Consider the alderfly.
Eggs, laid on the leaves of riverside vegetation, become larvae which fall into the water below. The journey to adulthood occurs over a year or more below the surface: larvae crawl, hunt and grow, clinging to submerged stones and sediment against the constant force of current. Invisible to the world above they grow and watch and wait. They wait, for that moment when the inscrutable hand of their own nature will deem the time ready to launch them upward, through the column of rushing water above and into maturity.
When the time does arrive, pupal forms abandon larval shells and the river bottom, floating upward and carried downstream until, amidst the moving landscape of surface film, wings emerge and dry and flutter. The adult alderfly leaves the water, in flight.
Awkward, fragile, miraculous flight.
Perfectly timed to cues of sunlight and season imperceptible to you and I, thousands upon thousands of flies release, emerge from the waters, and discover flight in the same moment; millions, over the course of some days. Tumbling clouds of newly emerged, fragile-winged sprites, cartwheeling awkwardly through the air in search of love.
This airborne, adult culmination of years of expectation will last a day, maybe two. No eating, or sleeping, or waiting transpires in this life-above-the-water. Only frenetic, awkward flight, coupling, egg-laying and, ultimately, death. Having spent their last ebb of life in the course of nature’s good purpose for them they fall, lifeless, to the surface of the water once again, carried along by the force of the current. It’s a strange, short life… every stage of which offers a veritable banquet for trout.
Which, in case you were wondering at this point, is where my interests enter the story.
Fishing for trout, on the fly, in moving water, is to me part pastime, part art form, and part spiritual discipline. I won’t put on any poetical airs about it: as a full-time pastor, husband, and father of three, I am not anywhere near as dedicated, or accomplished, a fly-fisherman as I might otherwise aspire to be. But nonetheless, it is a genuine passion that is a small but noteworthy part of me. An introvert by nature and extrovert by vocation, there is something in the quiet, pure aesthetic joy of casting a fly for (generally) small but beautiful fish, in remote and beautiful places, that is healing to my all-too-often harried soul. As such, I make time to find my way to the river as often as I am able.
Which again, frankly, isn’t all that often. Dad. Three kids under 10. You understand.
When one is an aspirational fisherman and actual father, one becomes by necessity something of a master of creative recreational multitasking. In this spirit, I take my kids camping (because, good dad) in mid/late June, the height of the alderfly hatch on the Androscoggin River (because, good fishing). In fairness, it does take a certain amount of “spin” to convince children that choosing to live in a tent in the woods in the midst of an entomological event resembling a biblical plague (if you time it just right) is not gross (or terrifying), but in fact, good fortune.
*Clouds of delicate, cartwheeling alderflies, careen haphazardly against the windshield as we approach camp, exploding, and painting our line of sight with their once-vital essence: “No, honey, those aren’t bugs. That’s trout food!”*
It’s amazing what a little perspective can do.
Per tradition, my children and I - along with my brother and his kids, a first for this year - were camped on the banks of the Androscoggin River for the alder hatch of June 2018. Two dads, two tents, a combined five kids, a fly rod, and one of my most favorite places. We pulled into the campground amidst a blinding torrent of north country, summer rain. Bolting from the vehicles with a shout, dads and children raced for the shelter of a riverbank lean-to. Huddled and dripping in the small open-faced log structure, we looked out over the surface of the water as the heavy assault continued; massive raindrops exploding on impact. My brother and I exchanged a glance over the heads of the kids, silently wondering together what we had gotten ourselves into.
The storm would pass in fairly short order, however, as they generally do in this country. The late afternoon sun broke through the remaining clouds, the children bolted from beneath the shelter to explore the grounds, and my brother and I began the process of making camp. Sunlight warmed the air, striking the surface of the river, and a smattering of alderflies began to emerge, taking flight in the makings of an afternoon hatch. We had arrived.
The days that followed would be filled with the slow, saturating richness of north country summer; kids biking, wandering, sinking their toes in the riverbank mud, net-fishing for minnows, and generally indulging their imaginations amidst the analog quiet of the woods. My brother and I would sit and talk, read, and periodically cast a line for trout. In the evenings, once the children were retired to tents and sleeping bags, we would sit beside the fire, watching the flame and listening to the river. In the darkness, swirling clouds of alderflies gravitated toward whatever light source presented itself. In the case of candle and campfire, this attraction proved comically - if predictably - fatal to hundreds. Sometimes, the old metaphors do prove themselves true.
It has been my experience that time spent in such a milieu tends one to wax philosophic. In my circles it goes without saying that, given enough time and a late enough hour, campfire talk cannot help but eventually stumble upon the profound. I find that nighttime in the Great North Woods leans particularly introspective, in any case; in the nearly complete absence of light pollution, the darkness is primordial in quality. Its pure, enveloping power could be terrifying, but for the fact that such darkness presents a spectacularly unblemished canvas for moon and stars. Truly, this is a night sky to be reckoned with; the sheer scope and visual depth of the display defies one to look away. A hundred miles from the nearest urban center, the cosmos vie to reclaim our undivided attention.
It was here, with fire crackling at my feet and neck craned backward, contemplating the overhead spectacle, that I was struck by the profound absurdity of it all. Alderflies swirling in the air above the flame helplessly indulging their fatal attraction, the mind-bending canvas of the cosmos sprawling above the riverbank tree line, the conversation turned to consider spiritual implications. Particularly, the absurdity of a God BIG enough to birth the vastness of the universe with naught but his mind and voice, yet INTIMATE enough to have imagined - with equal care and detail - the entomological intricacies of such a life as these.
“His eye is on the sparrow”, the old song goes. In truth, the eyes of God regard even less dignified creatures.
And it begs consideration: if this is the manner of God we find revealed in scripture, and in Christ, both immeasurably vast and inconceivably, intimately near, how is it that we are so easily convinced to live from a place of fear? How is it that we can claim Christ, while allowing our humanity to be reduced to competition and survival by the economies of nationalism, racism, and the gospel of the free market? How is it that we can believe what we claim to believe about God, while remaining functionally captive to scarcity and self-protection?
In Christ the self-revelation of God declares that we are not nameless matter, scratching out our own survival before a vast and faceless universe, but that our lives have been ordained; we are purposed, provided for, and known. In Jesus, we claim and believe nothing less than that the entire weight of the immeasurable cosmos bends toward us… in love! A brash and spectacular claim, perhaps, but the Gospel is thus or it is nothing at all. And such a love, properly understood and truly embraced, simply leaves no room for fear; for a belief in scarcity, tribalism, or the violence of self-interest. In the eyes and embrace of such a God, what could we imagine that we might otherwise, ever lack? His eye is on even the alderfly, and we are perfectly, eternally loved.
And as such, may we consider that the love and nearness of a God such as we encounter in Christ comes with economic implications, as well as spiritual. No longer ought scarcity and fear hold formative power over the follower of Jesus. Rather, a conscious appreciation of our laughable, eternal economy of abundance ought ground our gratitude and expectation in appropriate depths of supernatural joy. By Christ, we are known. In Christ, we are loved.
Thanks be to God!