Our Common Dharma: Chance favors those in motion

I’ve been doing something lately that I’m not entirely sure I’m qualified to do. Something that might surprise people who know me. Teaching.

For much longer than I’ve been a minister, I’ve been an artist. For over 25 years, I’ve worked with stained glass, theater design, building projects that lean more toward art than mere structure, and large-scale public installations. My preferred materials are natural ones: wood, stone, glass, paper and fabric.

Naturally, these artistic leanings haven’t disappeared in the presence of ministry. If anything, they’ve expanded in purpose.

Following a large stained-glass installation of my own design at church last spring, in which nearly 60 members and friends of the church participated in making, my congregation became hungry for more. So now I’m teaching stained-glass classes. Additionally, I’m also teaching people to make enormous, elaborate paper flowers for an enormous annual exhibition we’re planning. An art form I only taught myself this year.

And while making art is familiar territory, teaching it to groups of people is another matter entirely. It’s definitely not the same as speaking before a congregation.

I don’t have all the right tools yet. Or enough of them. I haven’t worked out the most efficient methods of instruction. We need more storage for the supplies. Sometimes I’m figuring out how to teach something while I’m actually teaching it.

I’ve decided that just needs to be okay.

Not because preparation doesn’t matter. It does. But because waiting until I’m completely prepared might become another way of never beginning. So, despite the ridiculous ambition of these projects, I’m leaping anyway.

There’s an old saying attributed to inventor Charles Kettering: “A problem well stated is a problem half solved.” And another bit of wisdom I love: “Chance favors those in motion.”

These might seem contradictory. One encourages careful thought; the other suggests getting moving before we have all the answers. But I think they describe two halves of the same spiritual practice.

Clarity gives our movement direction. Movement gives our clarity new information.

In my case, the real question wasn’t how to teach a perfect stained-glass class or flower workshop. It was how to create opportunities for people to discover something wonderful about themselves through making art together. Even if it’s messy.

The congregation wanted to learn. I am willing to teach. We had nearly enough materials to begin. What exactly were we waiting for? So we started.

And something remarkable happened.

People weren’t particularly troubled that I was still figuring things out. As I openly admitted my uncertainty, they became part of the process. We are experimenting, solving problems and discovering better methods together. Now they are already starting to teach each other.

My vulnerability didn’t undermine the experience. It helped make the experience possible. There’s a spiritual teaching hiding in there.

In Zen Buddhism, the concept of beginner’s mind encourages openness rather than the rigid certainty of expertise. Teacher Shunryu Suzuki observed, “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few.” That’s not an argument against expertise. It’s a reminder that certainty can sometimes narrow our imagination.

Christianity offers another perspective. When Jesus invites Peter to step out of the boat and walk toward him across the water, Peter receives no explanation of how the physics will work. He receives an invitation, and steps out.

Now, I’m not suggesting reckless decisions followed by expectations of divine rescue. That’s not faith. That’s poor judgment dressed up in religious language. But the story suggests something important about trust and action. Sometimes we cannot discover what will support us until we’re willing to move.

There’s an old expression: “Leap, and the net will appear.” I don’t take that literally. Sometimes the net doesn’t appear. Sometimes we fall.

But movement changes the circumstances in which possibilities emerge. When we begin, others can help us. When we attempt something, we discover what we need to learn. When we admit uncertainty, we invite collaboration.

The net, when it appears, is often woven by the people who join us along the way.

Which brings me to something I’ve been thinking about a lot: human flourishing. I’ve made it the theme for my congregation this church year. We tend to imagine flourishing as a condition we eventually achieve, a state of confidence, competence, happiness and fulfillment.

But what if flourishing is something we practice? What if it requires risking being beginners, looking foolish and admitting we don’t know what we’re doing?

There’s vulnerability in choosing to flourish. Growth requires stepping beyond our existing competence. We cannot create communities of flourishing if everyone feels obligated to pretend they have everything figured out.

This is especially important in leadership. We imagine good leaders must project certainty, that admitting uncertainty diminishes confidence.

But I’m discovering something different. When I tell people I’m still learning, I’m not asking them to lower their expectations. I’m inviting them into the discovery. I’m demonstrating that uncertainty isn’t disqualifying. That imperfect beginnings are legitimate beginnings. That we can be capable and unfinished simultaneously. Perhaps that’s one of the most useful examples a leader can set.

Because most of us are waiting for something. More confidence. More knowledge. Better circumstances. Assurance we won’t embarrass ourselves. We call it responsibility. Sometimes it is. But sometimes we’re simply afraid. And fear has a remarkable ability to disguise itself as prudence.

So here’s something to consider: What have you been postponing because you don’t feel ready?

Not something dangerous or irresponsible, but something meaningful that might enrich your life or someone else’s.

Could you take one small step this week? Ask for help? Begin the conversation? Make the first imperfect attempt? And could you admit you’re learning? Because your honesty might give someone else permission to begin.

Faith isn’t necessarily believing everything will work out. Sometimes it’s simply our willingness to participate in a future we cannot yet imagine. We don’t need to know what happens next. We only need to be willing to participate in what happens next.

Flourishing isn’t waiting at the journey’s end. It’s already happening in the middle of our imperfect, uncertain, beautiful attempts to begin.

Wil Darcangelo, M.Div, is an ordained Unitarian Universalist minister of the First Church in Lancaster at the Bulfinch Meetinghouse in Massachusetts, progressive theologian and essayist on optimistic spirituality in the Information Age. Follow him on Substack, Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, Spotify, and YouTube.