I grew up here in Maine, but my
wife Rachel is a Pennsylvanian. For those who are “from away,” our version of
springtime here in Maine is a difficult one to appreciate. Rachel rhapsodizes
about springtime in Pennsylvania as a season of green on every side, of
dogwoods blooming, of warm sunshine streaming through forests that have come
alive in a concert of birdsong. With such a picture of spring in mind, our
version of spring—a couple months of mud and chilly rain, followed immediately
by blackflies, does not seem appealing at first glance. But, having grown up in
Maine, there is something about springtime here that speaks to me in no
uncertain terms about the vibrancy of life. And for me, spring is not so much
about the colors of green leaves or blue skies, but about smells—the rich, heavy scent of the frozen earth slowly coming back
to life. Even if deprived of the main sense I rely on—sight—I could still tell
you it was springtime in Maine simply by breathing in the air, by catching the
scent of the ground thawing out.
Faith is a little bit like this. Many
of us rely on our rational impulses and gut instincts to make sense of the
world—these, like our sense of sight, are our primary way of understanding life.
But in certain seasons of our life, seasons of doubt or skepticism, these
senses don’t have much to offer us. Like looking for greenery at the beginning
of a Maine springtime, looking for clear signs of God’s activity using only our
gut instincts and a veneer of rationality might not bring a lot of results. So
if you’re in that place where it seems like evidence of God is hard to find, I
would encourage you to listen to your other senses. All human beings have
certain intuitions placed deep within them, intuitions which we take for
granted, but which provide clear signposts of God’s gracious presence in the
world. We are all wired to desire justice, for instance—everyone objects when
treated unfairly. We are also wired to appreciate beauty—in the natural world
around us, in works of art, in the sound of a song: something in our hearts
responds to beauty in a way that we wouldn’t expect to find if this were a
meaningless world. Intuitions like this—our nature to be predisposed towards
justice, goodness, beauty, joy—these are things which stand as signposts in our own nature
that we are created for more than merely ourselves. God is there to be found,
but sometimes, like finding springtime in Maine, we find him most clearly when
we close our eyes for a moment and breathe deep.
Let me draw one more parallel between
springtime and the life of faith. Some people try to grudgingly keep God at a
distance, as if opening our eyes to his truth would primarily mean having to
buckle down to the hard and bitter work of trying to be good. This attitude
entirely misses the point. It would be as if we Mainers, having sat through a
long, bleak winter, said to ourselves, “I really don’t want spring to come,
because springtime brings a lot of work—raking, planting, mowing, cleaning—I’d
rather just sit inside and let it keep snowing.” Rather, most of us are
joyfully ready for the simple and soul-cleansing work of spring when it
arrives. It’s the same way with coming to faith in God through Jesus
Christ—yes, it will mean a change in some of our habits and ways of living—but
just like springtime, it will be a change ushered in by incredible joy and
energy and new life. The call to come to faith in God is not a subpoena that
forces us into a life of gray drudgery; it is an invitation to leave behind our
old, closed-up homes, step out into the spring rain, and dance.