My parents are devoted followers of Jesus and incredibly committed church members. Growing up, we were present nearly every minute the church doors were open — Sunday morning services, Wednesday meetings, special Bible studies, youth group meetings, and early-morning prayer times.
This commitment to church activities, along with the teachings of my church, instilled in me a belief that God was to be found when we showed up to church. I looked for God by learning more about him in sermons, reading the Bible, and consistently going to church. The idea was: if I were at church often enough, I would be present when God decided to “show up” (as the pastor was known to say).
As I have grown, I have fond memories of genuinely “finding God” within the four walls of the church I attended. I experienced moments of clarity when God revealed who he is through teachings from Scripture. I had encounters with God during worship when my heart was filled with hunger for more of him, or I was struck with an awareness of his love. To this day, I value and cherish those important expressions of faith. Still, we were made for so much more communion with God — communion that is not dependent or constrained by our often well-planned, organized, or structured events. The teachings of my church were not wrong; but they were, perhaps, too narrow.
Even as child, I longed for a relationship with God that transcended the expected surroundings of organized worship. And I needed to find God in the middle of my personal struggles, which often were experienced outside the church building.
One of the greatest struggles of my life has been a persistent battle with anxiety. On some days, my anxiety seems like background noise that, for the most part, I can keep to a low hum. On other days, however, anxiety overwhelms and even consumes me. On the overwhelming days, I battle not only feelings of helplessness or fear, but also my shame that I am experiencing anxiety in the first place. Voices of condemnation remind me that, “if I were a better follower of Christ, if I were more surrendered, or if I were more holy, I would not struggle with anxiety. Don’t I know the exhortation to ‘not worry’ in Matthew 6:25?”
“These old trees had not done anything to earn their place. They simply are.”
I have spent many hours reading and memorizing Scripture, listening to sermons, and singing songs in church. Shouldn’t that have brought me peace by now? Yet, I continue to struggle with it. How am I to find God in this struggle?
Recently, I went for a run in my neighborhood. We live in a historical part of town where the houses have stood for well over 100 years. I love these streets, in large part because of the connection to history I feel every time I look at these quirky, old homes. On this particular day, however, I was suddenly struck by awe — not of the houses, but of the massive trees that stand between them. Like the houses, these trees existed long before I came to be and will likely be there long after I am gone. As I ran through the winter day, the trees seemed to be calling out to me to find God in a new and unexpected way.
It occurred to me that these old trees had not done anything to earn their place. They simply are.
At some point, decades before I was ever a possibility, these trees began to grow. They have weathered frigid winters, howling winds, droughts, and years of abundance. Through it all, they continue to grow, change, adapt, and thrive. One tree caught my eye, and I noticed a small hole in the trunk where an animal had found shelter. Season after season, these trees have provided warm homes for animals, gloriously cool shade, and spectacular autumn beauty. Year after year, they have remained steady, constant, alive, and vibrant.
As I ran on, I realized that contemplating these trees allowed my heart to find God in an unexpected way. Romans 1:20 reminds us that creation “testifies of its Creator.” I experienced this testimony. Like these trees, I do not need to fight, strive, or earn my place in the world. Instead, I can rest in the sustaining grace, kindness, and patience of my Creator.
In the gospels, Jesus told us to “look to the lilies of the field and the birds of the air” which do not “toil,” but are sustained, carried, and cherished simply for being. On my run, I encountered the Creator of these very trees speaking to me, reminding me that I too am carried, sustained, nourished, and cherished — even in my anxiety. I encountered this truth, not with my intellect, nor within the walls of a church, but through glorious old trees that were quietly declaring the goodness of their Creator.
