There’s a certain kind of time you can feel—not on a clock, but in your bones. It’s the kind of time that settles into the rings of a tree, that lingers in the hush of an ancient forest, that reminds us we are brief visitors in a much longer story. I was thinking about that recently when someone asked me: Where in the world do you most sense God?
My answer came quickly, before I could overthink it: in places where time is deep and visible—places like Redwood National and State Parks and the mountains.
If you’ve ever stood among the redwoods, you know the feeling. These trees—some of the tallest and oldest living beings on Earth—don’t rush. They don’t strain. They endure. A redwood can live for over two thousand years, quietly absorbing light, weathering storms, healing from fire, and continuing upward. Their resilience is not loud or dramatic; it is steady, patient, almost liturgical in its rhythm.
I am told to walk among them is to encounter a kind of living history—not the history we read in books, but the kind that breathes. Long before our modern anxieties, before our deadlines and divisions, these trees were already standing roots deep, branches open. They have witnessed cycles of destruction and renewal. Fire scars mark their trunks, yet those same fires clear the forest floor and make space for new life. Resilience, in this sense, is not about avoiding hardship; it is about being shaped by it and continuing anyway.
There is something profoundly theological about that. Scripture often speaks of time differently than we do. We measure it in minutes and milestones; God’s time unfolds in seasons, generations, and promises. “A thousand years are like a day,” the psalmist writes—not to diminish our lives, but to expand our perspective. In a forest like the redwoods, that perspective becomes tangible. Time is not just something slipping away; it is something that holds us, forms us, and connects us to what came before and what will come after. I look forward to witnessing this experience one day.
I catch a glimpse of that same truth closer to home, driving each week through the Avenue of the Pines in Saratoga Spa State Park. Even there, in familiar surroundings, the quiet persistence of trees reminds me that I am part of something larger than my daily concerns. Nature, for many of us, becomes a kind of first scripture—a “first Bible,” written not in ink but in wind, water, and wood. The towering height of a redwood can feel like a cathedral ceiling. The filtered light through its canopy resembles stained glass. The silence is not empty; it is full, almost expectant. In that space, theology moves from abstraction to encounter.
And perhaps that is the invitation.
We live in a world that prizes speed, productivity, and immediacy. Our minds grow tired, and there is always more to be done. Yet Jesus modeled the importance of stepping away—of resting, of pausing, of withdrawing to restore what the world continually drains. Creation itself echoes that rhythm.
This Earth Month, perhaps we can recover that wisdom from nature—whether in the stillness of a forest, the steady presence of trees, or the rhythm of ocean waves. Trees remind us that growth can be slow and still be profound. That endurance matters. That roots—hidden, unseen—are just as important as what rises above the surface. They teach us that resilience is not about standing untouched, but about continuing to reach upward, even after storms.
So, where do we meet God? Sometimes in sanctuaries and hymns, yes—but also in forests, along quiet trails, in the presence of something older and steadier than ourselves. Places that gently reorient us. Places that remind us we are part of a much larger story.
I was taught to reset our minds and hearts by simply walking outside—whether in a vast forest or a small patch of green—pausing long enough to notice. Pay attention to the time held there. To the quiet persistence of life. To the way creation endures.
You may find, as I have, that the first Bible is still speaking.
Rev. Ashley
