by Dr. Jay Richard Akkerman
Give generously, for your gifts will return to you later. Divide your gifts among many, for in the days ahead you yourself may need much help. When the clouds are heavy, the rains come down; when a tree falls, whether south or north, the die is cast, for there it lies. If you wait for perfect conditions, you will never get anything done. God’s ways are as mysterious as the pathway of the wind and as the manner in which a human spirit is infused into the little body of a baby while it is yet in its mother’s womb. Keep on sowing your seed, for you never know which will grow—perhaps it all will.
– Ecclesiastes 11.1-6, The Living Bible
If you’ve ever been a parent—or for all of us who’ve ever been a child—you know the subtle difference between maybe and perhaps. When I was growing up, maybe usually meant “probably not.” Maybe was the stall tactic of adults everywhere.
But “perhaps”—now that word feels different. It’s gentler. More open. There’s a tone to perhaps that holds more possibility than postponement. Perhaps is quieter than certainty, but somehow humbler and more hopeful, too.
Here in Ecclesiastes 11, the Teacher dares to tell us that part of what it means to live by faith is to discover the power of perhaps.
In Ecclesiastes, the narrator is often referred to as The Teacher, and The Teacher speaks to us in the language of wisdom literature—a style of writing that acknowledges the complexity of real life. If Proverbs and Psalms are the ancient world’s memes, Ecclesiastes might be considered ancient Israel’s philosophy class. It says things like:
Be generous—after all, you might be the one needing help someday.
When clouds get heavy, rain will fall.
When trees fall, they lie where they fall—unless, of course, you have a chainsaw!
If you wait for perfect conditions, you’ll never get anything done; and
God’s ways are as mysterious as wind and womb.
And finally:
“Keep on sowing your seed… for you do not know which will grow—perhaps it all will.”
We often imagine faith as instant, ironclad obedience—God speaks and we jump. But scripture shows us something gentler:
“Perhaps” is the space where love refuses to coerce.
As good Arminians, we believe God invites us far more than forcing us. Faith is not always about an immediate yes. Sometimes it is perhaps—it’s a door left unlatched, it’s light leaking through the hinge.
The Teacher knows this. That’s why we’re warned not to wait for perfect conditions. Faith rarely begins with certainty. Faith often begins with holy hesitation.
Not rebellion. Not fear. But the pause where trust takes its first breath.
The Teacher in Ecclesiastes reminds us that while I often want God to speak in imperatives… “Just tell me what to do, Lord…” “Give me a map…” “Make the future obvious…” But these require little or no faith.
Instead, there’s perhaps. It’s a word that kneels before it speaks. The word that knows it might be wrong, yet chooses to love anyway.
Humility doesn’t demand full clarity before stepping out. Humility acts because God is faithful—even when the outcomes are unclear.
Hope doesn’t begin with absolutes. Hope begins with perhaps—it’s the smallest opening through which tomorrow learns to breathe.
Even despair can’t close that door completely.
The world tells us hope requires certainty, but The Teacher says hope requires sowing—even when the soil looks unpromising, even when the sky looks threatening, even when you’re not sure anything will grow.
“Keep on sowing your seed,” we’re told. “Perhaps it will ALL grow.”
That’s not naïve. That’s hope!
Some of us hear the word perhaps and think it sounds weak. Indecisive. Half-hearted.
But listen closely:
“Perhaps” is mercy spoken softly enough to sometimes be mistaken for doubt.
“Perhaps” you are not finished.
“Perhaps” this wound will not be the end.
“Perhaps” God is working in ways you cannot yet see.
“Perhaps” your doubt is not betrayal but the doorway through which trust must first pass.
The “perhaps” of God’s mercy often whispers when we expect thunder.
We live in a culture addicted to certainty—and we shout certainty today like it’s a weapon. We depend on certainty to win arguments—it’s used to shame or silence.
But in scripture, “perhaps” is never a weapon. “Perhaps” invites.
It makes space for God’s surprise. It makes space for others to grow. It keeps holiness from becoming harshness.
In our tradition, holiness is always love shaped like Christ. And love—true love—risks itself on “perhaps.”
Wise people learn that the future is not written on stone tablets. Instead, it’s often in pencil—it’s erasable, revisable, merciful. “Perhaps” is the sound of God still writing.
So we keep giving. Keep loving. Keep sowing. Keep risking our lives on the goodness of God.
Because “you never know which seed will grow—perhaps it all will.”
Yes, perhaps—perhaps it will!
——————–
Pastor, may you have the courage to live with perhaps when certainty is unavailable.
May your faith be strong enough to doubt honestly—and humble enough to leave room for surprise.
And may you discover, perhaps as you cast your bread upon the waters, or perhaps as you sow your seed in every season, that God—still gracious, still merciful, still revising—is already here. Yes, perhaps it all will!
This article was originally created as a devotional that was shared at the Spring 2026 meeting of the NNU Board of Trustees.
