As we approach the crest of a small rise, the game trail we have been following fades out. The top of the knoll is a small meadow, where obviously the caribou have been feeding. As we reach the crest, a panorama of several square miles of lush Alaskan tundra opens before us. The area is dotted by several small pools or lakes ranging from a fraction of an acre to several acres in size. The nearest one is perhaps the largest in sight,and is also unique because it is home to an energetic beaver family. We spread our map to check our position and (as we expected) confirm that the lake at our feet, like thousands of others in this part of Alaska, has no name.
A nameless lake–a body of water of uncertain size and shape–brings to mind a spiritual parallel. The landscape of this cold world is dotted with groups of saints who gather as Spirit-filled companies. Their numbers vary. They are of different types and shapes. But, the water of the Holy Spirit characterizes their composition and their meetings. They take no humanly bestowed name. But in their unpretentious yet sublime manner, they grace earth’s frigid landscape with their quiet presence.
Looking down on the nameless lake, we see that tundra and scrub brush, along with a few willow trees, grow right to the water’s edge. And, from where we stand, there is no obvious inlet or outlet. It is only later, as we hike around the shore, that we suddenly stumble on a little swift-flowing rivulet rushing through the vegetation and emptying into the lake. On the opposite side there is another similar rivulet flowing outward. These lakes are linked, but not by any obvious or well formed stream.
Like the nameless lake, without its obvious link to other lakes in the area, the well-ordered gathering of Saints that has no human name also has no human link to other groups of similar ilk. These scripturally gathered bodies of Christians are independent and autonomous. No visible human organization links them. They are linked together in bonds of fellowship, but not in bonds of human government. Their common bond is that of the Lordship of Christ, Who is their Head in heaven.
These nameless pools of water are all fresh–never stagnant. It is amazing to walk the tundra and repeatedly cross and recross the hidden little flows of water that rush from one of these pools to the next–avoiding stagnation. They are healthy homes for birds in summer and beaver year round. We are told that these small nameless lakes freeze over, of course, during winter months, but never freeze through. Always, hidden beneath the snow and ice of the surface, is the fresh-flowing water that refuses to yield to the frigid tentacles of the deepest freeze.
How like the nameless churches of the saints of God! They may appear isolated. But that appearance is deceptive, so long as there abides in their midst the Holy Spirit of the living Lord. It is that divine presence that keeps them ever fresh in the spiritual sense. There may be little or nothing of outward adornment or physical attraction. They may meet in no great building. There may be among them no preacher of note.
Yet there is that freshness which is associated with true and pure spiritual food, upon which the people of God can feed. Around these nameless lakes, during earth’s frigid winter, the spiritual environment is usually frozen solid. Great edifices may arise. Ministers of earthly note may fill the pulpit. But, most often, these citadels are characterized by spiritual coldness — indifferent to the Lord and to His people. Their motivation is generally people, money, pretense; not warmth in the gospel and love for Christ. Yes, all too often, these nameless gatherings may appear themselves to be frozen over; but one usually finds that within–even in earth’s darkest night of spiritual winter–there is the warm spark of spiritual reality. As long as the Lord is there, they never freeze through!
As we hike around our nameless lake, we keep a special eye on the resident beaver family. Typical of their kind, they are constantly busy. These summer months are their time of building and preparation against the penetrating cold soon to come. Saplings, brush and twigs are being cut and towed out to the beaver residence in the lake. Here, those building materials are industriously thrust and pounded into place. The building goes on through every waking hour.
Every healthy local nameless church has in it one or more families of beaver. They know the necessity of constant labor involved in building and maintaining a local church and keeping it in such repair that it is glorifying to the Lord. These spiritual homes are a place of constant labor. Indeed, it is this requirement that seems to drive so many away from these nameless churches. The will to join with the Spirit of God in the work of building is not there. The course of ease beckons many and sooner or later they migrate out of these nameless places into the citadels of Christendom. But the beaver, usually very few in number, labor on. And, their work is effective. It is by them that a visible testimony is built and maintained.
A beaver home is an interesting structure. Most of it is beneath the surface of the lake and not visible. It has at least one underwater entrance. But part of each such home is also visible above the surface. There is a breathing hole in the top. There is a spot that is kept open to the outside world even in the coldest hours of winter.
Again, the spiritual homes that are built by the spiritual beavers in the nameless churches that dot the surface of this world are unique dwellings indeed. Hidden away from the eyes of men is the avenue of entrance by which the family members come into a place that their craving spirits call “home.” Within, they find the fellowship and companionship that the outside world can never supply to them. Within this structure that the godless world is unable to perceive and appreciate, the saint finds the warmth and protection, the joys and the food, that alone can sustain him through earth’s dreadful godless winter. But, like the beaver homes of the nameless lake, the true spiritual home has also a part of its structure which the world can see: that part is the gospel testimony and the light of truth that shines out across the frozen tundra of this world as a beacon of warmth and life and hope for others. For, one of the things that characterizes these scriptural nameless gatherings is their constant and happy declaration of the Gospel of Christ. They know it as the only beacon of life, the only real element of hope, that brings a ray of joy into a cheerless world.
We watch as a busy beaver across the lake cuts a willow sapling from the shoreline and tows it out into the lake near the beaver lodge. At that point the beaver dives, taking the sapling under water with it. For a long while we see nothing further; then the beaver reappears and heads back to the shore for another sapling. We have been told that this is a process by which the beavers store their winter food. The cut saplings are actually taken to the bottom of the lake and pushed into the mud. There they remain, safe from freezing, until needed for food during the winter.
How like the Christian and his need for food during earth’s long, dark winter night. That food comes from the infallible Word of God, via those who teach it with conscience and clarity. Frequently, it is in these nameless gatherings of Christians that such food is found, which sustains the soul when all other sources have failed. The preachers and teachers may not be great orators; frequently the best are those with the least formal education, but when they bring their abundance from the sanctuary of God, where the ice of earth never can freeze the supply, the hungry soul is fed.
And thus, as we trudge back across the Alaskan tundra at the end of the day toward our cabin, the great wilderness of the north has taught us yet another lesson of spiritual import. It is amazing how the God of the universe teaches us, even by the profound things of His creation, the principles of His divine truth.