John Muir communed with nature. Contemplating the utter placidity of a peak-reflecting lake in a ice-ringed “stadium” peopled only by 100,000 conifer trees , the father of our national parks found God. I certainly sympathize with Muir; I’ve known the holy awe of the pristine gorge gush that thunders. It also whispers: this is God’s place.
But I differ on one thing: You can find God anywhere. While the splendor of Yosemite certainly resounds of God’s handiwork, I can find God in cacophony of urban ugliness. I don’t need nature to induce a God-feel. I can get high on God simply by going to prayer. And I wouldn’t give that up for anything.
I didn’t make it to the national parks this year. But I haven’t missed a day of communing with God.
No doubt, thousands have sensed the mystical sway of crossing the threshold of some natural sanctum. They could stand to learn that the tingling sensation of being in God’s presence can be found right here at home too.