I look back on the Winchester hike with a bit of a grin. For one, it
was my virgin climb to one of the fine lookouts that crest the North
Cascade mountain range. Besides making for a decent story, the climb
through dense fog over wet heather and icy snow also served to drive
home important lessons about the spiritual journey. Thankfully, I found
that considering how lost we seemed, how rubbery my legs became, and
how much energy I expended, the recovery time was much lighter and
quicker than I expected. It certainly left me craving for more of the
same.
But to the beginning, four of us set out early, hoping
for first dibs on the little old forestry cabin whose brilliant view of
Mount Baker is still maintained by volunteers. The air was cool and
crisp, a nice temperature for hiking. We hoped the fog would soon lift
and muttered prayers that the rain would stay away. Visibility was poor
and the ground was very slippery. Still, the path seemed well-marked
with a hiking trail that even appears on the topographic map we
carried. With a map and compass, we didn’t anticipate any trouble.
I’m not the first to think of mountains as analogies for spiritual
ascent. Since Abraham’s Moriah and Moses’ Sinaii, many a guru has taken
to the hills for time with God and seen the obvious parallels to one’s
faith journey. Thomas Merton, who corresponded with Beat poets from
these very Cascades, is a notable example (Seven Storey Mountain). The
Mountain of Silence : A Search for Orthodox Spirituality by Kyriacos
Markides is another. But on this day it was my turn. A mentor of mine
had invited me along for a peripatetic journey with him up what would
normally have been a beginner’s climb.
It wasn’t long before the fog thickened and drizzling rain started
intermittently. Then the trail began to repeatedly disappear beneath
large patches of snow. We pressed on as the path got steeper and
wetter. We paused for water and trail mix occasionally so that Ron (my
mentor friend) could cry out to the hidden peak, “Show yourself!” We
braved the weather and terrain until we knew that we had completely
departed the trail… still we climbed, sometimes through thick brush,
under dripping clefts, or on all fours. We weren’t too concerned
because we knew we were circling the right peak. The shelter awaited us
above with the promise of a dry reprieve where we could strip off our
now soaking gear.
I noted that in the fog of life, prudence dictates that we keep to the
trails well worn by tradition, by which I mean the tried wisdom of the
Spirit-led faithful over the centuries. While I’m not at traditionalist
(one who reduces tradition to “the way we’ve always done it” and then
creates an idol of it), I do remember Scripture’s injunction to hold
fast to “the faith once delivered to the saints.” They’ve carved a
trail of holiness for us that only folly ignores. They’ve left signs
and markers so that we needn’t learn everything the hard way… Having
said that, what happens when life and culture in the twenty-first
century covers their trail with snow? We must admit that we’re
frequently confronted with dilemmas that leave the church saying,
“We’ve never gone this way before.” We do our best to cross the snow
and pick up the path on the far side. Yet sometimes the trail simply
doesn’t re-emerge where we thought it would.
That’s where faith comes in. It calls us to head further up and further
in to life in the Kingdom, even when we don’t always see what’s coming.
The Lord beckons us on after the pattern of Abraham who, “By an act of
faith, said yes to God’s call to travel to an unknown place that would
become his home. When he left he had no idea where he was going” (Heb.
11:8 MSG). He did it by keeping his eye on the unseen goal (vs. 10),
following a trail not yet blazed. The author of Hebrews tells us that
this pleased God, and that He was “not well pleased” with those who
longed to turn back midway through their ascent (10:38-39).
I’m glad to say that we didn’t turn back that day. We found the lookout
equipped with a gas stove and candles. My companions broke out the beef
jerky and some quality cheese while I tested the merits of boiling an
energy drink. After a bit of a rest but no view, we resolved to head
home.
Unreal. Less than two hundred feet down the hill, we were completely
disoriented. While there was only one peak to this mountain, there were
many valleys and gorges heading down, some into blind alleys or over
cliff edges. We picked up what we thought was the right trail
(finally), only to find that it looped counter-clockwise into a
landslide area overlooking a deep bowl with no exit. We huddled to sort
through our options. Call it a church council if you like. Our various
decision-making defaults surfaced immediately, leading to a remarkable
range of conclusions. We found that we were of three different opinions
about which direction to go and four different ways of deciding.
One of the men, an expert map-maker and experienced orienteer, pulled
out the map and compass. He pointed to the peak, the switchback trail,
and the destination. It looked very clear and he pointed south. “That’s
the way. Even if the snow hides the trail, we need to head south. The
map doesn’t lie.” I saw this fellow as a type of the careful exegete,
the open Bible as his map in hand, complete with all the difficulties
of interpretation. No, the map does not lie. It is a light for our path
and a lamp for our way (Psalm. 119). But neither is it always easy to
apply the Book to today’s journey. It may set us in a direction, but
doesn’t anticipate every scenario.
Then spoke the voice of reason. “If we head south, we don’t know if
we’ll run into the path or right over it. But it stands to reason that
if we head west, the path will take us right around the mountain and
down to the trailhead.” I wondered. That was not the way we had come.
But he walked me through his logic: “If I’m right, we’ll be able to
pick up our trail right around the corner. And if I’m wrong, we’ll
still get a great view from the saddle on the west side of the
mountain. The fog has cleared over there and we’ll be able to see where
we need to go.” Yes, that made sense. It felt wrong to head in the
opposite direction from where I remember coming, but logic calls us to
set feelings aside. They aren’t as reliable as reason, or so I’m told
by the modernists of the last enlightenment era.
My mentor spoke up. “If we head south or west, we’re trying a different
direction than the one we came on. I know you want to find the path,
but if we head down and to the east, at least we’re retracing our
steps, path or not. As unorthodox as it was, we know where we came from
and will recognize the landmarks we passed before. Experience doesn’t
lie.” Objections came up about the dangers and difficulties we had
encountered on the way up. Ron humbly insisted, “I think we need to go
back the way we came. It was hard, but if we made it up, we can make it
down and we won’t be lost.”
Now it was my turn. I’m so analytical that I don’t trust analysis. So
when I take personality tests, they show me to be excessively
left-brained but simultaneously reliant on intuition to a fault. I
think that’s partly because those tests don’t know how to interpret
answers from people who believe in listening to God. Well, call it
revelation OR intuition, when I got quiet inside, I heard, “Listen to
your mentor.” That’s another value of mine in decision-making. God gave
us spiritual directors and wise counsellors. I’ve only ignored them to
my own peril. So I decided to throw my lot in with Ron.
Thus, the four of us split into three groups, hoping that somehow we
would be lucky enough to converge at some future point in the parking
lot. In the end, we only lost two men that day; one to frostbite, the
other to a nasty fall headlong down the mountain.
NO. That’s not what happened… at least not that day. It is however what
happens to the church over and over throughout history. With every
schism, every reformation, every church split, every new denomination,
we part company and there are casualties. We treat church councils as
democratic debates, give up on consensus, and the loser takes their
ball and goes home. The result is a horrendous track record of
casualties in the faith wars which continue to this day.
Now here is what did happen. We made two crucial decisions that kept us
safe, maybe even saved lives. First, we decided that no matter what, we
would stay together. I admired these men for their respect and
humility; each in turn following the other in a direction that they
were sure was mistaken. Why? For the sake of traveling together:
relationship and unity were more important to each of us than our own
opinions and directions. I learned that unity is not about agreement so
much as it is a commitment to stay together when we don’t agree.
Not that anything goes. We all agreed to keep our eye on the peak where
we knew the cabin was. For every dead-end, for every time we had to
backtrack, we would always stay oriented to the peak. We opted to take
a stab at the map’s indication that we head south, but couldn’t find a
trail below the snow. We re-climbed the hill to within 150 feet of the
peak and headed west, following the voice of reason to the saddle. We
saw no trail there. We picked up the map and headed south again down a
different ice-flow, this time much further. The fog pushed us back up
just before what might have been a good exit. The climb was
excruciating for someone in my poor shape, running shoes, and shorts
(Yes, I was ill-equipped in every way for this trip—another obvious
parable!). This time we ascended nearly all the way to the cabin,
scaling the same hill nearly three full times that day. Finally, we
followed Ron down the hill to safety. That day, experience was right.
On any given day it could have been reason or the map. But my point is
that we kept these two commitments: staying together and staying
oriented to the peak.
I would suggest that the common peak for all Christians is Christ
Himself as depicted in the Gospels and understood through the creeds.
This at least is the common point of reference for Orthodox, Catholic,
and Protestants for two thousand years. It could and should have been
sufficient to keep us together (as it did for over half of Christian
history). Perhaps now that we have wandered off, reorienting to the
resurrected and living Peak will cause us to cross paths once again (as
it has among the variety of contributors to Clarion). This time, let us
be more reluctant to part company and let us ask seriously, what does
it mean to get and stay together?
SUMMARY:
Sometimes, experience, Scripture, and reason point us in absolutely
different directions. This is perplexing, but according to the
Winchester parable, there is a way through. We followed three divergent
ways before we stumbled back onto the right path. We had our share of
dead ends and trekked many extra miles, but the key to getting down
together was staying together. Being willing to follow someone we think
is wrong is a difficult measure of trust, but it’s easier to backtrack
together than to find each other again once we part company. Even those
of different spiritual streams are better off walking the journey
together… at the end of the day, it makes for good company and an
interesting story.