Picture by Richard Szwejkowski (Creative Commons)

The Hidden Future

Monday July 13 2015

Third of the Very Rev Dr James Simpson's summer reflections

Part of the thrill of touring in the Highlands is that the road keeps winding and disappearing.

What lies ahead at the next corner is concealed until you round it. You have to wait and see what new glimpses of Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Lochaber you are going to get. Motorways may get you there quicker, but they are nothing like as interesting or attractive as winding Highland roads on a lovely summer’s day. I have never forgotten the monotony of driving across the flat plains of Wyoming and Kansas, and seeing the road stretch endlessly ahead, mile after mile, hour after hour.

Long ago a Jewish writer wrote: “The glory of God is to keep things hidden.” The glory of the unknown and the unrevealed! Part of the thrill of reading an enthralling novel lies in not knowing the final outcome. We spoil a book when half-way through we look to the end.

How much more exciting a live television broadcast of a football match or golf tournament is, than a recording when we already know the result. The thrill of watching is largely dependent on the final outcome being unknown.

For my wife, part of the charm of a few days in a hotel stems from not knowing what she is going to have at meal-times.

Likewise, the secret character of the future adds considerably to the quality of our lives. I have difficulty understanding why people should want to consult fortune tellers or astrologers. To remove the secret from the future would be to remove much of the joy from the present. As Al Capp once said: “The man who invents a futuroid camera will have done more to make life unlivable than the man who invented the Hydrogen bomb."

The past is lighted with memory, but the future is veiled. We move into each new day as we row a boat, our faces towards the wake rather than the prow. It is partly this unknown quality that keeps the heart young, eager and expectant.

This is the third in a series of reflections, published each Monday over the summer.

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