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.