No. 007: A Flat in Freedom-Land.
On travel woes, independence, and Christian freedom.
I thought I knew what to expect. “I’ve never seen the Rockies,” I said, “but I’ve at least seen the Alps.”
Sure, they might be similar geologically, replied my husband, “but the Rockies have freedom.”
I laughed at what I then thought was a joke, a little patriotic hoorah for good old ‘Murica. But in a few days I would see what he meant.
Last week he taught an intensive theology course to students enrolled in a gap year school—a school whose small campus (actually, “camp” without the “-us” is probably a more accurate descriptor) is tucked within a remote valley in the Montana Rockies. Since I had never previously visited any of the western mountain states, he devised a plan to fly me out to meet him toward the end of the week so that we could spend the weekend taking in the Montana scenery.
Last Thursday I flew into Great Falls, rented a Chevy Malibu, and after enjoying a hearty lunch in town—where I certainly felt the server judging me for requesting mayonnaise with my tater tots—I set out to drive the hour-and-a-half route from Great Falls to the camp.
As soon as I left town, I entered a world that was alien to me. Vast—no, you don’t understand, vast—rolling hills of rugged, khaki grass stretched out for hundreds of miles in each direction, stretching toward the hazy line of mountains that spanned the horizon. I immediately came to appreciate the accuracy of Montana’s nickname, “Big Sky.” I’ve driven before through rural Illinois and Indiana and South Dakota, but before setting foot in Montana, I had never before felt the earth and sky spread out before me beyond what seemed like the limits of possibility. My occipital lobe struggled to accept what it was perceiving as reality; my eyes, I’m certain, had never before been tasked with the need to gather sensory data from such a distance.
As I approached the mountains, the geography changed. Towering buttes and jagged protrusions of bare rock stood each in its assigned spot across the landscape, each one unique in composition and character, statues to memorialize whatever chaotic and violent geographical processes had first given them shape.
The last forty-five minutes of the drive followed a gravel road that wove through lonely ranches and increasingly otherworldly towers of rock and dirt and grass. Soon I found myself at the feet of the mightiest, proudest mountains I had ever seen.
Along the gravel road there was no cell service, and there was no evidence of another human life across the countless acres that encompassed my field of vision. It was just me and the mountains and the miles of nothing.
Now I understood that Chris was right: when I surveyed all that was before me, there was no denying that this was a land of freedom. I considered that if I wanted to, I could stop the car in the middle of the gravel road, turn up the music, get out of the car, and dance like a fool, and no one would notice or care. My phone remained dark and silent—no pings to remind me to call the dentist back or that I needed to take out the trash. I could breathe easy, and it was impossible not to smile. I will have just as much mayonnaise with my tater tots as I please, thank you very much.
I suppose I wasn’t paying close attention to my rearview mirror—I hadn’t thought there was any need to—because after a little while, when I finally did steal a glance, I was surprised to see that a large black truck with tinted windows and a tall cover over the bed was trailing yards behind me, sending pieces of gravel and clouds of dust flying out from underneath its wheels.
It was a narrow road that did not allow for passing, so I kept driving, routinely checking my mirror and waiting for the truck to turn off into one of the ranch accesses. It kept following me, and it kept following me, and it kept following me. Soon, I began to feel uneasy. I knew in my head that the truck was likely driven by a local ranch worker on their way to do their job, but my body felt small and intimidated.
Some reading, though sympathetic, might think I’m a little silly or unreasonable for becoming nervous in such a situation. But I suspect that many, specifically women—perhaps especially petite and puny ones like me—will understand. I have on multiple occasions been subject to obscene threats and intimidating approaches by strangers, and if the #MeToo movement taught us anything, it is that the majority of women know viscerally what it’s like to feel that their immanent safety is in the hands of someone in a greater position of power, whether because of physical strength or societal status. It only takes one time, and after that the mind may work to disregard undue paranoia and suspicion, but the body remains on the lookout for potential threats, and it quickly engages the flight-or-fight response when one appears.
As the truck followed my tail, the factors that I had minutes earlier identified as “freedoms”—the lack of cell service or any human witness within miles—suddenly became liabilities. Sure, there was no one there to ask me any favors or criticize my choices, but there was also no one there to help a sister out or to call for help if anything shady occurred—and in that moment, I gladly would have accepted the former in order to secure the latter.
Finally, the truck did turn off into a ranch. I doubt that the person driving it ever considered that the heart of the driver of the dinky Malibu in front of them was beating fast and anxiously the entire time they followed. More likely, judging from their proximity to my rear bumper, they were irritated that I wasn’t driving as fast as someone in a sturdy pickup who was accustomed to the bumpy gravel road would. I was an interruption to their productivity and progress—a drain on their own sense of freedom. They should have a right to drive as fast as they wanted out here, and I was in their way.
Saturday morning, Chris and I packed up the Malibu and started driving north toward Glacier National Park, a three-and-a-half hour drive from the camp. We left early so that we could enjoy a full day of scenic drives and hikes around the park.
It was a breathtaking drive, passing through stunning landscapes and quaint towns. We had the windows rolled down as we tumbled on toward our destination, and I again felt free, as the clean breeze ran across my face. This was our day—the one we had been anticipating for months—and we were going to enjoy it.
But—again—the freedom was short-lived.
Not even halfway through the drive, a rogue nail somehow found its way into the wall of our rear passenger tire. The low pressure alert popped up on the dashboard, and the gauge informed us that the pressure was quickly dropping—from twenty-one PSI to twenty to nineteen… all the way down to twelve.
We pulled over one the side of the road with void, rolling prairie stretching out in all directions around us. Chris replaced the flat tire with the spare, and we took turns calling the Hertz roadside assistance line, and the Hertz in Great Falls, where we had rented the car, and the Hertz in Kalispell, where we were heading, and tire store after tire store. Perhaps because it was the weekend, it was nearly impossible to reach a human on the other side of any line, and those whom we could reach didn’t have many answers for us.
It felt to me a bit as though the empty land around us—as well as the occasional car speeding by—was mocking us. We had felt so free, so confident in our independence, but a small, simple act of God quickly reminded us that we were in fact tiny, relatively powerless creatures in an immense and chaotic universe, who at this moment depended entirely on the assistance of our human neighbors if we were going to get where we wanted to go. We drove another two hours to Kalispell on the spare, all the while hoping to get a call back from Hertz, but the phones were silent.
Once we made it into town, we were met with several more frustrations in the process of trying either to patch the tire or to get a replacement car. But after a couple of exhausting hours of trial and error, we found help in the form of a kind, middle-aged, flannel-clad woman at the Kalispell airport Hertz desk, and we were finally able to trade in the defunct Malibu for another Malibu in good working condition.
Finally!—around three o’clock we entered Glacier. What a glorious afternoon it was. We drove up the road to Logan Pass, and there, thousands of feet in their air, where it really did feel possible that I could touch the sun if I just stood on my tiptoes, we soaked in the view of endless peaks, glazed with gleaming glaciers, piercing the pure air.
We hiked around the pass, where ground squirrels greeted us with curious chirps from every boulder, and we encountered a comically fluffy mountain goat and a small herd of elegant bighorns grazing. I worried that I might be becoming obnoxious with my repeated, Owen-Wilson-esque declarations of “Woooow,” as every turn around every corner brought with it new, unique, magical views of God’s magnificent creation, but, honestly, there was nothing else that could be said. That these vistas exist on earth, and that a weak little human such as me should be so privileged as to enjoy them, I could recognize as nothing less than a miracle.
It was inspiring to see the American flag at the visitors center waving against the backdrop of the bold, rocky peaks. I mentally tipped my corduroy baseball cap in honor of John Muir and all who followed him in order to make experiences like this possible for the average American.
We left the park as the sun set and started driving toward our hotel in Great Falls in the dark.
Soon after leaving Glacier, we entered the Blackfeet Reservation, driving past several village-like clusters of homes. To describe these sights as “sad” would be a great disservice to the weight of the sober sorrow that they set upon my heart.
These were not old villages that had fallen on hard times but still bore the vestiges of glory days gone by. Rather, it was clear that poverty and suffering had been the beginning of their story, poverty and suffering has been the full middle of their story, and, most likely, poverty and suffering would someday be their end. The darkened houses looked as though they might be held together with scotch tape and staples, but really I think it was just brute, pleasureless resilience.
As we drove by these homes, I couldn’t help but wonder about the image-bearers of God who dwelt therein. What did they think about the “freedom” of all of us middle-class, American tourists speeding by with flags waving in our mind’s eye, all sentimental and high on the celebration of personal liberty that the National Park had inspired in us? Have we used it well? Are we using it well?
If you are now feeling uneasy anticipation that I might henceforth cite these stories in an argument to endorse a political agenda, please rest assured that I will never use this platform to do anything of the sort.
Every American political agenda touts a commitment to “freedom,” but each one promises its own unique set of freedoms. No one can agree on what should be counted as an inalienable right and what is simply an inalienable wrong. The talking heads representing both of our primary political parties are eager to dehumanize and trample over anyone standing in the way of their ability to wine and dine potential voters—to fatten them up for slaughter on a steady diet of little acorns of self-preservation, self-expression, and self-promotion.
The only banner under which I intend to write is that of the kingdom of Christ, which will always radically subvert any system or allegiance derived from the wisdom of mankind. You are welcome to consider what these words might mean for your personal politics, but that will never be my primary goal, and the gospel of Christ is calling you to so much more than checking a box on a ballot.
Nevertheless, I consider myself an American Christian rather than a Christian American, so these experiences did encourage me to think through what the normative truth of the gospel might have to say about my personal understanding of “freedom.”
To live in freedom is an invaluable blessing, one for which we should daily be thankful. God created humans with the gift of free will so that we might worship him, love our neighbor, and steward the earth with “cheerful” hearts, “not reluctantly or under compulsion” (2 Cor. 9:7). Similarly, America’s Founding Fathers believed that the health of our nation would flourish most effectively if its citizens could work toward its success from a position of liberty rather than a position of compulsion. Granted, some will surely abuse their freedom, but the net national gain will be positive if our citizens are free to live and work and worship as they see fit, and if our citizens have a real say in the progress of our government.
American freedom and Christian freedom can certainly go hand-in-hand in order to build constructively on one another. Please don’t hear me as saying otherwise. Our lives will be significantly easier and more comfortable if our government does not actively seek to prevent us from spreading the gospel and serving our neighbor in the name of Christ.
However, the freedom offered by Christ should radically transform our appreciation of our American freedom. The promise of American freedom is a promise of personal liberty. It promotes the pursuit of self-sufficiency, self-regulation, self-expression, and self-promotion. But the promise of Christian freedom turns these “rights” on their heads. What is it that the gospel frees us from if not our selves?
When we place our faith in the death and resurrection of Christ, we are no longer enslaved to the corrupt and sinful passions of our selfish human nature. Christian freedom, therefore, is the opposite of self-determination: it is characterized by obedience to Christ, and obedience to Christ will always require a death to self.
Jesus speaks the pinnacle expression of Christian freedom in John 10:17–18: “The reason my Father loves me is that I lay down my life—only to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down and authority to take it up again. This command I received from my Father.”
What does this means for us as American Christians? This: American liberty is only of use to the Christian if she understands it as an opportunity to follow Christ in self-sacrifice, not as an opportunity to pursue her own gain.
Furthermore, we must recognize that although American liberty facilitates the ease and painlessness of our obedience to Christ, our enjoyment of Christian freedom does not ultimately depend on our access to American liberty. No law, no persecution, and not even the threat of death can prevent you from taking up your cross and following Christ.
Americans generally like freedom because they believe that freedom gives them power. If they are not forced to submit their entire livelihoods to government regulations, then they are free to take control of their own lives and enjoy the fruits of their labors.
But whenever humans strive for power, there is opportunity for injustice. In The Problem of Pain, Lewis describes the environmental conditions that enable this reality:
Yet again, if the fixed nature of matter prevents it from being always, and in all its dispositions, equally agreeable even to a single soul, much less is it possible for the matter of the universe at any moment to be distributed so that it is equally convenient and pleasurable to each member of a society. … And this is very far from being evil: on the contrary, it furnishes occasion for all those acts of courtesy, respect, and unselfishness by which love and good humour and modesty express themselves. But it certainly leaves the way open to a great evil, that of competition and hostility. And if souls are free, they cannot be prevented from dealing with the problem by competition instead of courtesy. And once they have advanced to actual hostility, they can exploit the fixed nature of matter to hurt one another. … The permanent nature of matter in general means that when human beings fight, the victory ordinarily goes to those who have superior weapons, skill, and numbers, even if their cause is unjust.
We all know that “freedom isn’t free,” but what we sometimes fail to recognize is that freedom doesn’t stop being costly even once it has been secured at the most basic level. However, the more that freedom allows power to coalesce within a particular subset of society, the more that the cost of freedom will fall upon the vulnerable rather than upon those who are privileged to enjoy power and security.
Humans will never be satisfied with the “rights” that their government has afforded them. Once you have used your freedom to climb up another wrung of the ladder to self-sufficiency, you will simply encounter the next wrung, and you will believe that you deserve to reach it. If the resources that God had given us were unlimited, then this wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, but that is not the case. The higher we climb to secure our own comfort, the further we push down those close to the heart of God—the weak and the vulnerable.
This brings us to another vital characteristic of Christian freedom. In America, we tend to equate freedom with independence. But this runs contrary to God’s design for mankind. “It is not good for the man to be alone,” declares our creator (Gen. 2:18).
Christian freedom is not a matter of self-sufficiency; it is a matter of solidarity. It calls us to find our place in the body of Christ and to function in our unique purposes in order to facilitate the health of that body and to invite other members into its composition.
In recent months, I have had the opportunity to make friends with some people of whom I previously would have been afraid—“addicts” and “criminals.” In getting to know them and hearing their stories, my eyes been have opened to the reality that most of these people are living the hard knock life not due to the presence of character flaws that do not exist in us proper, middle-class folk, but rather due to the presence of unspeakable trauma and physiological distress and the absence of any safety nets or support systems.
When we enjoy security and stability, it is easy for us to believe that we have earned the fruits of our labors and therefore deserve to keep climbing toward the fulfillment of our own comfort and pleasure. Yes, it is a blessing to enjoy the fruits of our labors, and we do not need to feel ashamed for doing so. However, we cannot lose sight of the fact that we could not have landed where we are without the help and support of other people. Furthermore, God has called us to lay down our lives in order to love our neighbor, even the ones we may be quick to blame as lazy or incompetent. You need other people, and other people need you.
I suspect that George Thatcher Balch recognized something of this reality when he penned the words to the pledge of allegience, “with liberty and justice for all.” When we recite the pledge, I think that we tend to hear “liberty” and “justice” just as two “patriotic” words that, of course, should go together. However, when we stop to think about it, we realize that the personal liberty of selfish humans and the cause of justice are actually like oil and water. They do not naturally mix. As we have already seen, the insatiable pursuit of personal liberty often breeds injustice and oppression.
Only when we submit our personal liberty to the reign of Christ and pursue lives of self-sacrifice will our liberty empower the increase of justice in our nation. There is no other way.
While Chris and I hiked around Logan Pass, my selfish human nature instructed me to begrudge the hundreds of other people who were doing the same. I wanted the lady the in the neon pink shirt to move out of the frame of the photo I was trying to take, and I wanted the slow-walkers in front of me to pick up the pace. I wanted to be able to enjoy the peaceful and majestic views of nature without the noise and hustle of other men and women surrounding me.
But ultimately I had to recognize the establishment of the National Parks was “America’s best idea” because they reflect something of the kingdom that Christ is building. God has given mankind this earth as a home for all of his creatures to share and enjoy. It is a beautiful picture of freedom to see hundreds of diverse Americans, as well as tourists from other nations, gathered together to glory in God’s good creation.
This is what the freedom of the new creation will look like, and it is an unspeakable blessing to enjoy a foretaste of it.
Until next time,
Affectionate thanks,
HLS
P.S.—Don’t read anything into the fact that I’m posting this on Labor Day. I just wanted to get my thoughts down while they were fresh.