A 3 year old said to his grandma one winter, “Grandma, the trees are broken.” And she looked out at the bare, twisted branches and she had to agree, that’s what it looks like when all the leaves have fallen. For the Israelites, too, it seemed the tree was broken, but this tree was the Jesse tree, the tree of the house and family of David. It seemed that the tree had been cut off and broken and that life was cut off. The Corinthians, too, are feeling broken and cut off from Paul who brought them the good news and who has been imprisoned and kept from them.
There
are many times in our lives when we feel cut off, like the trees are broken,
and when we feel like we are alone. The
farmer may feel that sense of loss at the scattering of the seed, knowing that
some of them will die and remembering that year when the land was flooded and
all the crops lost, or the year when the worms ate all the apples in the
orchard. Perhaps we’ve felt that sense
of dread when we saw that the ivy and horse tails had taken over the church grounds
or at home. Maybe we’ve felt that way
when a pastor left or when a friend or spouse died, at a miscarriage, or when
the finances were particularly bad. At moments like those, all we can see is
that hole opening up in front of us and we feel a loss of control, a spiral
that seems only to lead into chaos.
And
of course the most broken tree is the cross.
Jesus, God’s son, our Savior, love personified, a man who has earned the
respect and adoration of generations of broken people, killed right there in
front of everyone. But what we love and
identify with about Jesus, is that he knows what it is like to be in the middle
of winter, and he has been in the pit.
And he is in the pit with us, broken on the tree. And he is pulling us through to abundant
life.
A 3
year old, who can’t remember experiencing the spring, doesn’t know that the broken
trees are temporary and that the cycles of life take us through the Valley of
the Shadow of Death, but that there is another side, a light shining through
the fog that might be too far to see, but that is pulling us forward when we
don’t know how to put one foot in front of the other. Our human perspective just sees the outer view—the
brokenness, while God keeps track of all the little pieces working together
that create conditions for life, sustain a plant or animal or person, and lead
to an abundant harvest. So little of life
is within our control, yet somehow, by the grace of God, still we eat, and our
cup runs over, and we enjoy the bounty that God provides.
To
scatter seed on the ground is an act of trust.
To take these little bundles of potential, with the nutrients, the root,
and the leaves, all the information the plant needs to get started, to take the
seeds and throw them around, requires a letting go. It is an admission that we can’t do it
ourselves, that we rely on the earth to play it’s role in hiding the seed and nourishing
it, in holding the water to awaken the life within. We trust that even though not every seed will
sprout, that life will flourish, and there will be enough, and enough to
share. To let a seed go, to scatter it,
is an act of faith. It is a
relinquishing of control. The same is
true when we give of ourselves, our time, our money, a kind word, even a
smile. Maybe nothing will come of it,
but maybe God will make something of it and it will make a difference.
I
remember being in 3rd grade or so and planting a sunflower seed at
school. I watched it grow by the window
at school with my name on my little cup.
I watered it and checked it daily.
Then I brought it home. I planted
it right by the back sliding glass door.
I wanted to touch it. I wanted to
be near it. I was so curious and hovering
that I broke my sunflower. I don’t think
we ever had a sunflower grow to harvest at that house, because there were so
many curious kids that just couldn’t let go and let the little sunflowers become.
When
we act with faith and plant a seed, we have to give the plant space and let God
do the work through nature. We can do a
few things, like amend the soil, water, weed.
But most of what goes on to make a plant grow is invisible to us and out
of our control. The same is true of the
seeds we plant helping people, listening to people, giving them food, building
relationships with them, praying for them.
We have to let go and give others space to be, not who we want them to
be, but trusting in God to do what God does and share abundant new life with them. We have to let go of control when we garden
and we have to let go of control in relationships and as a congregation.
I
don’t know about you, but I don’t like to feel out of control. I like to know what’s going to happen
next. I like to know that I’m going to
get a ripe, juicy tomato by mid-July. I
like to plan for freezing and canning. I
like to make long-term plans and know what kind of soil I’m working with, and
plan for good weather and helpers to water while I’m on vacation and eat the
extra when 16 zucchinis are too many. And
I like to take the credit and post pictures of my bounty on FaceBook, and swell
with pride when I see the first tomato as if I made it appear there. But really, it has so little to do with
me. Even the Little Doves garden, here
at the church, the plants the children started mostly all died from lack of
watering and the plants that are there are volunteers from last year. In my life I also do not like being out of
control. I like people to do what I
expect them to. I like to be able to
plan and for all my plans to fall into line.
But I really can’t think of very many occasions when that’s worked
out. Instead, we get to learn and relearn
how to walk by faith.
And God continually surprises us with
abundance. When I think of abundance
right now, I think of Scotch broom! That’s
what the Kingdom of God is like. It is baffling in its abundance. That stuff is growing everywhere! It gives shelter to small creatures—insects and
birds. It challenges our ideas that we
are in control. We dig it up, pull it
out, chop it down, year after year, and still it grows on all the hillsides and
along freeways. Scotch broom is the
mustard plant of the parable for us here. It is the generosity of our neighbors,
bringing so much food that we can’t give it all away, so it overflows from our
Food Bank to the food shelf at Olalla Elementary. It is the abundant rain that makes our area
so green. It is the abundant energy of
the Little Doves children.
This is the season after Pentecost in the church year. It is the green season of growing. Sometimes our trees look broken and bare, and
we can’t see any signs of life.
Sometimes our trees are flourishing and we can’t really explain why. Sometimes we want to control our lives, so we
tend to over-fertilize or over-water or break off our little sunflower seedling
hovering over it. And sometimes we find
the faith to step back and let God and nature bring our little efforts to fruition. Sometimes we let the Holy Spirit blow the seeds
out into the world. Sometimes we are
able to let go and wait for the soil to do its work. Sometimes we are the soil, trying to be open
and receptive to the sun and the water and the microbes and the seeds that God
is scattering. Sometimes we are open to learning
from the weeds about the joy of abundance.
Sometimes we share the abundance with friends and strangers. Sometimes the abundance is shared with us
from someone we never met. And sometimes
we simply enjoy the harvest that we never saw planted or did anything to
cultivate. This is the grace of God
beyond our understanding or deserving.
This is the grace of God. This is
the Kingdom of God.
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