Psalm 78:1-7; November 12, 2023; 25th Sunday after Pentecost
It was almost seventy years ago when Karen planted her trees. It happened on a day where she was told to buy flour but instead she bought seeds. She expected she would be punished, but she bought them all the same, purchasing as many as she could, for about seven in total, and then planting them in a circle about twenty feet from each other.
True to assumption, she was punished by her mother and harshly at that. But by candlelight Karen journaled and wrote that it was worth it. Bread they could make and yet in a day it would be gone, but these trees that she planted could outlast even her last song. The colors they would give; the shade they could provide; these were gifts she thought worthy of her sacrifice.
Well, not too long after, in the winter of ’57, Karen caught the flu and passed a month therein. Her family mourned and the pastor prayed, but true to her diary, her row of Sycamores remained. In unison they grew, nearly six feet a year, more or less, give or take, an inch here or there.
A decade or so later each tree was about 33-feet in height; and on hot summer days, neighborhood children would climb them for fun. Once a boy fell and screamed, “I broke my arm!” But, several months later he was up it again, laughing as if falling was all part of the plan.
Months passed, and then years came and went, the children had left, but the trees grew on path. On a lazy afternoon, a couple brought a blanket and a basket of fruit, and under the refuge of the giants now wavering above them, they kissed and shared rings, and made promises for eternity.
A week or so later an old woman walking her dog noticed that initials had appeared in a heart with a cross, but before she could prevent it, her pup started doing his business. “Stop!” she cried. “Don’t do that!” she yelled. But the branches simply swayed as if the stream was a chorus in the song of nature’s long and ongoing opus. A squirrel jumped. And a bird built its nest. And even the ants began to cross the trunks’ circling paths.
In the 90’s the neighborhood underwent swift change. Where once there were parks, soon there were malls. And then streets, and then roads, and then turnabouts and bypasses. What was once was no more, but yet the trees stood tall. Its initials and the hearts still clearly visible to all.
A storm came violently in the early 2000s and several of the limbs there broke at whim. Some in the town thought the trees should be cut down, but then a couple stood up who had long been residents, and from their deep pockets, they paid for them to remain. They said, “what is old is still new; and as before it is still true; that these trees were a gift, paid for and laid down, and so we shall make sure that they stay around.”
And that they did, for today the Sycamores can be found in what is known as “Karen’s Grove” – a little plot of green in between two retail chains. And though the town looks nothing like before, children have returned and teenagers in fact. They sit in the shade after done with their math; and they talk and they laugh as if in a breeze, the Middle East and politics far out of reach.
And so let it be.
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Yes, my friends, autumn is my favorite season, and yes, I love trees. As evidenced by my last story and this one I wrote new, I have a special place in my heart for woods and forests, for hedges and groves, for sycamores and oaks, and all branches and limbs that make our life more colorful and artful, and of course, more habitable.
Martha’s cover image for us today is breathtaking. If you haven’t noticed it yet or paid it much attention, you’ve made a mistake. Take home your bulletins and keep them because they are art. Or contact her immediately and ask for a commissioning. Sincerely, and seriously, thank you Martha. And thank you to all of our artists who have made our bulletins come to life.
Though most of the leaves around us have fallen, and don’t look as spectacular as Martha’s painting here; some outside are hanging on still. Are hanging onto their color. Reds bleeding through our bedroom windows, and oranges above us on our walks to the mailbox. Reminders that bursts of life can and do appear even when the rest of the world seems ever bleaker and grayer.
You see, trees not only help us keep time. Of eras long lived and generations that came before. But they also point to a future, of life yet unborn. That even though all will appear to lose life, we are yet promised a spring, and a resurrection to come.
And so, when I began writing this story about Karen and her trees, inspired by our Psalm, I thought of all those before us who helped pave a way for a brighter day ahead of us. Of teachers and parents, of service men and women, and of course on this weekend, all of our veterans.
Generations upon generations of a people present and past who sacrificed their bodies for a greater ideal. For peace. For democracy. For a future still unfolding and yet unborn. We remember all veterans this day who did this for us in service to all… but you know what would it be even better than remembering? Making sure that all have adequate care, mental health resources and services, and facilities for when they come home. For when they are off the clock and back from their tours. So that they aren’t swept under the rug with a handshake and a flag, and never cared for or thought of or helped now and again.
Like so much of our society, if it’s in the moment, we seem to care. But if it’s out of our sight, we seem to forget. But today is a day not to forget. But to remember all those in our life who sacrificed for us. All the Karens – well, not those in the memes – but all those Karens who bought seeds and then planted trees, and who have been willing to lose branches and limbs for the sake of our betterment. So to give us more shade, so to give us more color, so to secure for us all a place where we can feel more safe and the freedom to wonder.
Now, it would be remiss to forget that Jesus himself is the Tree of our Life. Not because he died on one, but because he willfully laid down and sacrificed himself as one. Out of love for us, as a gift for us, for our children and our children’s children. Such that even when the world turns, and turns so unfamiliar at that, such that we feel peed on, fell down, or so unappreciated to be cut down, we can rest assured that we have been ransomed, paid for, and redeemed; and that like the leaves of autumn we will one day be respawned in the spring of life eternal, like scattered seeds sown in the most fertile of soil.
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My friends, next week is our Stewardship Sunday. Where what we can give may be received by
all. We have the choice to buy more flour. To help fluff up our lives in even greater excess. Or we can choose to sacrifice a little and purchase some seeds. Seeds that can be planted and tun into trees, that can help give others and even those yet unborn a wider landscape to enjoy, a wider landscape to call home, a wider landscape to enjoy the shade of God’s love and grace from now into eternity.
As the psalmist writes and as the choir sang: “Let us not hide from our children all the wonders of the Lord; but let us tell of and show all his glorious works.”
Amen.
