“Tall Trees”
Psalm 1:1-3; Luke 12:22-31
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
July 10, 2016
Black Oaks by Mary Oliver
Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,
or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
and comfort.
Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind.
But to tell the truth after a while I’m pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen
and you can’t keep me from the woods, from the tonnage
of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.
Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
little sunshine, a little rain.
Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
one boot to another — why don’t you get going?
For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.
And to tell the truth I don’t want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don’t want to sell my life for money,
I don’t even want to come in out of the rain.
On July 30, 1969, at the dedication of the Lady Bird Johnson Grove at Redwoods National Park in California, former first lady Lady Bird Johnson spoke these words: “One of my most unforgettable memories of the past years is walking through the redwoods…—seeing the lovely shafts of light filtering through the trees so far above, feeling the majesty and silence of that forest, and watching salmon rise in one of those swift streams—all our problems seemed to fall into perspective and I think every one of us walked out more serene and happier.”
On my vacation, I did not have an opportunity to rest, with Mary Oliver, beneath the shoulders of Black Oak trees. Instead, I got to join Lady Bird Johnson in groves of redwood trees. I gazed up in wonder at their canopy hundreds of feet above me. I leaned against their broad trunks, absorbing their solid strength. I walked amongst them, grateful for their cool shade, awed by the shafts of light streaming through the rare gaps in their leaves. I felt our smallness and our youth as I wondered at their size and their age. I allowed myself to absorb some of their peace and their wisdom.
Mary Oliver, in her ode to Black Oaks, uses the phrase “wrists of laziness” to describe the way the trees countered the anxiety of her ambition. I prefer Lady Bird Johnson’s description of the effect of the redwoods on her state of mind: how amidst their beauty and majesty, “all our problems seemed to fall into perspective.”
In July of 1969, when she spoke these words, there were many problems. The Vietnam War was raging; young men were being sent into battle and too many were dying; the nation was being torn apart. Walking amidst the redwoods didn’t make those problems disappear; it didn’t make them any less tragic. Somehow, though, the trees revealed other truths that put those problems in a different light.
Our gospel reading offers a similar invitation to put the worries of our lives, the problems of our day, in a different perspective. Of course it matters whether we, and our hungry neighbors around the world, have enough to eat. Of course we need clothing to keep us warm. Jesus challenges us to view these very real, every day worries from a different angle—to see them as part of something much bigger. Seek first, he says, the realm of God. Start with the big picture: the promise that God’s love is breaking into our world, the call to be part of bringing that promise to fruition. Let your concerns for food and clothing be part of that bigger picture, Jesus says, and you will move from paralysis to action, from worry to trust.
What does that mean for us today, as a church that seeks to respond to the brokenness of our world, to the depths of racism and the hatred that spawns murder of police officers? What does it mean for us today, as a church that sometimes faces painful decisions and that struggles to make faithful choices when we cannot be certain of the outcome? As I sat beneath the redwood trees last week, I thought about what they can teach us about perspective, and how their lessons illuminate Jesus’ teaching in a new way.
The first lesson they offer is about taking the long view, or maybe the tall view. The youngest of the redwoods in those groves is older than Edwards Church. The oldest trees started as saplings around the time our gospel lesson was first written. For 2000 years, as long as these oldest redwoods have been standing, followers of Jesus have struggled to be church. They have tried to figure out how to bring disparate groups together when their culture taught them it was not possible. They have wrestled with questions of leadership and later staffing, of what shape worship should take, questions about music and study and mission. They have yearned to know how to respond to the injustices of their days. They have searched for understanding about the meaning of Jesus’ promised realm of God, and they have tried to be part of that realm.
We are at an important moment in the life of our church, as we prepare to come together with Grace Church, as we seek to respond to the world around us. The redwood trees remind me to see this moment as part of something much bigger than ourselves—as part of a 2000-year history of communities facing important moments.
Putting our own challenges into this taller, longer perspective doesn’t make them any less important. It does assure us that we are not alone. We learn from the mistakes and the faithfulness of those who have gone before us. We offer our contribution to an imperfect but vast human effort to bring God’s realm of love into being.
Redwood trees thrive in the coastal Northern California climate. Part of their resilience comes from their ability to absorb the water they need from several sources. In the winter, when it can rain 80 or 100 inches, they draw moisture up through their roots, creating a sap that is mostly water. That liquid insulation protects them from forest fires. In the summer, they rely on the morning fog. They absorb some moisture directly from the fog into their needles. The grooved surface of their needles also collects moisture from the air, which ultimately drips as water to the ground, to be absorbed by the roots.
The redwoods remind me that our resilience as a community comes from the variety of ways we are nourished and refreshed by God’s spirit. Music lifts us. Scripture challenges us. Opportunities for service enrich our lives. Newcomers broaden our perspective; longtime friendships hold us. Sunday school teaches us the stories of our faith; coffee hour strengthens our web of relationships. All these sources of nourishment come from God; together they create a layer of insulation that helps us survive and even thrive through fire and trouble. We can trust in our resilience.
It is a remarkable experience to stand beside a redwood tree and look up. Long, tall, straight lines reach for the sky. On many of the trees, though, especially near the ground, there are these awkward-looking lumpy knobs, which are called burls. They appear to be some kind of a blemish marring the tree’s beauty, perhaps the result of a parasite, a disease or a wound.
They are not. While redwoods do have cones, which produce thousands of seeds, most of their propagation actually happens through those ugly-looking burls. The burls are massive clusters of buds, hidden beneath the bark, dormant until the tree is stressed and needs to ensure new life.
The redwoods remind me that, in our church, new life often emerges out of the bumpy places. The realm of God does not come into being as a straight line pointing toward the sky. We grow as a community in the uncomfortable, awkward times. The realm of God’s love sprouts new trees of hope out of the difficult moments, out of the painful decisions, out of the risky uncertainties we face. God’s love takes human form as we try to figure out how to bring two communities together, as we hang in through awkward conversations that ultimately bear fruit. The bumps in our church life are not blemishes; they are a source of new life, a locus for sprouting new expressions of the realm of God.
Seek first the realm of God, Jesus teaches. Put your worries, your problems and your ambitions in the perspective of something much greater: God’s realm of love and justice breaking in.
As we seek to live Jesus’ teaching, the beauty and majesty of redwood trees give us guidance: Take the long view, for we are part of something much bigger than ourselves. Claim the resilience that comes from the many different ways God nourishes us. Honor the bumpy, awkward places as a source of new life and new hope.
In our everyday living, in the bumpy times of our lives and our community, as we seek to respond to the pain of our world, may we be blessed to be part of the realm of God’s love breaking in.
Amen.