Walking the Trail

(With apologies to, and appreciation for, Clive Staples Lewis)

 There it was, the actual Appalachian Trail. The sign beside the road said so. With great excitement, I pulled over and went to walk on this famous trail that leads from Georgia to Maine. I have read countless books about the AT and dreamt of hiking it from one end to the other. 

With reverence, I approached the small, unassuming entrance into the woods. Without the sign I would have missed it. I knew in my mind it was just like any other trail I’d hiked, but because it was the AT something caused me to feel as if I was processing down the aisle of a cathedral. It was a memorable moment, and I reflected on it long after returning to my car.

Until that afternoon, I had only read about the AT and studied maps. Now I had actually experienced it, if only for a mile or too. Part of me wanted to choose which was better, first-hand experience or the cumulative experiences of the great cloud of hikers who’d written books and drawn maps.

I think I live in that tension, spiritually. Surrounded by books, rituals and creeds, my heart longs for first-hand experience, and I feel I’ve had a few but they were brief and always left me longing for more. Without someone coming before putting out a sign, I might have missed such experiences, or passed them off as coincidences. Without the books, rituals, and creeds, I’d never know the magnitude of the trail, nor learn about the nature of the entire adventure. 

Fortunately, countless others have taken the time to map out what they’ve seen, who they’ve come to know, as well as the successes they’ve had and mistakes they’ve made. Somehow, their work helps me make sense of the mile or two I will experience in my life. 

Like so many things, it’s not an either/or proposition, but a both/and. So I’ll continue to go for walks and open my heart for God’s whispers, but I’ll also read my many books and go to church so my heart knows what, or who, it’s looking for. 

Sheet Music

The great conductor called his musicians together and handed out their sheet music. 

‘I can’t play this!” one of the younger members of the orchestra complained. “There’re so many notes. This is beyond me.”

“It is now, but it won’t be. Start playing. You’ll get it.”

So, she did, but it was the most challenging piece of music she’d ever played. There were pages of music, and notes and rhythms she’d never played before. Like a baby taking her initial steps, she fell more than she walked, but each day she played one note she hadn’t before. Some days she threw up her hands wanting to quit, but then she’d hear something or make it through a part that once confounded her and carried on. At a moment of acute frustration, she went to the conductor to complain.

“Can’t you give this music to someone else,” she pleaded. “and give me something else to play.”

The conductor smiled but refused. “No, this is your music. I wrote it specifically for you. Someone else might be able to play it, but it wouldn’t sound the same.”

“But it’s too hard. I hit too many wrong notes.”

“That’s how you find the right ones.”

“It’ll take me my entire lifetime to learn how to play this music.”

“Exactly,” the conductor said as if savoring a vintage wine. “Exactly.”

Epiphany

“Would you take a look at those fancy clothes!”

“And what’s with the hats? Who do they think they are, anyway, Kings?”

“What do you think are in those packages?”

Today is January 6th, known in church circles as Epiphany, the day we remember the arrival of the Magi (wisemen/kings) to Bethlehem, the day when they met Christ, which was an epiphany, a manifestation of seeing God face to face. It’s a day usually bundled into the Christmas story, but I like the fact that the moment is given a day of its own. After all their effort, it’s the least we can do to stop and reflect on the wisemen and their journey to Bethlehem.

I’ve always had a thing for star-gazers. Yes, like others, I sometimes look at the way they dress or listen to the things they say and think they’re nuts, but the truth is, I also admire them and, at times, am a little jealous as well. I have the same longing for God that star-gazers profess but lack the confidence to stand out from the crowd like they did, or be caught staring into the sky. 

I’m also overwhelmed by the effort required for such journeys. The wisemen traveled a great distance, and I often find it too much to drive to church, let alone to the homeless shelter or Habitat house. Spending an hour in the morning to read and reflect is, at times, overwhelming, and I secretly wish Bethlehem would come to me.

But what I think keeps me from being a wiseman most is fear – fear of where I might find Christ, and fear of who Christ might end up being. Like many, I prefer a predictable faith and a God made out of my own imagination, crafted in my own image, rather than the other way around. But, if the men of old teach us anything it is that Christ is sometimes found where we least expect. Bethlehems come in many shapes and sizes and not all of them have steeples. So, too, the one waiting for us may end up being unlike what we imagined or hoped for.  Instead of a mighty king, Christ might be a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes. Instead of greeting us with a smile that allows us to behave in certain ways or hold certain convictions, he might look at us as if to say, ”It’s time you let me transform your life. Buckle up!”

The good news, though, the news we celebrate today (and every day), is that Christ is waiting to be found. He may be found where we least expect, in a way beyond human understanding, but that’s why such moments are called “epiphanies,” and today we thank God for them.