‘Risking Transformation’ - Adam Slate, Minister, New Unity - Sunday 26th October 2025

‘Fear’

(This poem has been attributed to both the Lebanese-American writer Khalil Gibran and the Indian mystic and philosopher Osho.)

It is said that before entering the sea
a river trembles with fear.
She looks back at the path she has traveled,
from the peaks of the mountains,
the long winding road crossing forests and villages.
And in front of her,
she sees an ocean so vast,
that to enter
there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.
But there is no other way.
The river can not go back.
Nobody can go back.
To go back is impossible in existence.
The river needs to take the risk
of entering the ocean
because only then will fear disappear,
because that’s where the river will know
it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,
but of becoming the ocean.

Introduction

Years ago, a few months before I turned 40, I heard that the former US president George HW Bush had gone skydiving to celebrate his 80th birthday.

I have always been terrified of heights: looking down from tall buildings, standing on ledges, climbing cathedral domes, riding roller coasters and Ferris wheels. When I heard about President Bush, I got this idea that if I could get myself to go skydiving, if I could jump out of a plane, I would overcome my fear of heights.

So I called a local skydiving company and booked a spot for the week before my birthday. I went with a tandem jump because it only required 45 minutes of training rather than 6 hours.

On the day, my kids, my dad, and I all drove out into the country to a remote airport. I was fitted for a jumpsuit, received training, and given a parachute.

I got in the plane... I should describe it. It was clearly an old plane. The cabin was mostly empty. The seats had been pulled out and replaced with several long benches that went the length of the plane. People straddled the benches, and when it was time to jump out, the people in front would go and then everyone else would slide forward toward the door.

There wasn’t a regular airplane door, that kind with the big pressure lock handle and a tiny window. That had been replaced by a flimsy door with hinged sections that opened by pulling it upward, like a garage door or a roll-top desk.

The last thing that happens before we take off, as I’m taking all this in, is that someone comes out from the hangar and asks the pilot how many people are on the plane, and the pilot says 19. And as the guy is walking away, the pilot shouts out the window: ‘No, wait! 20!”

So I’m good! I’m taking off in this rickety plane with all sorts of DIY modifications and a pilot who’s not great with numbers, and I’m gonna conquer my fear of heights.

As the plane climbs, it starts dropping people off. First the fancy jumpers practicing jumping from low altitudes. Then the experienced jumpers. And finally me. I slide off the end of the bench and stand in the doorway looking out at this amazing autumn day. The sky is cloudless. The changing leaves are at peak colour. I’m higher than the trees, higher than the mountains, looking down on this scene, And then I do the thing that our human desire for self-preservation has hard wired us never to do: I step off the edge and plummet from the plane.

I was wearing an altimeter, and when I looked at it after what seemed like just a few seconds, I had fallen a mile. Then the person strapped to my back tells me I can pull the cord, and the chute opens, and the wind rushing past my ears stops and it’s perfectly quiet. And I’m floating through the air, taking in the amazing beauty of central Virginia in October.

In the film entitled ‘Adam Conquers His Paralising Fear of Heights,’ this is the final scene. The soundtrack swells, the camera pans back, and as the parachute gets smaller and smaller the scene fades and the credits roll. Everyone goes home feeling really good, and maybe a bit inspired.

But this is not a film; it’s real life. And the following week I found myself in a climbing gym, in a harness with a safety rope around me, and I got up about 12 or 15 feet and started to panic. I climbed back down, profoundly disappointed in myself. I had not defeated my fear of heights. I was not miraculously cured. I was regular Adam, and my old nemesis haunts me to this day.

The Essence of Transformation

We don’t get to decide when or how change comes over us. Transformation is not a magic formula. When we risk what is needed to change ourselves or the world around us, there is no assurance that we will achieve the transformation we seek.

We lose commitment to our exercise program. The project we are working on runs out of money. We relapse and fall back into our addiction. The couple’s therapy does not fix our relationship.

And even if we stay on track, change is still a lot. It always seems to take longer than we expect. It can be unsettling and frightening. We can become anxious about how the new reality will feel to us. In life, transformation often is not inspiring. It takes work, and faith, and resilience. It can tear at our gut and toy with our emotions.

When I was writing this, I wrote ‘transformation can really suck.’ And then deleted it, thinking it didn’t sound ministerial enough. And then wrote it again. And deleted it again. Transformation can really suck!

I heard once that a caterpillar does not morph into a butterfly inside its chrysalis, but rather dissolves and then takes shape as something else. Coming untethered from its solid self before re-becoming.

Transformation can require us to let go of parts of ourselves, to give up things we love: Ending a friendship. Moving away from the place we’ve called ‘home.’ Picking ourselves up and starting again after we have disappointed someone we care about. Or disappointed ourselves.

Risk

One of my favourite poems is about the day we decide to risk transformation. It’s called ‘Risk,’ by Anais Nin:

And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to blossom.

We often do not decide that we are ripe for transformation. Rather it comes when we realise that we no longer want to stay as we are. That something or someone in our life no longer serves us. That we are not happy with an aspect of our behaviour, or character, or habits.

I wonder how many of you recognise the feeling of remaining tight in a bud that the poet describes? Or what blossoming feels like?

As we get to know ourselves better, talk with trusted friends, or work with a counsellor or other professional, we can learn to assess whether working to change ourselves is worth the risk.

We also may want to explore issues of safety, of feeling unsafe versus being unsafe. For example, approaching people with an eye toward new friendships is scary. Quitting your job and starting a new business, on the other hand, can put your housing and ability to support yourself at risk.

Being aware of the difference between feeling unsafe and facing an actual risk to our safety does not necessarily mean to do one and not the other. But thinking through it can be part of our reflective process. We may be facing grief, or trauma, and not be ready for change. We can choose whether to pursue making changes, facing fears, risking failure, or standing up to our demons. It’s up to us; it’s always our choice.

Tuning an Instrument String

Earlier I used a caterpillar’s journey to becoming a butterfly as a metaphor for transformation. One of dissolving, letting go, losing ourselves.

But I want to offer another metaphor. Musicians will tell you that when you are playing a string instrument and even one string is out of tune, it can sound really off. And then you turn the tuning key just a little bit, put the string back in tune, and the difference is dramatic.

Like an instrument a little out of tune, sometimes small changes can yield big results. There is an article in The Guardian this week about an author who gave up small talk for a month and how much it changed her interactions with people. Someone would bring up the weather and instead of responding to the question directly, she might ask what the person’s favourite season was. As she put it, the world came alive for her when she made this fairly minor tweak to her daily interactions.

Sometimes we are fortunate enough to be able to try on a small change to see how transformation might feel. Test things out a bit. What if I stop saying yes to everything everyone asks me? What if I’m more proactive about meeting new people? What if I stop working so late or checking my office email on weekends? What’s it like when I take that risk?

Conclusion

When I was preparing this message this week, Tara sent me a quote from a retired pastor named Bob Moorehead:

"The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers; we buy more, but enjoy less. [We have] more conveniences, but less time; more knowledge, but less judgment; more medicine, but less wellness. We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often. We've learned how to make a living, but not a life.

We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a neighbour. We've done larger things, but not better things. We've conquered the atom, but not our prejudices. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. These are the times of steep profits and shallow relationships."

How do we transform this time we’re living in so it can live into its potential? What guitar strings can we tune? When do we need a chrysalis to let go of things we love and become untethered, and take shape as something else?

Each of us needs to answer that question: with integrity, with intentionality, by being honest with ourselves. By relying on our networks.

It is so inspiring to see ourselves and others on the other side of transformation. But these moments when we decide to seek it, these are the times to commemorate: the times when we agonise, coax ourselves, interrogate our resolve. When we have faith. When we lean on those around us.

I still haven’t conquered my fear of heights. But I jumped out of a plane once, so maybe my fear hasn’t conquered me either.

That thing you tried that didn’t stick… maybe you went back to the unhealthy relationship, maybe you let your anger get the best of you again, maybe you smoked or drank when you were trying not to, or talked yourself out of exercising, maybe you’re kicking yourself for being too proud or too stubborn. That thing you tried that didn’t work… you did it nonetheless. And maybe you’ll try again. And when you do, the people who care for you, including this community, will be here when you need them.

I hope there's a future where you become exactly the person you want to be, but I can guarantee that there's already one where your journey is valued.

Blessed be.

Source:

 ob Moorehead, ‘The Paradox of Our Time,’ the longer quote has been edited for brevity, https://www.ethannichtern.com/feed/the-paradox-of-our-time.