It was that dim, uncertain time of day—the time when the sun is just settling behind the trees for the night, but its light still lingers faintly.  I was using the last drops of day to keep working on a big task:  the eternal chore, familiar to all who live in the country, of collecting and burning fallen tree branches.  I’d been working diligently all afternoon, submerging many loads of brush in a roaring fire.  Now, with evening creeping over the hills, I was solely focused on retrieving the dead sticks under the last few trees in a certain area before I returned to the fire to watch the sparks collide with the stars.

Storms were predicted for later, and their first messengers were already boiling over the sky in the form of rolling purple clouds.  The winds, however, were still gentle and held the avant-garde scent of an approaching thunderhead along with the elusive sweetness of spring.  As the day faded, the spring peepers—the tiny frogs that live in the marshes—began raising their chorus.

Then I heard something else.  Something different than the frogs, the breeze, the few sleepy birds giving subdued chirps.  Something that made my heart beat a little quicker and brought me out from under the trees to examine the sky.  As the sound grew louder, I scanned the clouds, searching for the source—a source I recognized.

Just as I’d hoped, here they came, a triangle of migrating geese slicing across the sky.  Their unmistakable calls echoing from the clouds, they flew so low above my head that for a moment I could hear the rhythmic pulsing of their wings, like the heartbeat of the wilderness.  I watched, hardly breathing, until they had vanished over the horizon and the song of the peepers was once more undisturbed by their trumpet calls.

It’s migration—a predictable journey, one I’ve watched on an annual basis.  Every fall, I’ve witnessed geese hastening southward, racing the Arctic air, and I’ve heard the first frost in their cries.  In the spring, I greet them once again as they arrive from the south; without the looming threat of winter, they can afford to linger in Arkansas for a little while, enjoying the lake near my house and basking in the newness of spring.  Yet the familiarity of the sight has never made it stale, and each time I see geese overhead, the deep parts of my spirit stir in a way that is half exhilarating and half unnerving.  Some part of my soul that will never be fully tamed quivers to life and peers, with restless eyes, beyond the confines of my daily life—into the unknown North where the geese are flying, drawn by a lodestone so strong that even a wingless human can feel its tidal pull as they sweep across the sky.

I’d venture to say that there are many people like me, people who feel that shifting sense in their souls, who realize that the migrating geese are somehow speaking a language they recognize. As I watched these birds soar over my head, I was reminded that we serve a God Who understands these longings, Who knows how desperately we crave—and need—adventure.  This desire is natural, and I believe it was programmed into our spirits by God Himself to call us into destinies greater than ourselves.  In fact, I believe that when those deep wells of our being are stirred, it’s because the Holy Spirit Himself is breathing on our hearts.  And no one understands these migratory yearnings better than He.

Although Christians today tend to minimize the importance of the Holy Spirit, this wasn’t the case for the Celtic Christians of earlier eras.  Profoundly aware of the Spirit’s work in the world, these Irish believers gave Him a very special title—An-Geadh-Glas.  Subtly poetic in its sound alone, this phrase literally translates as “The Wild Goose.” 

God as a goose?  What were these believers thinking?  At first glance the comparison may seem shocking, even degrading, but it is actually one of the most beautiful analogies in all of theology for the work and ministry of the Holy Spirit.  Like a wild goose, the Celts explained, the Holy Spirit operates in a realm outside of everyday life.  He is mysterious—His course is inexplicable.  He is unpredictable—a God of dazzling adventure.  And most importantly, He is uncontrollable—an entity that cannot be manipulated, captured, or tamed—only pursued.

To put this into perspective, imagine for just a moment that you decided to follow a real-life wild goose.  Picture yourself taking a car, or bus, or even traveling on foot northward, forsaking your convenience and desires to doggedly pursue this single bird.  Following the goose—staying on its course, watching it fly, finding the ponds where it slept each night, contemplating its next move—would become your single goal.  Everything else would dwindle in comparison to this one pursuit.

Isn’t this how the Christian life was always meant to be?

Not an insane obsession over a bird, but a radical reordering of our priorities and an enormous appetite for adventure.  A journey into the depths of the greatest unknown, on an epic voyage, following the only One Who can lead our spirits on the life-giving paths He designed for us.

What an invitation!  But how many times do we refuse?  It’s ironic:  our society loves the thrill of a hunt, but we don’t seek after God.  We pursue romantic partners, chase dreams, follow our heart—but we expect God to come on our terms and eat from our hand.  Instead of a Wild Goose, we’d prefer the Spirit to resemble the tame dove pictured in so many church murals—a soft white bird, small enough to be carried in one hand, cooing comfortably on a shoulder.  We’re uneasy with the thought of the Wild Goose—unwieldy, unpredictable, uncontrollable, demanding our utter concentration, tearing the sleepiness of our souls with strident cries. 

And so, as He flies over our heads, we let Him go.  As I did, we may pause in our daily activities when we hear His call, glancing up to admire His flight.  We might listen to His cries for a moment and hear the beating of His wings.  But then we shrug and sigh and grab another armload of dead wood, or fear, or resentment, or whatever keeps us solidly anchored to the ground.  We laugh a little at that longing in our souls and remind ourselves to be grown-up and “practical” (such a deadly word).  And ultimately, our souls become so dry and cracked that we no longer hear the exultant call of the Wild Goose, and the quickening of our souls His flight evokes dies into a leaden dependence on mindless church attendance and routine prayers and, possibly, a cross decal on our back bumper.

What if there were more? 

What if the restlessness in our souls—the small, secret emptiness—was never meant to be ignored?  What if the something in our spirit that trembles at the honk of migrating geese was the truest part of who we are?  What if God expected not conformity or prosperity but reckless desperation—the desperation of a search for Him? 

My friends, An-Geadh-Glas will fly over your heads again.  He’ll give His call, and you’ll hear His wingbeats.  It could be small journeys He asks at first—perhaps performing an act of kindness for a cantankerous neighbor.  Or finding the strength to forgive someone who will never know of your sacrifice.  Or choosing to pause and breathe a silent prayer before snapping that sharp answer at your annoying coworker.  But whatever the moment looks like for you, it is always the Y-shaped fork of a choice. 

The first option is the safest:  you can ignore the cry of the Wild Goose and return to gathering dead wood.  Choose this route, and you’ll never be forced outside your comfort zone.  You’ll never cross difficult trails in pursuit of something that others ridicule.  You can settle snugly into your safe, empty corner of the world, and you can cling to control—or at least the illusion thereof.

But you’ll also be dead.

The other choice is more dangerous.  Insane, the world might say.  The other choice is to lose your life.  To give in and give up and accept that the Wild Goose is higher than you.  To die—but to die so that you may live, live fully alive in a throbbing joy that most people never imagine exists.

If you choose this option, then welcome—you are now following the Wild Goose.  But let me warn you—the path won’t be easy.  Following the Wild Goose takes focus, the ability to corral an ever-wandering mind bouncing around a world of distractions and remind it to gaze with pure devotion on one Person only.  Toss regrets, ignore fears, and forget failures—there’s no time for burdens like these anymore, because the Wild Goose travels fast, and your eyes must not stray from Him. 

Hand-in-hand with that focus is trust.  In the core of your being must be an unshakable conviction that the Lord Who created you loves you enough to give you a life of adventure, not safety.  There will be times when that trust cracks like an empty shell.  There will be moments when you cry, moments when you droop on the lonely edge of a wilderness pond, wounded and exhausted, and believe that An-Geadh-Glas is punishing you, that He is dragging you through the roughest terrain He can find in a brutal act of sadism.  You’ll look at that cold tombstone, or dwindling bank account, or lost opportunity, or angry friend, and you’ll scream and rage and pound your fist at the heavens and beg to return to earth, to fall from the skies and crawl back to an earthbound existence, which, although bland and unsatisfying, at least doesn’t hurt like this. 

But then you’ll hear the call again—the irresistible lure of the Wild Goose.  And He will whisper to your soul, “Peace, My child.  This is our journey through the wilderness.  Your scars are your strengths.  Your hurts are your healing.  And your pain is My purpose.  Keep following me.  Keep chasing me.  I see you, and I am pleased, and I will never leave you behind.”

I’ve followed the Wild Goose through some dark places, some paths fringed with thorns and steep with rocks.  But I can assure you that for every lonely night and every weary day, there have been miracles of healing, of fiercely-pounding joy, of love and laughter and life and always, always, the beating of wings.  The words I write in this blog are truths I’ve learned from Him, either in actual wilderness settings or just in the wild and barren places of the soul.  I wish I could say I follow Him perfectly, but I don’t.  I listen to fears far too often.  I chase distractions, I cling to burdens, and I frequently question His course.  But despite my shortcomings, I can say with absolute certainty that following Him, even in my imperfect way, is my best and highest calling.  And it is my fervent and heartfelt prayer that you will decide to listen to that migratory stirring in your own soul and join me on this “Wild Goose Chase.”