The run was colder than usual. The afternoon promised to bring above freezing temperatures, but the cool of the morning left the moist rocks frozen and slick. As cold as it was, today I was thankful for the freezing temperatures, they solidified the boggy trails, and my feet glided effortlessly across the surface of it all, instead of sinking into the mud as I knew I would later in the day. The ice was not the same as it had been in weeks past; this was not solid sheets of ice blanketing my entire way. Trying to remain optimistic as I shivered, I decided this was ice in which I could find traction. I made the best of the situation. I ran quickly—well for me—to cover as much ground as possible before the thaw. Besides, I was warmer the harder I worked.
I made my way up a climb; the rocks were slick and icy, most of the trail washed away in the winter rains from the weeks prior. As I turned a corner, I breathed a heavy sigh of relief as I saw the stack of rocks from a distance marking for me the end of my climb. I had been here before, many times, and even if the trail was different from the winter weather, it was still familiar enough for me that I knew where I was and for the time being perhaps even where I was going. All the same, I was thankful for the marker, the sign for me the suffering was almost over.
With miles to go, no cell service, or music, I had plenty of time to think about the cairn. Sometimes they bring me such joy—those times when I am out by myself, way past tired, and not confident where I am. In those exhausted and pitiful moments, cairns are like a beacon of hope. They confirm my path, quiet my fears, and give me the comfort to know someone has walked here before me. These are the type of Cairns I respect—the honest ones.
Perhaps the hilltop cairn I just passed was a beacon for someone. I tried to imagine what it might feel like to make my way to the top of the rocky climb not knowing what was in front of me. I’m not sure I would even recognize it as the trail the way the water had washed down the slopes and eroded the side of the hill. I was glad I left the marker to stand.
I flashed back to another run. Jenni and I had made our way across the river to find a pair of hikers practicing stacking rocks by the river bank. It was hot that day. There was a middle-aged black man, solid build, casually dressed and a slightly younger, white woman with her hair pulled back. He was teaching her. Typically, I would have run on by, but being wet, tired, and not alone we stopped for a few minutes, thankful for the break. The man’s cairns were impressive, and there was something to instantly love about his quiet and humble spirit. The woman was not nearly as skilled, and we watched regathering her rocks time and time again as her stack tumbled. The man was patient and not critical, “Find the balance and three points of contact,” we heard him say more than once. Something inside of me longed to touch one of those rocks… but we were out of time.
Stacked stones… such a controversy. So much to think about—construction of the stack, three points of contact, the purpose of the whole damn thing.
When you run far enough, or allow yourself obnoxious amounts of time to think, you begin to see how seemingly unrelated ideas overlay each other. As if the same story told is told over and over and over again in all different mediums.
The ancients stacked rocks. Might very well be a practice as old as humanity itself. Piles and piles of stones marking the path, honoring burial grounds, pointing to the stars, or… so many reasons. I suppose I really don’t know much about the whole thing. What I do know, is ancient Christians (even in the time before Israel) were called to stack rocks to honor God. To honor God—stack uncut stones. To build an altar—stack uncut stone. Don’t build a temple—stack uncut stone. Cross the river—stack uncut stone. Stop to worship—stack uncut stone. My tired mind could quickly become lost in the symbolism of the whole thing.
Rock—a symbol for God. Cornerstone—a symbol for Jesus. In the physical sense, our ancestors were called to stack uncut stones. Stones as raw and rugged as nature intended at the point in time when the short life of a man intersected with the long journey of a rock. Stacked stones were not meant to be altered in any way by the tools of man. The jagged edges left untouched or made smooth by centuries of standing in the river. A state of natural, all balanced upon itself, not meant to be softened by man for his own aesthetic or personal gain. According to the Bible, to shape stones for an altar is to defile them and render them unfit for the holiest of uses…
Despite the warnings, human nature seduces us to meddle with the ‘Rock’ at every level of the story. With a prideful spirit, we shape away, never content to leave well enough alone. With our ‘perfectly’ altered stones we began to stack… building our altars to uniformity, our little tiny towers of Babel. They disrupt the ecosystem and litter the landscape.
But to build a solid stack, a reverent soul would need more than just enough respect to leave well enough alone. The builder would have to search for solid ground to build upon and suitable stones. Only then, with a quiet mind and a deep admiration for each stone in its natural state, would he begin to stack one on another—carefully finding the balance, ensuring each stone was standing on three points of contact.
Ha. Human nature. I try to outrun it, but the battle is woven through me on every level. I spent years trying to soften the edges of God so He (personification) would appear more appealing. Then I turned Him around and covered up what I thought was His bad side so He could save face. I was trying to be respectful. When I finally came to appreciate Him in all his natural glory, I rushed to build upon a faith before stopping to find the center and balance of it all. My stack was wobbly, and I could not defend it.
I can feel my Dietrich Bonhoeffer influence. Three points of contact—incarnation, crucifixion, resurrection—a perfect balance.
Crucifixion—the horrifying, tragic, selfless act of love to which I will forever be in His debt—this is Truth. But how quickly we forget this is only part of the story.
I was raised in a generation who focuses almost solely on the crucifixion. The stack wobbles… Crucifixion…the connotation evolves…where an angry and child-abusing god took vengeance on his very own son. All of us deemed by God worthless sinners deserving of death. All of creation, woven together outside of our standard of time, exists solely for the benefit of ultimate and we are encouraged to disrespectfully disregard it as nothing more than a means to an end. Fuck the world. We are all going down.
I am not fooled by the poorly portrayed image of god painted by the hand of man. My God is also the Creator who wrote incarnation into the playbook. God became a man. As an artist, I have some slight comprehension of the moment when you start to fall in love with your creation, when you begin to give your work the best of yourself, when you understand it might be worth something, when it starts to have a life of its own. To disregard creation is to disrespect the Creator.
In the resurrection we find hope. Hope where creation at every level of the story, perfectly flawed by its own free will, is melted down through suffering, passes through the fire of crucifixion, only to be reborn in grace and unity with Christ. The curse of the fall of man—the birth of new creation only comes about through suffering. The hope of the fall of man—we are still promised new creation from conception, through gestation, through the crying out and agony of delivery. He rises again — the third point of contact.
Only then, in reverence can we remain firmly balanced, with a faithfully and resolutely grounded in creation as is stands solid in today—with a hope, a vision, and a trust as we walk towards the ultimate of what is to come. The reality of today only set into context when it reaches finality. “It is finished,” and we can rise again in those words.
To zoom in so close as to see the parts separate from the whole offers nothing but a grave and arrogant injustice to the entirety of the work. Only in the unity of the elements, set into context by the whole, can we have any hope of accurately portraying the values of each piece. Illusion is a crafty serpent and before we can even process thought we are already deceived.
So even if we could conceivably build an appropriate stack of uncut stones, there remain more pressing matters to consider than construction in and of itself. It seems in light of current controversies, one must reflect on the spirit of the stack or understand the motive of its creator. Proper construction ensures a stack will weather the elements. Construction answers the question, “Can it stand?” while understanding the spirit of the stack considers the question, “Should it stand?”
To stack stones—or build altars—for the sake of stacking stones and then leaving them up for the glorification of yourself is something of a sin, though I cannot claim to understand precisely why. Perhaps the sin lies in the certainty of it all, or maybe in the elevation of man. Sometimes perhaps we build faith alters as monuments to ourselves and our understanding, instead of constructing reverent, holy, and private stacks which point to God. In addition to defacing the elements, these well-intended but ill-placed stacks might even through a hiker off track. I am confident we are not at liberty to determine the heart of the matter, but I fear one day Someone might be.
So, the question remains, “Can we, should we, stack uncut stones?” Conceivably some are still called to it. And we, with our brothers on the path, will pass the stacks of holy praise and know we are on the highway of the redeemed. Like beckons of light, purposefully and respectfully placed, well-balanced and centered in unity, the Word of God stands stacked upon itself as a signpost which can withstand the weathering of centuries.
But to be fair, I have never tried to stack stones in a physical sense and trying to find balance remains for me the most humiliating and humbling pursuit of my existence. It has been a long run, but it is finished. I am tired yet full of hope with so much behind me, but I have yet to even start my day.
The sun begins to shine, and I am thankful it has risen again.