Revelation on Interstate 40

There is something unique about seeing the country at ground level. As we drove from Sacramento to Charlotte, we saw a lot of the United States. California by itself is an astounding piece of real estate, moving from the Central Valley and its rich farmland, across Mt. Tehachapi and into the Mojave. One gets a deep sense of the physical wonderland that is the Golden State. But from there, one runs across the painted rocks of Arizona and New Mexico, suddenly high in the air despite being on plains. The mesas stand as sentinels along Route 40 that tracks the old Route 66. The ghosts of Kerouac and Steinbeck and all the other nomads traversing between Oklahoma and California haunt each mile. There was the fascinating night spent in Gallup, NM, where Alison and I realized we were the only people at a Mexican restaurant who were not First Nations. On through Albuquerque, a gleaming city of steel and glass plunked down in the arid wonderland of rocks along the Rio Grande, and up and over the high ridge separating West from East at 7300 ft. Then there was the night in Shamrock, TX that was as if an entire town had been moved into an Assisted Living facility—dinner at Big Vern’s Steakhouse with Big Vern now Hobbled Vern using a walker to traverse the aisles in his dining room, a shadow of the Texan slinging beefsteaks from the Route 66 glory days—the whole town remembering what had once been. From there, we went scudding through the land of reservations named Oklahoma, but featuring license plates from the original nations of Choctaw, Cherokee, and Seminole. What an awakening of suddenly seeing one’s nation’s history from an entirely different perspective. Then suddenly, we were back in the rolling hills of the Ozarks, covered with lush, green hardwoods. Things were the familiar things of our upbringing. We felt the humidity. We heard the cicada songs. The horizon now closed in right overhead, paneled on each side by trees, replacing the the 360 degree sky of the Plains. The accent softened into the lilt of the South. Sweet tea was again on the menu. Little Rock felt like a rediscovered acquaintance from years ago. That sense only deepened as we crossed the Big Muddy (i.e., Mississippi) in Memphis. We were back in the fold of the South with all its glory, all its pain, and all its complexity—it only took about five minutes to see our first Confederate Flag, then ten to see a multiplicity of browns, beige, mochas, black, white, ecru, and all the other wondrous colors of humanity at a rest stop. We are on shifting sands, at once completely known, then in a moment, utterly alien. That held true as we passed through Nashville and on to Knoxville. Then, all at once, everything gave way to the ancient beauty of the Pigeon Gorge cut by the winding waters of the Pigeon River. We were reminded at once of the centrality and omnipotent power of God—the God who made all things, keeps all things, and blessed each human being with the stamp of being beloved and cherished by God. All our differences, divisions, histories, and stories fell silent before the grandeur of the Creator. Popping back out onto the the plateau of Asheville, we were at last home from where we came. Western North Carolina. I could close my eyes and drive the rest of the way. Reconnecting with Daughter Chelsea to walk the forests of Camp Grier, experiencing again the joy of a summer thunderstorm, and eating a biscuit with grits for breakfast. I was in the embrace of the place that raised me. Finally, came Charlotte, the Queen City. Boy! How’ve you changed! I can see the outlines of the old roads, neighborhoods, and pastures now sprouting one subdivision after another. The panoply of humanity now lives where once there were only cows and corn. We saw the faces of newly arrived cultures and languages. We heard Spanish, Arabic, Hindi, and the lilt of Jamaica in our new apartment home. You have changed, Charlotte, and the work before me makes itself plain and clear—to communicate the presence of Jesus to everyone and anyone—people from way back, and people brand new, people with everything in common and nothing at all—yet every one a child of God, fashioned and formed for grace, someone needing the love, nurture, and presence of the overwhelming compassion and welcome of Jesus. 

And if I was to sum up the entire journey—that would be the central discovery. There are far too many voices ready and willing to tell us of all the ways we are separate, different, and alienated from one another; telling us that there is no hope whatsoever of being together; so we might as well retreat to our own mighty fortresses to keep everyone else at bay. But I saw something else driving across the country. I saw the beauty of God’s imagination. I saw the universality of God’s love. I heard the same cry from every human heart encountered—the need for grace, the hunger for welcome, and the longing for community, if not communion, in the presence of the One who made us. So that is our task—to overwhelm every voice of division with the powerful welcome to anyone, everyone, and all, no matter who they are, what they are, or where they are. We are to carry to beauty of creation itself in our words, presence, and actions within the world.