The Northern Lake

At dusk the deer venture down to drink and browse on the shrubbery that grows along the shore: a wary doe, a yearling fawn, and overlooking it all, a vigilant, spike buck. His eyes and ears ever watchful as the pair in his charge happily gorge themselves on young shoots. In the placid water, the trio is inverted reaching down rather than up. The doppelgänger buck’s nose twitches, testing the air, its ears turning this way and that.

Somewhere off in the gathering darkness of the forest an owl begins its evening reveries, a mournful cry echoing across the expanse. The spike turns his head in the direction of its origin then returns to browsing.

Though the gloom has already returned to the forest floor, the lake still shimmers with the sun’s fading rays, hovering just above the tree-line. The uttermost branches of the towering pines and golden aspens that ring the lake are aglow in brilliant autumn’s fury even as their roots descend into shadow. The wind bends their tops bringing the tannic aroma of pine.

Branches crack somewhere in the distance; some forest denizen abroad; perhaps a marten or a fisher surveying a night’s meal. A scuttle issues from a tree, a raccoon descends for a night of childlike revelry.

The deer are gone.

Such is the drama of the northern lake, a uniquely idyllic scene known by those who venture forth into the wilds of the north extremes. They retain some of the mystery lost by their southern cousins to development and the encroachment of man. Still here, if one is willing to heave brave the extremes both meteorological and entomological, one may find the remnants of our boreal past. Few pleasures of modern life can rival the pristine wonders here. The television cannot equal the dramas played out in the wilderness. Radio cannot match the pervasive shush of the wind confronting the leaves in perpetual assault. The internet does not hold mastery over the sense of all-encompassing awe when we are able to quiet ourselves for five minutes in the shadowy domain of the forest floor. Perhaps one day these mysteries too will be lost, a relic of some former unenlightened age. We would do well to weep at the possibility of a time when development or attention span will place there outside our grasp. Pity it will be if children grow up without wondering with baited breathe what creature was stirring outside their tent.

Today though, these mysteries are still possible and can be ours if we can quiet ourselves long enough to comprehend them. A balm and elixir they still can be to our harried, frantic souls. If only we were to set aside so-called comfort for solitude. We live our lives destitute of wonder; starving for the natural world, which has become all too detached from us. Too often have we sacrificed peace for convenience. It may yet be remedied, if this insidious disease has not too far advanced, by returning, if even for a day, an hour, a moment to the beauty of creation.

The sun has departed. Shadows fall upon the cool, silent water from whose depths springs bubble up from the aether. Mayflies dance above the surface, daring ever closer in their bold pursuit. Perhaps tomorrow a loon will glide in gentle repose over the water, confident in its solitude. Perhaps its haunting cry will echo through the wilderness. Let us stay awhile and see…

The Blessing of Delay

I have some pretty bad days. On the low days I often feel beaten down by the troubles of my life and the anxieties of my mind. There are many days that the victory is simply persevering; pushing through to another day. There are times when my own striving against sin seems to become a war of attrition, or worse --- a quagmire. There are nights I close my eyes pleading for the Lord’s power to get through another day.

In addition to the trials and temptations, I am particularly affected by the pains of the world and of those around me. I’ve always been this way, even before I came to know Christ I can remember attending a party where the guests were engaged in all sorts of licentiousness and promiscuity. Even in my pre-regenerate state I was overcome by the sin and evil present there. I knelt on the ground in pain for my friends. In fact it was this very sense of innate sinfulness of the world that led me later to seek Christ.

Similarly, I am affected by the pain and ungodliness of the world. Many days after hearing of war and famine; of precious men and women pursuing ungodly paths, I am stricken and tempted to despair. When the righteous are persecuted, oppressed, and ridiculed I ask: “How long Lord must we endure?” This is the thought I often return to:  a yearning for the day of reconciliation when we will see our Lord Jesus face to face; when all pain will be wiped away.

Perhaps, however, I am approaching this world all wrong. In 2 Peter we read: “The Lord is not slow to fulfill his promise as some count slowness but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance” and later “count the patience of our Lord as salvation.” Could it be that in my weariness and dissatisfaction I am mistaking unhappiness for blessing? Perhaps in the fishbowl world of my own self-absorption I am missing the patience of God in light of my own trivial, temporary discomforts? In truth the fact that we are still in this world (and thus experiencing the pains that come with that) is evidence not of the Lord’s absence or forgetfulness but rather a testament to his patience and desire to see men and women saved. When I realize this, I am made aware of my own narrow selfishness and challenged to praise the Lord for his reticence rather than condemn Him for His perceived inaction. What would He be able to do through me if my eyes were open to my role in bringing about God’s purposes instead of clouded by my own pride?

First Impressions

I’ll be honest; I didn’t have the best reaction when I found out that my wife and I were going to have a baby. She broke the news to me while on vacation in a hotel outside of Cincinnati. When she told me, I spent an hour shut up alone in the hotel bathroom listening to a Reds-Nationals game through the flimsy door while dealing with my conflicted emotions. Not the greatest start to fatherhood. I’d like to think that I’ve grown a bit since then. I hope. Once I’d gathered myself and wrestled my emotions, there was one thing that came to my mind; a vision really: I imagined myself hiking with my child; pointing out the animals and natural features to their wild-eyed wonder. It was that image that helped me push past the fear and doubt that plagued our pregnancy.

My daughter, now nearly two, surprised me last Friday night. I had just persevered through another work week, and pushed past a disappointing set of circumstances. The summer had faded into autumn a day before as the temperature had dropped and the scent of fall was in the air. I needed to hike. I needed to get out; to get lost; to be surrounded by a world larger than myself. So I packed up my things and as I was walking out the door my daughter came up to me.

“Hiking,” she said in her sweet, musical voice, “I hiking.” I told her that she needed to stay and eat dinner and that daddy was going to be back real soon. She didn’t take well to that notion. She began whining, saying “I want go hiking.” My wife and I just gave each other bemused glances. My daughter went downstairs and began tugging at my backpacking equipment. In the end I managed to convince her that she needed to stay and eat. I promised that we would go hiking tomorrow and with that I was off.

True to my word, I waited anxiously for her to wake from her nap the next day. Once awake, I packed some goldfish, a sippy cup, and tossed her backpack into my truck.

I wish I could see things anew through my daughter’s eyes. I wish I could understand the wonder with which she experiences things that I have known for nearly thirty years. I listened as she mimicked the cry of the Blue Jay perched high atop the skeleton of an ancient oak. She laughed uproariously as I franticly tried to shake myself free of a spider that had climbed up my arm. I saw the joy in her eyes as she tried to count the ducks resting on the surface of the impounded stream. “One, two, five…” I heard her protests when I tried to walk away before she had finished counting (which is kind of funny since she can only count to ten). I wish desperately that I could find within myself the joy that seems to be brimming in her. So much of the anxiety and frustration I experience on a daily basis is born from a deficiency of joy. My daughter schools me. I need to hold my life with open hands; to view the world with the eyes of wisdom but also to view the world with the freshness of a child. Let me have the veil of cynicism removed to see the mystery of the world anew.

A Theology of Wilderness

Within a mile of my home is Ford Lake and I often find myself strolling along its southern shoreline in the afternoon hours. The lake was first created in the 1930’s when auto magnate Henry Ford dammed the Huron River to provide hydroelectric power for one of his plants. Today the lake is a beautiful, if somewhat polluted, reminder of how nature quickly reclaims spaces abandoned by mankind.

The shore upon which I walk runs the length of one of the city’s largest parks and is largely populated by oak and maple trees which, in the heart of autumn, rustle lyrically in the breezes off the lake. In the summer, blackbirds carouse in a nearby marsh preening and posturing in amorous display. Winter brings an ever-present carpet of snow upon which the tracks of rabbits crisscross in manic patterns that bespeak their erratic flights. All of this still seems foreign to me though I have experienced it for five such cycles now.

I was raised in a suburb of Detroit in a thoroughly developed neighborhood and though my family exposed me daily to the natural world around me: the squirrel busily content beneath the boughs of an oak tree or the life that scuttled along the bottom of a seasonal pond, my experiences with Nature largely came through vacations the family took into the great forest of northern Michigan. There exists in my heart a well of love for the northern Oak-Hickory forest of which my state is so blessed. The haunting call of a loon upon a placid lake seems to bring inexplicable peace to my heart. The scent of a pine forest urges me ever to explore the wilderness further; pressing onward into the unknown and the uncivilized.

All of these things however, were far from my normative experience. The closest opportunity to surround myself with the vastness and beauty was a forty five minute drive to Kensington Metropark, which, for a child without means of personal transportation and whose parents were both employed outside the home, meant that such trips were a rare treat.

When I married and bought a home, I had few expectations of the natural world. It was only after we had moved in that I even began to realize that I lived within walking distance of a lake ---a real lake! How far removed I was from the uniformity of suburbia. I have only to drive five minutes to reach country fields and dirt roads. As it turns out, there is even a nature preserve within a five minute drive.

All these blessings lead me to my walk beside the lake. Despite the relative proximity to a bustling highway and busy condominiums the depth of this glade affords me the luxury of illusion. For me, the natural world holds a power beyond compare. It is a refuge, rejuvenation, refreshment. Surrounded by water and trees I can see the handiwork of God. I understand (and affirm) that Man is God’s creation as well (his penultimate creation, in fact) yet the natural beauty of Man is lost amid the sin-stain. The works of Man: great art, architecture, medicine all bear the fingerprint of their Creator, but it is sub creation once removed. Too many times I the sins and disappointments of the world send me fleeing for the purity and solitude of God’s creation; a creation that exists and flourishes in the absence, and indeed often in spite of Man. Among the pines I am overcome with the closeness of the Creator and marvel at the works of His hands. Even in the most mundane details: the recesses of a stone, the ripples radiating out upon the waters, I sense the handiwork of the Divine.

As I walk along the fertile banks, my eyes are inexorably drawn to the noxious elements of Man. I see an empty potato chip bag half-submerged amid the weeds. I see bottle caps hammered into the rock-hard ground. Most ubiquitously the discarded beer can in various shades of decay at the base of a bush, its label fading from the years of solar abuse, evidence to the longevity of such refuse. I am always taken aback by the wantonness of such abuses. I see in them the very epitome of Man’s corruptive sinfulness. Once given the mandate to cultivate and manage the Earth, our rebellion now infects not only our moral and social spheres but even the land itself whose soil once fell from the fingertips of God. We need not look to prisons or far-off dictatorships to feel the indictment of our crimes. We should only look at the rotting remains of discarded insulation that sullies the canvas of creation. Depravity never stays confined to our hearts.

As fallen men and women we bring our brokenness into every place we reside. In our selfishness and pride we damage both each other and the landscape. It is only through the redeeming work of Christ that restoration can come to the land and our lives.

My heart will always reside where the air is cool; where the branches sway gently; where fish drift slowly beneath the surface of the water. Though the affairs and troubles of the world often encroach upon the fringes of the Wild, those who value still such things must continue to find solace there. Those who can still discern the fingerprints of the Lord must persevere in seeking them while they may yet be found.

Lenses

Lenses are really big right now. I tend to be a photographic purist who tries to capture the essence of the true object in the photo. Filters and lenses use mechanical or technological means to alter the image. What you see with your eyes is not what appears on film or screen. With the advent of Instagram and other social media sites that streamline the photographic process. Simple filter apps allow the user to alter any (and seemingly every) image until it resembles their artistic vision. These filters and lenses change the way we view the artwork; they change the way we perceive reality.

We, too, have lenses through which we view the world. These are our worldviews and philosophies. Sometimes we can identify and expound upon them. Often though, the roots of our worldviews are deeper and less accessible. They shape how we live on a very practical level. Our habits and behaviors are shaped not by our intellectual assents but by the lens through which we view the world. Very often, though our words may speak of truth, our thoughts and actions remain firmly rooted in faulty lenses; faulty perspectives. We may protest by creedal assent but our behaviors speak something closer to truth.

For the follower of Christ, we claim our identity in Jesus. We speak the creeds. We teach truth. Yet so often our own habits and sins betray our words. Too often we operate through a lens which is not compatible with the gospel. We live lives in private that are defined by doubt, sin, feelings of helplessness and insecurity. Though we would firmly rebuke such attitudes if confronted in the pulpit, we live lives of spiritual poverty. Peter wrote that “His divine power has granted to us everything pertaining to life and godliness.” We go throughout our lives under faulty pretenses. For the Christian, our identity HAS been changed, past tense. We HAVE (past tense, again) been given power to live godly lives. We must endeavor with all our being to rebuke the false lenses that cause us innumerable pains and powerlessness. Peter goes on to write that: “He who lacks these qualities [the power pertaining to life and godliness] is blind or short-sighted, having forgotten his purification from his former sins.” Ouch. Peter’s words wound us because they illuminate the depth of the deception in which we so often live; the lies we so often believe. Let us live, with enduring focus on diffusing the false heart-beliefs that shape our experience and deprive us of the power to live joyfully as Christ’s ambassadors

The Finch

The finch lands daintily on the feeder giving a few wary glances to the left and to the right, its rosy breast made more prominent by the warm glow of the late afternoon sun. My yard is a flurry of activity as dozens of birds scramble for one last meal before the day’s end. Pugnacious house sparrows clamber for seating at my tube feeder each evicting the other with scarcely a morsel consumed. My ever –present companions, the mourning doves stroll absent-mindedly beneath, pausing to peck casually at the seeds dislodged by the tumultuous sparrows. Throughout the seasons these doves remain denizens of my yard and can often be found perched picturesquely atop my shed or on the gable of my neighbor’s house. My daughter lovingly mimics their contented coo. On the fringes of the yard, alert and aloof, a female cardinal in her muted (but still regal) attire discerns her moment to dart in for a bite. At the first hint of trouble though she is gone in a flash of rouge, off to the safety of one of the bushes that grow along the fence line.

My friend the finch, though, is my favorite perhaps because in his nervous energy I can see an echo of my own. Or perhaps because despite his keen distrust of the din and clatter he still returns each night to the nyjer seeds I provide. I admire his resolve. Less gaudy than his golden cousins, the simple house finch seems satisfied and humble.

What does his innocent brain comprehend? Does he know that in a few short months the days will grow lean and every moment will be singularly focused on survival? Does he feel the air beginning to chill his bones? Does he watch in envy at the columns of geese embarking on their long migration south? Do his wings ache for the freedom of discovery?

No. The finch is content with the day, not living in fear of the unknown; the perilous future; not hording to provide for some unforeseen disaster. Little does he concern himself with the scandalous affairs of his neighbors: their pompous adornments; their hurried endeavors.

I marvel at the simplicity of the life outside my window for the life within is so often the opposite: complexity born from circumstance and, more disturbingly, complexity born from my own inner turmoil and sin; my own brokenness and fear. In truth, I envy my friend the finch, which, in his innocence, is summarily exempt from the sin-stained consequences of his actions. Of course the price of this innocence is his very soul. Yet I look out at the finch at the feeder and the trust he has in the ability of the feeder to remain full in perpetuity. So much dependence on the whims of an unseen hand. Still he finds the contentment in his day to sing for the joy of singing as the last rays of light disappear behind the trees. So sing, feathered teacher, I still have much to learn.

The Campfire

What is it about the campfire that transfixes the eyes and hearts of men? What power lies locked in those smoldering embers that draws and opens the soul? We sit in the day’s waning hours bound to it by a force more powerful than a desire for heat. We are bound to a sort of community of flame. In a world of illumination what power does this conflagration still hold on us?

The only comparison is the pull that television and other visual media have on us. How many of us have watched with perverse interest at the way the eyes of a child are drawn to the flashing images on the screen? How many of us, if we were honest, would confess to feeling that same pull ourselves? How many conversations have been derailed; how many conflicts begun because our attention leaned into its siren song? Visual media often draws us into isolation because our minds cannot forebear to alight on anything else. The flames however speak to us in a different language. Like the tongues of fire in the book of Acts they speak in a way that we can understand and comprehend translating themselves into the deepest questions of our heart. In the light of the campfire deep recesses are unlocked and the secret murmurs of the heart are heard. Far from the frame-a-second barrage from television and movies, the fire works not to suspend but to engage the mind.

So what of the campfire? Why does this chemical reaction of spark and wood and oxygen have such a similar pull; a similar allure? Perhaps we hearken back to an earlier age when the fire brought forth certainty; the assurance of food and safety and warmth. We hear the stirrings of the forest around us. We hear the creatures prowling about on the fringes, yet within the circle there is peace. Within the circle there is comfort. Perhaps the circle of light into which we are drawn echoes the security we desire for our souls. Perhaps we long for the divine intervention as on Sinai. In those flickering flames we draw near to hear, as Moses did, the voice of God.

Far from isolation, however, the fire draws us instead together into a community bound by flame. How many conversations have begun between the crackle and snap of combustion? As the permutation of wood into ash, the tongue itself is loosed. Even the staunchest isolationist has found himself saying things and feeling less alone. The awkwardness that plagues many of us is consumed in that circle; perhaps consumed as the very trees we burn, transformed into a climate of tolerance. Even the walls we have erected within our hearts and minds seem melted by the heat of that fire; dissolved by the slow, unpredictable dance of the flames in the night.

I cannot help but wonder whether we would not be better served by setting more sparks to flame; by sitting down beside the fire at dusk. The answer rings clear in my heart. The answer contains less screen time and more time spent within the circle. There are lessons to be learned, it would seem, as we are drawn closer to the simmering embers. Irrational as these musing seem, there is a mysterious truth to the mingling of tongues of flame and branches; life from death; form to formless; ashes to ashes. We have much to learn if we only would clear the space; to light the fire.