Finding God in Nature: A Christian Walk in the Woods

There is a peculiar paradox about woods that has long puzzled the minds of men, though perhaps not as much as it ought. It is this: that a wood is at once the most natural and the most supernatural of places. It is a fact so obvious that we often forget to notice it, like the nose on our face or the air in our lungs. But it is a fact nonetheless, and one that bears considerable pondering.

For what is a wood, after all, but a collection of trees? And what are trees but the most ordinary and unremarkable things in the world? We see them every day, lining our streets and dotting our parks, and we think nothing of them. They are as common as dirt, as unremarkable as grass. And yet, when we gather these unremarkable things together in sufficient numbers, they become something else entirely. They become a wood, and a wood is a place of magic and mystery.

It is a curious thing, this transformation. One tree is nothing special, but a thousand trees are a wonderland. One might as well say that one stone is nothing special, but a thousand stones are a cathedral. And indeed, there is something of the cathedral about a wood, something vast and solemn and holy. It is a place where one feels instinctively that one ought to whisper, to tread lightly, to remove one's hat. It is a place where one feels the presence of something greater than oneself.

But what is this something? That is the question that has haunted poets and philosophers since time immemorial. The pagans had their answer, of course. They peopled the woods with dryads and fauns, with nymphs and satyrs. They saw in every tree a spirit, in every rustling leaf a whispered secret. And who can say they were entirely wrong? For there is indeed something alive about a wood, something that seems to watch and listen and wait.

The modern mind, of course, scoffs at such fancies. It sees in a wood nothing but a biological machine, a complex system of photosynthesis and nutrient exchange. It measures and catalogues and dissects, and in doing so, it misses the wood for the trees. For the true magic of a wood lies not in its individual components, but in the whole that they create. It lies in the interplay of light and shadow, in the whisper of wind through leaves, in the soft carpet of moss beneath one's feet.

And yet, even as we recognize the magic of the wood, we must also recognize its danger. For a wood is not a tame place, not a place that has been tidied and trimmed and made safe for human habitation. It is a wild place, a place where anything might happen. It is a place where one might meet a wolf, or a bear, or something even more fearsome. It is a place where one might lose one's way, and never find it again.

This, perhaps, is why we both love and fear the wood. It represents something that we have lost in our modern, civilized world: the thrill of the unknown, the excitement of the unexpected. In our cities and towns, everything is planned and predictable. We know exactly what will happen from one moment to the next. But in the wood, anything is possible. We might stumble upon a hidden glade, or a babbling brook, or waterfall. We might even stumble upon ourselves.

For there is something about a walk in the woods that strips away our pretensions and reveals us as we truly are. In the hushed cathedral of the trees, we cannot help but confront our own smallness, our own insignificance in the face of nature's vastness. And yet, paradoxically, we also cannot help but feel our own importance, our own centrality to the drama of creation. For we are, after all, the only creatures in the wood who can truly appreciate its beauty, who can stand in awe of its majesty.

This, I think, is the true Christian perspective on the wood. For Christianity, unlike paganism, does not see the divine in nature itself, but rather sees nature as a reflection of the divine. The wood is not God, but it is God's handiwork, and as such, it speaks to us of His power and His glory. When we walk in the woods, we are walking in a world that He has made, a world that bears the imprint of His creative genius.

And yet, at the same time, Christianity recognizes that the wood is fallen, just as all of creation is fallen. It is beautiful, yes, but it is also dangerous. It is a place where sin lurks, where temptation waits. The serpent in the Garden of Eden was not, after all, lounging on a city street or in a suburban backyard. He was in a garden, in nature, in the wild.

This dual nature of the wood - its beauty and its danger, its holiness and its fallenness - is perhaps best captured in the Christian concept of wilderness. In the Bible, the wilderness is a place of testing and trial, a place where one goes to confront oneself and one's God. It is where Moses received the Ten Commandments, where Elijah heard the still, small voice, where John the Baptist prepared the way for the Lord. And it is where Christ Himself went to fast for forty days and forty nights, to be tempted by the devil.

And is this not, in a sense, what we do when we go for a walk in the woods? Do we not, in some small way, enter into our own wilderness? Do we not confront our own smallness, our own weakness, our own need for something greater than ourselves? Do we not, in the silence of the trees, hear the whisper of God?

Of course, not everyone who goes for a walk in the woods has such lofty thoughts. Many go simply for exercise, or for fresh air, or to walk the dog. And there is nothing wrong with this. Indeed, there is something profoundly right about it. For in doing so, they are participating, whether they know it or not, in one of the most ancient and sacred of human activities: the act of walking in nature, of being in communion with the created world.

For make no mistake: a walk in the woods is a form of communion. It is a way of connecting with something larger than ourselves, something that was here long before us and will be here long after we are gone. It is a way of remembering our place in the grand scheme of things, of recognizing that we are part of a vast and intricate web of life.

And this, perhaps, is the greatest gift that a walk in the woods can give us: perspective. In our daily lives, we are so often caught up in our own little dramas, our own petty concerns. We fret about deadlines and bills and what the neighbors think of our new car. But in the woods, all of that falls away. We are confronted with the vastness of creation, with the slow, patient rhythms of nature. We are reminded that our lives are but a brief flicker in the grand sweep of time.

And yet, paradoxically, this realization does not make us feel insignificant or worthless. On the contrary, it fills us with a sense of wonder and gratitude. For we are here, now, in this moment, able to witness the beauty of creation. We are able to walk among the trees, to breathe the fresh air, to feel the sunlight on our faces. We are, in short, able to participate in the ongoing miracle of existence.

This, I think, is the true value of a walk in the woods from a Christian perspective. It is not just about exercise or fresh air or pretty scenery, though these are all good things. It is about reconnecting with our place in creation, about remembering that we are creatures, made by a Creator. It is about experiencing, in a small way, the wonder and mystery of the world that God has made.

For in the end, a walk in the woods is a kind of pilgrimage. It is a journey into the heart of creation, and through it, into the heart of the Creator. It is a chance to step out of our ordinary lives and into a world of wonder and mystery. It is an opportunity to encounter God in the beauty and majesty of His handiwork.

And so, let us walk in the woods. Let us walk with open eyes and open hearts, ready to see the beauty that surrounds us. Let us walk with humility and reverence, recognizing our place in the grand scheme of things. Let us walk with gratitude, thankful for the gift of this beautiful world. And let us walk with hope, knowing that even in the darkest forest, even in the wildest wilderness, we are never truly alone. For God is with us, in every step, in every breath, in every moment.

As we walk, we might remember the words of the psalmist: "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands." And we might add: so too do the woods, the trees, the very earth beneath our feet. All of creation sings the praises of its Creator, if only we have ears to hear.

So let us listen. Let us look. Let us wonder. And let us walk, through the cathedral of the trees, into the very heart of creation. For in doing so, we may find that we are walking not just in the woods, but in the footsteps of God Himself.

And who knows? In the quiet of the forest, in the whisper of the wind through the leaves, we might just hear His voice, calling us home.

-The Seeker’s Quill