What I learned from a 400 year old tree…

One of my favorite professors offered a course in seminary called “Environment & Religion in Northern Appalachia”. This was a travel seminar to the area around Butler, Pennsylvania, about an hour north of Pittsburgh.

On one of the final days of the trip, after we had traveled to busted coal and steel towns, talked with ministry leaders and outdoor educators, and shared about our experiences, we headed to a very special holy site, Heart’s Content Old Growth Forest.

As soon as we entered the forest at the trailhead, the air changed. These were OLD trees. We watched them, spoke to them, touched them, and measured the biggest ones. We listened to the air shifting their massive branches, October leaves clattering as they shuddered and fell to the earth. We laid our hands on them, our heads. We noticed all the myriad creatures who made these old giants their homes.

It was holy. Other. Set apart. And yet, it was utterly normal. There was no sudden, shining light from on high, no booming voice echoing through the stillness, no burning bush that remained unconsumed by fire. Just a bunch of theology nerds in hiking boots and fleece jackets, pledging themselves to the moment.

As I lay my forehead against one of the ancient sentinel trees, I thought of all the people, horses, squirrels, birds, and insects who had visited here over the previous 400 years, and then I thought of the ones who would arrive next, and over the following 400. I could have sworn I felt the tree sigh. And if it did, I imagine it would have said, “Plenty of time. Plenty of time.”

I knew visiting would be impactful, but I will admit that I didn’t imagine that I’d be leaving feeling less harried than I had been when I entered. I’m pretty awful at patience, but I learned a little bit from the trees that day.