Mammoth Cave is, well, big. One might say mammoth. It is, in fact, the longest cave system in the entire world—412 miles of underground fun—but the name emerged from the enormous rooms and passageways found within. It is also in central Kentucky and just ninety miles from Nashville, so Jody and I did a little day trip on Saturday to check it out.
We chose the Historic Tour, a two-mile, two-hour journey that included in the price of admission a 300-foot descent, temperatures in the fifties, and hundreds of murky stairs. And in addition to the expansive rooms and passageways, we also discovered “Fat Man’s Misery”—a horribly-named section of the tour that required lathering oneself in butter to squeeze through—and “Tall Man’s Agony”—a personally-intimidating and backbreaking section apparently designed for contortionists. It was all very cool, both literally and metaphorically.
Mammoth Cave became a national park in 1941, but we were surprised to learn that guided tours began over 200 years ago in 1816! It is mind-boggling to imagine the courage it took to explore that massive underground system so long ago by torch or by lantern.
But what challenges the imagination even more is that this underground world exists in the first place. Houses, farms, highways, schools, baseball games, and all manners of life happen day after day on the surface above this complex and invisible universe. I find that fascinating—living unaware of the fascinating world that lies silently beneath the surface.
The natural world is enchanting, but my entire adult work life has taken place in a social environment instead. Time and again I have found the subterranean world there to be equally as fascinating.
In December of 1993, over a quarter century ago now, I was a young high school basketball coach in Arkansas trying to come to terms with what it meant to truly follow Jesus. My struggle pointed toward the margins of society and the conclusion that I should go love people in places that others might not. Specifically, I decided to move to a major city and teach in an inner-city school, and although I had never been further west than Dallas, I chose Los Angeles.
In a sense, it all begins today. Clown cars with sentimental parents, excited new students, and implausible piles of possessions arrive on campus in parade this morning for “move-in” day, unleashing a week-long whirlwind of orientation activities that includes ten speaking opportunities for yours truly. There is no option but to jump in and hang on.
I sat in the rocking chair on our front porch to finish Joyce’s Dubliners and propped a foot up on the post, a picture of serenity on a late and sticky Tennessee summer evening. But I confess that the picture was deceiving.
Starting to Look Up 