Judi and I have just returned from a trip to the Great Smoky Mountains. The name is honest—their appearance is smoky. There’s a scientific explanation for this, but I’m not going to share it; I prefer the wonder of it all.
The mountains are the progeny of an old relationship. Two continents embraced—millennia ago—and they squeezed each other so hard that the mountains popped up. The two lovers have long since drifted apart, and eons of snow and rain whittled the mountains down. The Smokies used to be the redwood of mountains; today—think maybe oak.
I was in the Smokies once before. My father took us on a camping trip. I remember looking down from our ridge to see a man teasing a bear below. We could see her cubs in a tree. When he threw one stone too many she turned and charged him. This was my introduction to Olympic speed; I’ve never seen a human being run faster. Bears and men—another old story.
The mountains have also been whittled down by occupation. Pigeon Forge is a six-lane boulevard. Busy? Yes! Traffic can lock up all the way to Gatlinburg. Mountains are begrudging; there isn’t much room for building. Pigeon Forge lays out like a ribbon of toothpaste squeezed from a tube—miles and miles of chain restaurants, amusement parks, tee-shirt shops, and motels.
In the Biblical narrative, the wonder of creation is portrayed as compromised. The original relationship with God having been broken, systems degrade in every conceivable way—marriage, family, culture, and ultimately the natural world itself. All is lost, except for the muted counter story of God’s presence. God the Creator is still here.
I wondered about these things as I traveled the boulevard being offered every conceivable recipe for pizza. And who needs that many tee-shirts? As I walked the mountain trails, I wondered: who leaves trash in a place like this? I wondered why they all came, thousands of people all coming to the Smokies at the same time. Why? Commercial food, glitzy entertainment, and plastic trinkets are available anywhere. Why come here? For that?
The answer is the mountains; their pull is intuitive. We need to draw near, even if we don’t know why. We approach even for a cheapened experience. The mountains measure us. Here we are just a part of creation, and somehow being smaller is satisfying. The Biblical narrative never questions God’s presence. The real question is the same for us as it was for Bartimaeus: can you see it, or are you blind?
And if you do see it, how will you live now? What role will you play in God’s work of re-creation? There’s room for you. The world desperately needs people who, in the face of collapse, can still love. You’ll be welcomed. The world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by.
~Peter Boogaart, Caring for Creation Co-coordinator