Our home: An infinitesimal spec in the cosmos. Suspended between the light of the Sun and the infinite void; between the perceivable and what lies beyond the grasp of a finite mind. It is in that very narrow band we dwell - precariously balanced between brilliant light and utter darkness; between intense heat and absolute zero. And we arrive here with a cry; the first sounds we make are a protest against the stark contrasts - from the warmth and constant embrace of our mother's womb to a slap on our backsides and a chill upon our wet skin. And so begins our life's journey: a rude awakening and then a long walk through this land of extremes; this land of contradictions. We navigate between polar opposites, conflicting world-views and man's capacity for good versus his descent into total depravity. We live somewhere between the beginning of time and the end of days – the battleground of the ages. And the contrast defines a perceivable image – like the pixels in a photograph. We all can see it if we step back and look. We travel the dusty miles and along the way, we become more and more aware that we are being pursued by something malevolent; we are ever shadowed by this specter, we are shadowed by this...this enemy of our souls. Some feel it more acutely than others but no matter what fortunes or calamity may seem to define us, the length and breadth of our lives are marked...cut short. We are mere abbreviations. Sooner or later, there is a reckoning for each of us – we will embrace a sobering reality: We all died in Eden…all of us. We arise from the dust of this little sphere, leave our footprints upon it for but a short time and then we return to it...
The late February weather in Michigan has always been my least favorite. It’s such a tease. It mocks my weariness of shortened days and winter’s grip. When I long to feel the warmth of springtime once again, the Sun taps me on the shoulder and then plays hide-and-seek behind snow-laden clouds - I can almost hear it laughing at me. My senses are befuddled. There’s a constant tension between hot and cold. Clashing trends are delivered right to my doorstep – carried on the wind; carried on a steady breeze of seasons on the verge. The bright sun was bleeding through the wooden slats of our bedroom window blinds. And so I peeked between them to see a deep blue canopy high above. That brilliant cobalt colored veil the sky wore was a clever disguise; and it was nearly enough to conceal its chilly alter ego. The Sun’s voice came blithely - right through the window pane and gave me a warm embrace. I saw the bare, budding branches swaying to and fro against that blue expanse and suddenly, I had summer breezes on my mind. And it almost had me convinced that warmer days had arrived a bit early; that I could leave my coat in the foyer closet. The Sun beckoned. It was coaxing me from my winter lair; inviting me to open up and breathe the outdoors again. So I was eager to spend a little quiet time ambling along one of those country roads nearby. Ah yes, eager indeed but before my feet had crossed the threshold of the front door, a cold wind blew in from somewhere else. From somewhere beyond the hills it came - not a warm springtime breeze but rather it was winter’s dying breath that greeted me. The Sun had pulled the ol’ bait and switch. No matter...a small detour to that foyer closet provided me with an extra layer of cotton/polyester or whatever thread that old, worn hoodie of mine is woven from. Having put a little more between me and the elements, I was ready to defy that blustery breeze. So without further delay, and having slung my Nikon DSLR camera over my shoulder, I answered that deceptively blue sky's beckon-call.
The late February weather in Michigan has always been my least favorite. It’s such a tease. It mocks my weariness of shortened days and winter’s grip. When I long to feel the warmth of springtime once again, the Sun taps me on the shoulder and then plays hide-and-seek behind snow-laden clouds - I can almost hear it laughing at me. My senses are befuddled. There’s a constant tension between hot and cold. Clashing trends are delivered right to my doorstep – carried on the wind; carried on a steady breeze of seasons on the verge. The bright sun was bleeding through the wooden slats of our bedroom window blinds. And so I peeked between them to see a deep blue canopy high above. That brilliant cobalt colored veil the sky wore was a clever disguise; and it was nearly enough to conceal its chilly alter ego. The Sun’s voice came blithely - right through the window pane and gave me a warm embrace. I saw the bare, budding branches swaying to and fro against that blue expanse and suddenly, I had summer breezes on my mind. And it almost had me convinced that warmer days had arrived a bit early; that I could leave my coat in the foyer closet. The Sun beckoned. It was coaxing me from my winter lair; inviting me to open up and breathe the outdoors again. So I was eager to spend a little quiet time ambling along one of those country roads nearby. Ah yes, eager indeed but before my feet had crossed the threshold of the front door, a cold wind blew in from somewhere else. From somewhere beyond the hills it came - not a warm springtime breeze but rather it was winter’s dying breath that greeted me. The Sun had pulled the ol’ bait and switch. No matter...a small detour to that foyer closet provided me with an extra layer of cotton/polyester or whatever thread that old, worn hoodie of mine is woven from. Having put a little more between me and the elements, I was ready to defy that blustery breeze. So without further delay, and having slung my Nikon DSLR camera over my shoulder, I answered that deceptively blue sky's beckon-call.
Whether a few photos or something imprinted on my mind, I had no intention of returning home empty-handed...and I almost never do. When I leave the house to put a few miles on my hikers, it's a time to look through my lens for a fresh perspective. And to let my thoughts wander a bit as well. And it's an opportunity to listen – perhaps God will reveal something new to me along the way; maybe inspire me with an idea or reinforce an old one. It’s my favorite way to exercise - both body and mind. Strolling past a sleeping field, I pause a few moments…surveying the evenly-spaced rows of corn-stumps; leftovers from last year’s harvest; furrows on the rolling hills stretch towards the horizon like waves on a sea of dirt. But for the patches of drifted snow, it all looks monochrome; barren and bereft. The land sleeps for yet a little while longer but soon it will be awakened; aroused by the farmer’s plow if not the warmth of the springtime sun. Can you hear that? Does it awaken something in you? Or do you need to be aroused just like that sleeping corn-field? My memories rewind a bit and I recall the times I’ve needed the “Farmer’s” plow to turn the hard, compacted soil of my heart...the times I needed to be awakened.
I pressed-on; my mind had found its stride along with my feet. I pondered generations-past; the people who first cleared this land…how they tamed these rolling hills with horse and oxen; with strong backs and strong faith. They dug wells and drew water. They laid foundations: Chunks of granite field-stone, unearthed from the newly-tilled land were cemented together with blood, sweat and mortar. And upon those thick stone walls, they built their homes and they raised their barns. They tended livestock, reaped harvests, built a community and raised the next generation… And though fading, their footprints are still visible today if you know where to look for them. I wondered about those folks – long-gone and buried in the land upon which they toiled. I wondered, “What yet remains of them today? Cleared pasture lands? Some of their old homesteads have been parceled into neighborhoods but many yet stand - silhouetted against the rural Michigan sky just as they did when their first coat of paint was drying. Is that all? Crisscrossing the county are a few dusty roads that still to this day bear their family names – is that their legacy? Has their faith and hard work returned to the dust with them? If they could speak to this generation, what would they say?” Do they have any kinship with the people who now live on their land? Again, my pace slowed; a lonely, mournful scene had reached out and grabbed-hold of me. I’d passed by that same spot many times before; never offering more than a casual glance. My fingers felt for the camera strap. Inspiration comes – and usually when and where it’s least expected.
Not far from our home, down the road a fair piece, stands this old empty farmhouse - abandoned fairly recently. I don’t know its history but I can tell that it has stood on that field-stone foundation long enough to have seen a few changes in the landscape; long enough to have known a people of deeply-rooted faith and virtue; long enough to watch generations born, live and pass away. And long enough to witness a prevailing wind of new, “progressive” ideas give birth to a people who have largely forgotten from whence they’ve come...a generation which has forgotten its roots. I stood before that old homestead; 
I stood there with that bright February sun playfully tapping me on the shoulder. And silhouetted against the bluest of blue skies I saw peeling paint and old shingles; rotting boards and aggressive vegetation all too eager to occupy places it’s been barred from for many, many years. I saw an old dairy barn still trying to look red while it slowly yields its timbers to neglect and too many winters. The entire property looked like a monument to decay. And the house; that tired old house calling out to me from across the road - what sort of memories does it hold? If it were a man, its shoulders would be slumped and its face drawn and despairing. It looked to me as if it was remembering better times; longing to hear the banter of contented people and the laughter of children gathered under its roof after a hard day’s work - to once again feel the warmth of family within its walls. I can imagine its story - the opening chapters are set in a time when there were far less distractions...a simpler time of wooden wheels and leather reins. A man and his family built that homestead with ambitious dreams. Chapter by chapter, the story unfolds, new characters are introduced as the family grows and seasons pass...decades pass...generations pass... and the final chapter? I didn’t need to close my eyes and imagine the final chapter for there it was, right before my eyes. It’s an unfinished chapter which ended abruptly in mid-sentence. What had happened here? Somehow in that moment of quiet contemplation, I was drawn into the scene. Perhaps it falls upon me to write the epilogue. Maybe, just maybe I have the vision - the perspective to punctuate the history of this place. So I swung that camera off my shoulder, adjusted the ISO, the aperture and the shutter speed and crossed the road. As I laid fresh tracks in the dust of that abandoned driveway, I had a strange feeling come over me; it was as if I had just stepped into someone else’s story. And I could feel that cold February wind on my face. Somehow, it felt a few degrees colder there.
Entropy: in science, it’s the tendency for thermodynamic systems to descend from order to disorder. Everything in the universe - unless influenced by directed and concentrated energy - will default to chaos. You know this universal law better than you might think; it has a profound effect on everything in your life. It is the reason you must occasionally drive your vehicle to the neighborhood mechanic. It is the reason the hardware stores and home centers are constantly replenishing their shelves. They stock nails, glue, paint, light-bulbs and everything you might need to keep your home from being reclaimed by the dust upon which it rests. Without a pair of willing and capable hands to apply direct, purposeful energy to maintain it, a house will quickly default to chaos and it will eventually sink into the ground. And the same holds true for people and all the more for their culture.
We are not the exception. We are not somehow immune to those entropic forces. Left to our own devices, we do not default to higher order. We are not naturally trending to something greater than ourselves. Though many among us wish to adorn themselves with self-exalting labels, none of us are progressive - not by our own devices. We are by nature, fallen and depraved - every last one of us. It followed us here from Eden and will continue to shadow us until Christ restores all things – it is the curse of our fall. We cannot exalt ourselves by way of our own virtue or our own attributes. We cannot improve ourselves any more than that dilapidated old barn can right itself, repair its own foundation, un-rot its timbers and boards and apply a new coat of red paint to its walls.
I stood there with that bright February sun playfully tapping me on the shoulder. And silhouetted against the bluest of blue skies I saw peeling paint and old shingles; rotting boards and aggressive vegetation all too eager to occupy places it’s been barred from for many, many years. I saw an old dairy barn still trying to look red while it slowly yields its timbers to neglect and too many winters. The entire property looked like a monument to decay. And the house; that tired old house calling out to me from across the road - what sort of memories does it hold? If it were a man, its shoulders would be slumped and its face drawn and despairing. It looked to me as if it was remembering better times; longing to hear the banter of contented people and the laughter of children gathered under its roof after a hard day’s work - to once again feel the warmth of family within its walls. I can imagine its story - the opening chapters are set in a time when there were far less distractions...a simpler time of wooden wheels and leather reins. A man and his family built that homestead with ambitious dreams. Chapter by chapter, the story unfolds, new characters are introduced as the family grows and seasons pass...decades pass...generations pass... and the final chapter? I didn’t need to close my eyes and imagine the final chapter for there it was, right before my eyes. It’s an unfinished chapter which ended abruptly in mid-sentence. What had happened here? Somehow in that moment of quiet contemplation, I was drawn into the scene. Perhaps it falls upon me to write the epilogue. Maybe, just maybe I have the vision - the perspective to punctuate the history of this place. So I swung that camera off my shoulder, adjusted the ISO, the aperture and the shutter speed and crossed the road. As I laid fresh tracks in the dust of that abandoned driveway, I had a strange feeling come over me; it was as if I had just stepped into someone else’s story. And I could feel that cold February wind on my face. Somehow, it felt a few degrees colder there.Entropy: in science, it’s the tendency for thermodynamic systems to descend from order to disorder. Everything in the universe - unless influenced by directed and concentrated energy - will default to chaos. You know this universal law better than you might think; it has a profound effect on everything in your life. It is the reason you must occasionally drive your vehicle to the neighborhood mechanic. It is the reason the hardware stores and home centers are constantly replenishing their shelves. They stock nails, glue, paint, light-bulbs and everything you might need to keep your home from being reclaimed by the dust upon which it rests. Without a pair of willing and capable hands to apply direct, purposeful energy to maintain it, a house will quickly default to chaos and it will eventually sink into the ground. And the same holds true for people and all the more for their culture.
We are not the exception. We are not somehow immune to those entropic forces. Left to our own devices, we do not default to higher order. We are not naturally trending to something greater than ourselves. Though many among us wish to adorn themselves with self-exalting labels, none of us are progressive - not by our own devices. We are by nature, fallen and depraved - every last one of us. It followed us here from Eden and will continue to shadow us until Christ restores all things – it is the curse of our fall. We cannot exalt ourselves by way of our own virtue or our own attributes. We cannot improve ourselves any more than that dilapidated old barn can right itself, repair its own foundation, un-rot its timbers and boards and apply a new coat of red paint to its walls.
To declare otherwise is utter foolishness – like attempting to propel ourselves forward by blowing into our own sails. Improving our lot requires the directed and purposeful intervention of an intelligent force outside of us – beyond the confines or our cursed world. As I walked the grounds of that fallen homestead, I wondered aloud, “The man who left this place in such a state; when did his dreams yield to despair? When did he stop trying to stand against the blight?” "Did he ever find his way home again or is he still wandering; is he still in want of a roof overhead - of a solid foundation beneath his feet?"
Some broader questions to ponder: Does the rapid rise of technology and information in our time demonstrate that we are, indeed, advancing ourselves to newer and greater heights? Can it be that we are lifting ourselves up by our own intrinsic goodness and wisdom? You need look no further than today’s headlines to find your answer. Do I need to cite examples? Even those of you who are young and have never known anything but this post-modern/post-Christian culture can sense that something is amiss in contemporary society. I could fill more pages than anyone would care to read - moral relativism, indifference to the well-being of others, an accelerating descent into cultural decay...we snicker at what was unspeakable and horrid a generation ago and we congratulate ourselves for being so progressive. You are reading this through a media which those people of old could not even have imagined. Some of us use these wondrous advancements to do good deeds while others use it for evil. This computer I am using right now can be used to distribute something vile just as easily as it can be used for something up-lifting. Therefore, nothing has really advanced at all by the advent of all these wonders. It is a zero sum gain on the ledger of the human condition. On balance, technology has served only to pour high-grade oil on an already slippery slope. And I suspect it has only accelerated the inevitable end. You who revel in our rapid technological advance and cite it as evidence of man’s tendency to progress - is it a willful ignorance or are you blithely indifferent to the equally rapid moral decline of our people?
I observe contemporary society - the culture in which I have lived and where my wife and I now raise our children. I have seen enough new calendars on the wall to have witnessed the trends of our day. Things have changed drastically since I was toddling around on green shag carpeting of my folk’s living room floor. We’ve borrowed the term ‘common decency’ from generations past. I say borrowed because today, there’s no such thing. We still use the term but where’s the frame of reference for it? Today, decency is decidedly uncommon. Have we advanced or have we sold our souls. Have we traded something priceless for a few cheep gadgets? A number of years ago, a song by Russ Lee was getting some air-time on Christian radio and I often hear the chorus from that tune echoing through the halls of my mind:
I observe contemporary society - the culture in which I have lived and where my wife and I now raise our children. I have seen enough new calendars on the wall to have witnessed the trends of our day. Things have changed drastically since I was toddling around on green shag carpeting of my folk’s living room floor. We’ve borrowed the term ‘common decency’ from generations past. I say borrowed because today, there’s no such thing. We still use the term but where’s the frame of reference for it? Today, decency is decidedly uncommon. Have we advanced or have we sold our souls. Have we traded something priceless for a few cheep gadgets? A number of years ago, a song by Russ Lee was getting some air-time on Christian radio and I often hear the chorus from that tune echoing through the halls of my mind:
LIVING LIFE UPSIDE DOWN
Across the road from that poor ol' abandoned farmhouse and a stone’s throw to the left you’ll find an old rural cemetery on a tree-covered hilltop. I can only guess how many sunsets have cast their long shadows across this land since the earliest folks were laid to rest there. And I’ll bet if I looked in the county records and learned the names of the people who built that house, I’d also be able locate their tombstones among the others in that quiet place of remembrance. That late-winter's breeze blows over these rolling hills near my home and at first glance, this little piece of rural America seems to continue just as it has always been. Yet profound changes have taken place since the first foundations were set in place here. What would those generations of old say to us today? Would they marvel at our 3-D TVs, Smart-phones, drive-through windows, internet shopping and instant gratification or would they be dismayed at our moral depravity? I think they would be speechless. No matter how vigorously we blow into our own sails; we remain on a collision course with our day of reckoning. Do we concern ourselves with our amusements rather than our ultimate destiny? Do we even give a moment’s thought to this journey we are on? How many of us remain - those who remember who we are and the great price which was paid for souls? How many are left among us who have any regard for those who built this nation for us? Our foundations are crumbling.
Like that neglected old barn, they are crumbling quickly. Any structure can be rebuilt if the foundation is sound but if it is not... And a man, when difficulties come; is he firmly anchored to something immovable or will he be swept away? We all must complete the journey through this shattered world. And I take pity on those who face its calamity and heartache without faith and hope – without a solid foundation. Yes, we all died in Eden...and doubly so if we ignore or reject our blessed hope of resurrection.
A hymn I learned in my youth - a gift to us from the generation that first tilled this land:
How Firm a
Foundation, Ye Saints of the Lord
Written in
1787
The photos appearing in this piece are my own. And they are the actual places I've written about here.
No comments:
Post a Comment