Chance was king when I grew up. John Cage composed music by tossing coins, and Jackson Pollack, known as Jack the Dripper, slung paint on canvas and called it art. The Dada school of poetry created literature by cutting words out of the newspaper, putting them in a hat, and drawing them out again. Not only art, but life issued from Chance. I remember the First Family, a furry lot, vividly illustrated in my biology book: our pileous patriarch returned to the cave, club in hand, bringing dinner to his disheveled wife, who prepared the cooking fire and tended their shaggy kids. A razor, a little plastic surgery, a trip to the beauty shop, some new clothes, the club exchanged for a briefcase, and they were the very image of Ward, June, Wally, and the Beaver! From the pre-Cleavers to Plato to Picasso, we owed it all to Chance. The inference was clear: if Chance were at work, God was not. Or even more simply, if Chance were, God was not. We couldn't have both.
My implicit faith in chance cracked in 1981 with the publication of Francis Crick's Life Itself. Earlier theories seemed, even to my humanities-trained mind, to be in some sort of trouble if a Nobel Laureate were seriously proposing that Earth had been seeded by aliens. Then I saw Jeremy Rifkin's work on the Second Law of Thermodynamics, Entropy. I grew more skeptical about the supremacy of chance in the creation of life, beauty, and order. And since the publication of recent findings about the big bang and and other "amazing coincidences," bits and pieces of scientific data such as occasionally trickle down to a layperson, my faith in chance as First Cause--or even Second Cause--has been absolutely shattered.
However, of late I've begun to see chance in a new light, not as God's rival, but as God's instrument. "Be sure that the land is distributed by lot," the Lord said to Moses (Num. 26:55, NIV). And indeed the promised land was so divided. "After you have written descriptions of the seven parts of the land," Joshua told the Israelites, "bring them here to me and I will cast lots for you in the presence of the Lord our God" (Josh. 18:6). Achan's guilt--and Jonah's--were determined by lot. The Urim and the Thummin, which the high priest wore in his breastpiece, were sacred lots used to determine the will of God. "Thus Aaron will always bear the means of making decisions for the Israelites over his heart before the Lord" (Ex. 28:30).
The Old Testament is rife with accounts of selections and decisions made by casting lots, and the implication is that ultimately God is in charge. A particularly striking illustration is the selection of Israel's first monarch. After God privately directed Samuel to annoint Saul king, Saul was publicly chosen, apparently by lot, from all the tribes of Israel. The joyful celebration called Purim, which means "lots," commemorates the day randomly selected by Haman for the destruction of the Jewish people, a day that turned against him and in favor of the Jews, bringing them "relief from their enemies" (Esther 9:16, 19). "The lot is cast into the lap, but its every decision is from the Lord" (Prov. 16:33).
Clearly, chance poses no threat to God's sovereignty, and in the Old Testament, chance seems to offer a means by which men can make decisions unaffected by prejudice, greed, misinformation, and countless weaknesses to which the flesh is heir.
A change begins to appear, though, in the Gospel accounts. Jesus' disciples were not selected by lot. "One of those days Jesus went out to the mountainside to pray, and spent the night praying to God. When morning came, he . . . chose twelve of them" (Luke 6:12-13). Because he was filled with the Holy Spirit and perfectly attuned to Him, Jesus had no need to resort to the operation of chance in determining God's will. Unlike Aaron, this high priest needed nothing over his heart; the means of making decisions resided in his heart.
Furthermore, Jesus seems to suggest that old ways of thinking about circumstances, about chance happenings--including unpleasant ones--ought to be reconsidered. When asked about the eighteen men who were killed by the falling tower of Siloam (Luke 13:4), Jesus denied that their "guilt" caused this tragedy. Nor was the man born blind placed in that condition because of sin. Rather, "This happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life" (John 9:3b). So it seems that sometimes things just happen, and sometimes things happen in order to bring about, eventually, the greater glory of God.
Whatever may be the ultimate meaning of "bad" or "tragic" circumstances, consider Christ's words about what most people thought of as indisputable indicia of divine favor. To be born rich is a serious handicap. To possess earthly honor and prestige is nearly to ensure spiritual poverty and blindness. As I consider this perspective, I find it hard to assign either good or evil qualities to chance any longer.
The Bible's last mention of casting lots is recorded in Acts 1:26, when, on the eve of Pentecost, the apostles chose Judas' replacement. The timing of this event, just before the promised outpouring of the Holy Spirit, leaves little doubt about the change that comes with this new state of affairs. In the life of believers, chance is obsolete. Why plow with a mule when there's a new tractor in the barn? Why sharpen a goose quill when there's a PC on the desk?
At last I've made my peace with chance--a phenomenon that is neither the accidental creator of all things nor the arch-foe of the One who is. Chance is, and sometimes serves as, a useful tool in the hands of a God who tirelessly seeks to communicate with a people who may hear His voice through no other channel.
Deanna Overstreet holds a degree in English from New Mexico State University. Most of her writing has been devotional literature for The Upper Room. She and her husband, an attorney, live in Alamagordo, New Mexico. They have four children and, as of September 1994, one grandchild.
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