A spongy mass. We stop, crouch down, and really look at it for the first time. It is a dense tangle of vines, leaves, berries, tiny flowers, moss, and lichen. Delightful variety.
Fellow saint, have you stopped lately for a thoughtful look at the walk by which your Lord has led you moment by moment? Think of the marvelous variety of His grace, mercy, and kindness to you. Recall the morsels of His sustaining food which have satisfied your hungry soul. Think of the beauties of His Son, which have drawn your heart away from every other object. Recall those moments of intimate fellowship with Him, when the flowers of His presence have filled your vision with beauties that none other can ever share. Even beneath your feet today lies the evidence of His tender care and sustaining grace. “Count your many blessings. Name them one by one; and it will surprise you what the Lord has done” . . . and is still doing for you.
Crouching, we thrust a hand into the dense mass. It is several inches deep and unyielding to our digital intrusion. We must push and twist and work our fingers through it. But, as we penetrate, we notice an increasing chill in the depths. Up here, where we crouch, the temperature is perhaps 70 degrees. But down there, at a depth of just 8 inches from the upper surface, it is sharp cold–permafrost. Beneath this tundra the ground never thaws. Yet walking inches above the perpetual cold, protected by the marvelous insulation of the life-filled tundra, our feet never feel the chill.
The cold, dead permafrost of this godless world is only inches away from the wilderness-crossing saint. Except for the insulating virtue of the Lord’s Word, His presence and His abiding care, we would soon be as frozen as the ground beneath. We must not get down into that dreadful chill. It is all too easy to forget, after years on the road, just how close that chill is, just how devastating it is, just how hopelessly cold it could make us.
A glance at it, a breath of its frigid atmosphere, should be enough to make us hastily withdraw with joy back into the warmth of fellowship with Christ and His people. Turn away from sin, from the chilling atmosphere of earth, from the muck and mire of time and trouble. Let the tundra of God insulate your walk from it all.
The Alaskan tundra is lush this July day with berries. Blueberries abound. And there are soapberries, mountain cranberries, wild strawberries and other varieties. We cannot find a berry we don’t like. The grizzly, beastly king of this wilderness, enjoys these delicacies as his main diet. For him, meat is hard to obtain, and quite unnecessary so long as the berries abound. In fact, as we move along, it is difficult not to scoop up a handful here, a couple more there, just to enrich our palates with the tasty morsels. After a while, the cabin-made sandwiches in our backpacks really lose their appeal. The berries are better.
Christian, what are you enjoying as you walk along? The tasty berries of the Word of God are yours to harvest. Perhaps it has been too long since you gathered some. “Where hast thou gleaned today?” one asked long ago. The question still haunts the undernourished.
Stop a moment. Pick the berries. Taste the richness of your Lord’s provision to meet your starved soul’s need today. That tacky stuff of earth you’ve been carrying with you, with which you fill your mind, can never compare in richness and delight to what He gives. The sour taste in your mouth was not put there by the Lord. Perhaps you have been complaining that you are getting no food lately. Well, reach for your Bible and take some. If you are hungry for good things, ask of Him. He gives to all His children liberally.
While I’m crouching in the tundra, a certain lichen holds my fascination. It is a very branched gray-green growth that always seems to accumulate in the low spots of the tundra. It reminds me of the beautiful antlers we are constantly marveling at as we watch the caribou grazing nearby. Indeed, this material is called “caribou lichen,” because of its similarity to the mighty antlers of the stately caribou. But caribou antlers are well fixed to the head of their host, while these lichen have neither root nor anchor. They are almost unnatural. Part of the tundra, yet totally rootless. The breezes that blow across Alaska’s vast expanse blow them hither and thither. And because of their windblown wanderings, they always wind up in the low spots. There they congregate and later blow on again.
The caribou lichen are like some Christians–blown about with every wind of doctrine. Driven by various breezes, whether warm or cold. Weightless, rootless, cheerless, fruitless. Sometimes able to give a faint imitation of a more noble character, but really not part of a stable landscape. And usually found in the low spots. These are the souls who lack spiritual values, purpose, stability. Hence they stumble from one low hollow to another. Of all their fellows they spend the most time closest to the permafrost. Never building for God. Just there. Alive, but not thriving. How many of us see a caribou lichen when we look in the mirror?
The tundra! Stretching from the valley to the tree line on the mountain heights. Full of life. Full of meaning. Full of lessons. So like the Christian walk. We tread it from the moment of our spiritual birth until we reach the heights above. The question is, how do we walk it? In the abundance of its beauty and life, or as near the permafrost as we can get? Are we joyously happy to be insulated from the cold, or drifting aimlessly before the winds of time? Ah, soul, how goes your tundra hike today?