I was standing next to an obstacle course area in a trampoline park where two of my grandchildren were playing. Suddenly, a child near me started calling for help.

I’d watched my grandchildren enjoy trying to cross a three-foot deep pit of plastic balls using the hanging apparatus, most often falling into the pit before they made it to the other side. Undaunted, they waded to the edge, pulled themselves out, and tried again. But this child could not get herself out of the pit and was panicking. 

I looked at the adults standing around me, wondering if any of them were her parents. No one else seemed to have noticed her distress. So, I reached down my hand, which she grabbed.

As I braced myself to pull her up, I had a sudden revelation—my old body was not up to the task. This would be a better story if I’d pitched forward into the pit and precipitated a call to 911. Instead, I let go, saying “Sorry, honey, I’m not strong enough.” 

The word “gravity” was first imported into English from Latin, via French in pre-Newtonian times. Its usage in reference to physical phenomena harkened back to the ancient explanation of rocks falling because their earthiness belonged near the earth. Those same ancients contrasted gravity with levity—not as in jocularity but as in fire’s affinity with the sun explaining its upward motion. Hence our word “levitation.”

In the last several years, defunct big box store spaces in my area have been converted into places devoted to levity, in both the ancient and modern sense. Big Air. Altitude. Sky Zone. Perhaps the most aptly named of these places is DEFY. For what is a trampoline park, if not a smorgasbord of creative ways to enjoy defying gravity—momentarily—followed by soft landings when defiance proves futile? 

My grandchildren love indoor trampoline parks. They run from the bounce area to the jousting pit to the obstacle course with trapezes, laughing the whole time.

I find these places terrifying. Yet I go, wanting to be there when one of the kiddos says, “Watch this, grandma. Watch me!” My doubt of the soft landing is the source of my terror. The joyfully jumping children do not picture someone needing to track down an employee to bring an ice pack when they twist an ankle. I do. 

My terror in trampoline parks is not widely shared. Many of these places have rows of massage recliners where parents who’ve grown bored with following their children around are kept content. One trampoline park has a centrally located elevated lounge area where adults can sip wine or craft beer while keeping an eye on their children from on high—or not.

Years ago, the Kmart where I bought clothes for my young sons shut its doors. That was long before anyone had the idea of trampoline parks. After being vacant for months, a group of nondenominational Christians repurposed the space for worship and Christian education. Like many such churches—Elevation, Higher Life, Rising—Ridge Point’s name expressed upward aspirations. Or was the name intended as an implied promise: Join us and we’ll make you soar? 

I suspect that marketing explains why big box churches and trampoline parks have similar names. That bothers me. Yet I think churches—not just big box churches, but all churches—have something to learn from trampoline parks. No trampoline park lets you in without signing a form acknowledging the risks. Shouldn’t churches be equally honest about inherent risks?

Writer Annie Dillard once opined that crash helmets would be appropriate headwear in sanctuaries. Her point was that the consequences of encountering God are unpredictable. Jesus doesn’t let his disciples camp out on the Mount of Transfiguration. He leads them to Calvary’s hill. 

We should also admit up front that churchy people pull one another down, if not routinely, still far too often. What I’ve read in the Reformed Journal over the last few months about acrimonious theological debate testifies to that fact.

French philosopher Simone Weil contrasted gravity (her term for the weight of sin) not with levity, but with grace. And grace-filled Christian fellowship is never unalloyed. There’s uplift in the Spirit, but our swerves from grace, including our tendency toward self-deception and prideful overreach, are all too frequent.

The part of me that forgets I cannot deadlift a squirming sixty-pound child is grateful that the Spirit catches us after our pratfalls. The part of me whose hubris has led to more serious failures continues to be amazed by grace.

white wine photo by Thomas Martinsen on Unsplash