Zeke II - The Sequel: Convert or Revert?

The past four days I’ve reflected on the story of a self-seeking guy who has a turnaround.  He has an epiphany – which means an opening, a window through which he sees life differently, a door through which he is drawn, into a place that calls him to change.  We don’t know what made Zeke climb that tree.  We know that Moses and his burning bush, and Paul got knocked off his horse by a voice.  We know from their becoming ongoing characters in Scripture stories that those epiphanies pretty much stuck, that by and large they got turned around and stayed that way.  But Zacchaeus/Zeke is a bit player, steals a scene or two and then is gone.  We don’t know if he stayed changed, or if he reverted to his old self after awhile.

Maybe Zeke is like me, not converting but reverting; not changing once and for all but falling back to old, self-seeking ways.  It was just about a year ago when life became very clear to me.  It was not a Rock Star or a burning bush or a voice from the clouds.  It was the word aneurism, and a very serious look from my doctor that said “you’re a very lucky man that we found this early.  This.  A seemingly insignificant word that, well, changed me.  I’ve left the startup of this blog, my first posting, as a kind of reminder of where I was, out of my tree, off my horse.  Here’s a LINK.  The weeks following that news, as I was aware of the fragility of my life, were the clearest time of my life, a time when I rested in the certainty of what (who) was most important in my life, when I looked unflinchingly into the faces of those I loved, when I looked back with peaceful gratitude at my life.  Because I thought I might be gone, I chose to be present. 

But I confess that as diagnosis of my condition showed less threat, I found that I had not been converted, changed forever.  I have reverted.  I wonder of Zeke did too.  I wonder if after Jesus left town he gradually resumed his old habits.  I thought of times when we have travelled with our adult children, staying in hotels in adjoining rooms with a door that opens between them, letting us stay connected, to see and hear each other, to enjoy our companionship.  The joy of that companionship somehow gives way, though, to the desire for privacy.  The door that connects the rooms is closed, quietly and respectfully, for the sake of privacy.  I think of our big living room window facing our quiet street, and how we choose to draw the blinds or open them, choosing to be visible or private. 

What do we do with these epiphanies, these openings, these doors to adjoining rooms, these windows to the street, these relationships of presence to God?  Do unforgettable experiences fade from memory?  Do experiences that change us “forever” seem to lose their effect on us?

We might learn from each others’ comments below.  This is not a book; this is a forum.  Please share.