We paused on the trail—tired, hot, and momentarily liberated from the weight of our heavy packs—and I sat down on a scorched, fallen log, grateful for the respite, in what only three years earlier had been a verdant, old growth Montana forest. Now, the charred remains of spruce, lodge-pole pine, and fir were all that I could see. Burned sentinels of formerly majestic trees rose ahead and above us, and those no longer standing seemed to litter the forest floor as if some great force had arbitrarily tossed them and let them lay where they fell. Chaos and destruction seemed all around. I found myself feeling sad, and lamenting the loss of what I knew had once been a fecund, flourishing forest ecosystem.
I was in the Scapegoat Wilderness area of Montana with dear friends from graduate school, an annual, much-anticipated sojourn, and this was not what I had in mind when I flew into Great Falls a few days before. I’d had visions of escaping my native southern heat by hiking in cool, pristine sub-alpine forests, and I now found myself in a forest radically changed by fire; ravaged, and permanently damaged. Or was it? Was I seeing the whole picture?
Several days prior to our Montana hike, we converged on Great Falls, Montana, where Scott, the younger brother of one of our cohort, lives and owns a small cabin in the Bob Marshall Wilderness area, about 40 miles east of Augusta, Montana. We planned to spend 5-6 days backpacking in what is affectionately called “the Bob,” some of the most magnificent wilderness in the country. When the plane landed in Great Falls I became immediately aware of dense smoke in the air, caused by wildfires in the wilderness area 80 miles away, where we were headed. Once assembled, we loaded up the truck and drove west toward the “Ahorn” fire (fires out west are typically named for a local, distinctive feature). Smoke filled the horizon, and I wondered what lay ahead. Would the USFS fight the fire, or would they let it burn? Fire management is a complex issue, as I learned during my Montana stay. The Native Americans understood that fire, though dangerous and potentially destructive, could also be life-giving. They often intentionally set fires for agricultural and hunting purposes. Following suit, the USFS understands that fire is nature’s way of restoring and replenishing the forest. Indeed, they often let fires burn themselves out, unless they threaten homes, businesses, or other human-related areas.[i] After a day at the cabin, monitoring the fire—now grown from 8,000 to 15,000 acres, we consulted the USFS and changed our backcountry route to a more southerly course, out of the Lewis and Clark Wilderness and into the Scapegoat Wilderness area.
Our hiking trip, thus re-routed to the south began at a trailhead in an area burned by a large and ferocious fire several years earlier. The hot sun, unimpeded by green branches, shone full force on our single-file procession of backpackers and served as a compelling and present reminder of the effects of the fire. It was by most outward appearances a scene of utter desolation, and a mordant reminder of the damage being wrought by the Ahorn fire to the north. It was hard to reconcile the forest, wildflowers, lovely meadows, and waterfalls we left behind in a smoky haze with the pyrrhic terrain through which we now walked. And, although I knew that the sub-alpine lake where we planned to camp for the night was not in the burn area, I consoled myself with images of a clear mountain lake, cool breezes, and a deep forest of many, many shades of green, this was a dramatically different world. Truth told it seemed to reflect aspects of my own inner state. Only a few months after the death of my mother, and the leaving for college of our younger son, I realized that I, too, was adjusting to significant changes in the emotional ecology of my own life. In some ways, the landscape around me—an ecological system in the midst of radical change—seemed to mirror some of the changes in my world as well. I too, was in uncertain, suspect terrain. After several miles of hiking on this hot day, we stopped for water and rest still solidly ensconced in the burn. As we sat, quietly, I began to look around. Amidst the desolation, I began to see that life was everywhere, pushing upward in infinite detail, where my vision had been limited only to what was most obvious to the eye. I caught a glimpse of a mule deer, drawn to the open terrain by the lush, waist-high vegetation now growing in the sunlight. Light, life-giving and fierce, seemed to have given birth to the life lying in the trees, and in the soil, all along. Fireweed, a lovely plant, with lavender and pink flowers, that grows in just such burned-over land, was everywhere round us. How had I missed it?
As I listened, and watched, and finally began to pay attention, I heard a low, buzzing hum, and then began to see that the fireweed had attracted hundreds of hummingbirds, dodging and darting, feeding on the fireweed nectar, along with bees and other insects. Birds, marmots, chipmunks, wildlife of all kinds seemed suddenly visible, where before I had seen only blackened trees and desolation. Life seemed to be flourishing where once there I had seen only death, and destruction. And I had not seen it, in part because I had not paid attention to the moment—and to the larger, more complex picture it contained. Focusing only on the blackened trees straight ahead and above me, and on my fear of the fires to the north, fears stirred by the landscape all around me, I failed to see the profusion of life flourishing right beneath my feet. Seeds of lodgepole pines, needing only the intense heat of the fire to release their inner Chi—the deepest, essential life breath and energy, and I had both literally and metaphorically not seen the emerging new forest for the desolate, burned trees. To contend with high-impact fire, lodge-pole pine produce cones that open following exposure to extreme heat (termed ‘serotiny’). This serotinous strategy is one piece of evidence that fire was historically a prevalent disturbance across the lodgepole pine ecosystems of the Rocky Mountains. And, though trees are the big players in forests, understory species (like grasses, shrubs, and fungal networks) also have a strong evolutionary relationship with fire. Following fire, areas dominated by sprouting species (aspen, cottonwood, gambel oak, many grasses, and many shrubs) tend to rapidly return to pre-fire conditions. These species, many of which were previously rare or absent, flourish under the new conditions. Indeed, flourishing was everywhere, in stark contrast to the all too evident reminders of what had been, on the surface, a very challenging time for this forest ecosystem. The forest was exhibiting profound resilience amidst what appeared on the surface profound destruction. One needed only to quiet oneself, sit, and pay attention to see it.
On Wednesday of last week, 15 souls gathered in our Holy Family chapel for the “First Wednesday Healing Service.” I shared a brief version of this story with those gathered, reminding us all that “wholeness” and healing may not always take the forms with which we are most familiar. The emphasis in these services is “care” as opposed to “cure.” By gathering together—the very act of showing up—we are co-participants in healing, solace, nurture, and compassion. Even as our church, like so many churches, is in a season of transition, we are flourishing in so many ways. At the heart of this flourishing is imagination, creativity, and our intentional cultivation of relationships, and hospitality. After the service we gathered for lunch, and the laughter and conversation around the table were also healing for us all. In an age of loneliness, providing opportunities for connection can heal us all, including mind, body, and spirit[1]
Recently I gathered in Northern Colorado with friends from graduate school, a trip almost canceled due to fires in the area. A week of heavy rains extinguished the fires and we were able to proceed with this annual trip. The valley where we stay is at 9’000’ at the confluence of Rocky Mountain National Park and the Comanche Wilderness, and was the site of significant fires in 1994 and 2022. On a trail run through the former burn area, I delighted in the young Aspen, spruce, and pines are flourishing in outward and visible signs of resilience, a coming back to life in myriad ways
The Paschal Mystery at the heart of an Incarnational, sacramental spirituality, is about the ongoing reception of the Holy Spirit in the ever-flourishing receiving of it here, now, in the moment at hand, a process of transition—and transformation. There, we are given both new life and new spirit. Ron Rolheiser suggests that ”It begins with suffering and death, moves on to the reception of new life, spends time grieving the old and adjusting to the new, and finally, only after the old life has been truly let go of, is new spirit given, for the life we are already given.”[i] We might even glimpse the Baptismal promise of resurrection during times of transition—times, that is, of waiting, watching, listening. Understood in this way, emotional and relational wisdom can emerge from such transitions—those conflicted, contested, potentially life-giving spaces. This can transform us, and potentially those whom we find there, even as it transforms the boundaries themselves, in an ever-fluid, reciprocal, and hopefully generative unfolding. This is how change becomes transition, through resilience, as we adapt to the inevitable changes in our lives. I am so grateful for all those at Holy Family who, in this season of transition, are proving resilient and helping others to find life-giving resilience as well. We shall indeed find new life at Holy Family as we seek a way forward. Last Wednesday, those gathered for the Healing Service were themselves outward and visible signs of resilience, and hope amidst transition. And so it is for all those who serve this parish in so many ways, including simply showing up, paying attention, and bearing witness to signs of new life! Thank you!
I’ll catch you later on down the trail, and I hope to see you in church!
Blessings, Bill
[1] https://www.cdc.gov/social-connectedness/risk-factors/index.html [i] Ronald Rolheiser, The Holy Longing: The Search for a Christian Spirituality, (New York: Doubleday, 1999), p. 147.
