earn credibility. This process ensures that conclusions are not mere assumptions but robust truths, forged in the crucible of doubt. Similarly, C.S. Lewis, the Christian apologist, applied this rigor to his skepticism of Christianity. Intent on dismantling its claims, he probed its foundations with intellectual honesty. In his efforts to prove it wrong, he found it unassailable, leading him to embrace it as truth. Both the scientist and Lewis illustrate that challenging our beliefs, rather than defending them blindly, is the path to certainty.

Yes, most of us fall short of this standard. We form ideas--about the world, faith, or people--and work tirelessly to prove them right. We cherry-pick evidence, ignore contradictions, and shield our beliefs from scrutiny. This one-sided approach leaves our conclusion fragile, untested by the fire of doubt. Ironically, the more we strive to prove ourselves right, the more we risk missing the truth, as our unwillingness to question our assumptions blinds us to reality's complexities.

The paradox becomes clear: are we better off proving ourselves right or wrong? Logic points to the latter. By attempting to disprove our beliefs, we expose their weaknesses or affirm their strength. This process, though uncomfortable, yields truths that endure. Lewis’s journey and the scientific method demonstrate that embracing doubt requires courage—not to defend our ideas but to challenge them. Only through this challenge do we uncover what is truly right.

Scripture offers a parallel. When prophets confront wicked people, calling them to repentance, few seek to validate the prophets' message. Most resist, working to prove them wrong. Yet, God often grants moments of clarity, where the wicked see the error of their ways. By confronting their wrongness, they repent, turning toward a path that leads to the highest aim. This pattern underscores the transformative power of facing our error head-on.

The same principle applies when judging others. Too often, we buttress our preconceived notions about people, seeking evidence to confirm our biases. Instead, we should try to prove our judgments wrong. In scrutinizing our assumptions, we're likely to uncover virtues we overlooked. This process may convince us of someone's worth or confirm their faults--not to harm, but to foster a balanced perspective, neither blindly embracing nor unfairly condemning them. Like the scientist's or prophet's approach, this method promotes fairness and deeper understanding.

In all these realms--science, faith, and relationships--the paradox of doubt holds true. By striving to prove ourselves wrong, we strip away error and uncover truth. This disciplined, courageous approach ensures that our beliefs, whether about the world, God, or others, are not fragile constructs but enduring realities, capable of withstanding scrutiny. To find what's right, we must first dare to be wrong. If you're afraid of scrutiny, you may be protecting a house of cards.

I am guilty! As I posted last week, (God's $200,000/year bet) we have the tendency to let what we 'know' or 'think' about people, places, or things calcify into what is 'knowable' and therefore only reluctantly look beyond our current version of them.

Quick story: - About 30 years ago I arrived home to find my young son playing with two of the most scraggly and bedraggled children I think I had ever seen. I went straight to my wife and suggested we not let our son associate with what clearly looked to be reprobate type kids. I counseled her for several minutes about the situation and asked her to be a little more judicious in helping our children choose friends. After all, I wore $700 suits to work and had all my laundry done at the dry cleaners. This was way too far out of our lane for my comfort. My wife listened intently without question or challenge. Eventually I ran out of steam and waited for her response. It took only one sentence from her to set me straight. "Those two boys are the ones who stood up for your son on the playground today when he was being bullied and picked on." - Boom!! Case closed! I later got to know them better and despite their life circumstances, or maybe because of, I discovered they were the purest gold.

Carry On

Signed

 John The-Not-So-Beloved