The trees are dropping their leaves.
There is a day in the spring when the tiny buds on trees become so numerous that it is obvious, in a moment of glad realization, that the countryside is green, and winter is over. And there is a day in the fall when the bare branches of trees become so numerous that it is obvious, in a moment of sober resignation, that the trees are sleeping, and winter is here.
Today Jesus tells us a story that fits nicely into the mood of these days, when the light has fled and the leaves are gone, when our hearts and our bodies respond to the rhythm of the long winter night. In today’s story from Jesus, the master “went away.”
“Then he went away,” Jesus says, simply, just this side of harshly.
Then he went away.
The master eventually returns, and his slaves face the music. (Slaves ... for us, if not for the first people to hear this story, for us, slaves is a deeply problematic word, a wintry word, an awful word. For Jesus’ first listeners, the word slaves put them in mind of disciples, of themselves, of people who are dedicated to following their teacher.) But back to the story: the savvy slaves are rewarded; the fearful slave is brutally punished. It’s an upsetting, bewildering, even annoying story, if you ask me, as I rest here beneath the bare trees and quietly succumb to the approaching darkness and cold.
I confess that I have grown tired of the stories told by Jesus in these last few weeks. They seem as relentless and irritating as the constant grim news reports. In our present-day news cycles, no one seems to be talking about covid phases anymore, probably because our third surge in positive cases is the worst yet. Our public square is in rough shape, with members of opposing parties viewing one another not as opponents, but as mortal enemies in a zero-sum cold civil war. Our high school youth here at Grace are tackling big questions these days, and one of their questions simply asks us, “Is it possible for human life to exist without conflict and only peace?” Short answer: umm… maybe? maybe peace...ish?
So … I want Jesus to tell better stories. I want stories about foreigners who rescue people on the roadside; I want stories about fathers who welcome home their wayward sons; I want stories about villagers who throw parties when they find their lost coins. I don’t want weird parables about masters scolding their slaves.
But … the trees are dropping their leaves.
The singers of psalms, and the prophets — they are piling on, today. The psalmist sings of God’s judgment that brings human lives to an end. The prophet proclaims a brutal belief that human wrongdoing will cause the destruction of our most prized possessions: our temples, our cities, our way of life, our very lives.
The trees are dropping their leaves.
But then, amid all these wintry commiserations, then I heard an insight, expressed by our sister Edith, who was dialed into our online worship this past Wednesday morning. I had mentioned the bare trees, a metaphor for early-winter reflections on persistent bad news, and the persistent search for God amid all the bad news. Edith woke me from my reflections, saying, “But when the trees are bare, you can see farther.” She is in a new home now, surrounded by trees, and this will be her first winter there. As the trees drop their leaves, they will show her for the first time what there is to see from her new dwelling.
Yes, the trees are dropping their leaves. But let’s sing that sad refrain a different way: the trees are opening our eyes. The trees are expanding our vision. We can finally begin to see things that have been there all along. The stern psalmist and the fiery prophet: they focus our eyes. They sharpen our vision. They sober us up, so that we can see things we need to see.
What do you see through the bare branches of the winter trees?
I can tell you what I see.
I see high-school students at Grace reaching adulthood in a time of immense anxiety, and staying engaged with big questions, listening to their feelings, discerning keen insights, planning their bright futures.
I see a friend of mine in Seattle who survived major surgery and faces months of excruciating pain and limited movement, and all of this on top of a major covid-related financial setback. He sees each new today as the most important day of his life. He recalls previous life lessons, and he embraces this crisis as a spiritual challenge, and a brutal but grace-filled blessing.
I see middle-school students coming to Grace to play, to invent games, to study our forebears in the faith, to simply be together, wearing masks and staying socially distanced without complaint, keeping their spirits up.
I see a friend of mine in Colorado who embraces her baby daughter, and finds it almost impossible to imagine how God could love her daughter more than she does.
I see homebound members of our congregation dialing into zoom church, enjoying a new ease of access to the heart of our community, and looking forward to the days post-pandemic (and there will be days post-pandemic!) when in-person church will still be livestreamed.
I see caregivers emailing about people in need, designing new outreach initiatives to our neighbors who suffer food scarcity, and planning visits for those who are sick or in hospice.
I see several Sacred Ground reflection groups forming in our congregation, a truly remarkable effort, and I see emails in my inbox from Sacred Ground participants who want to do extra work on the side to build their anti-racism awareness and effectiveness.
So yes, the trees are dropping their leaves, but through their bare branches I see many evergreens, flourishing here in God’s forest, carrying in their arms the lifeblood of authentic hope.
Authentic hope: perhaps that is what appears most clearly between the bare branches. Our faith is built for the winter months. We build crosses in our worship spaces, and trace crosses on our bodies, and string crosses on our necklaces and bracelets … Maybe we sometimes forget that the cross is a symbol of brutal execution. The cross is a sign for us that God looks death squarely in the face, and brings forth life. The Spirit broods over chaos, and the Word of God speaks, and life emerges.
We do not hope in vain, lost in silly fantasies about our troubles magically disappearing, a springtime in December, it’s all good, no worries. We hope with full and sober awareness that winters are hard, and life can be rough. We feel the cold wind and the sideways rain; we truly miss the vivid colors of the deciduous trees. We are right to say that death does not have the last word, but we know in our bones that death is one of the words.
Our hope is built on nothing less than Jesus himself, the firstborn of the dead, the master who goes away and wants us to live and work as he does: to take care of those who are in deep need, to restore the face of the earth, to work for justice, to seek true and lasting peace.
“Then he went away,” Jesus says. In a time of dropping leaves, it may seem like our Lord and Savior is far, far away. Yet he is here: we are his disciples, his followers, and when we share in his ministry, we bring Jesus back to us. The disciple-slash-slave who is scolded in the parable: his crime is that he is acting on his fears, or, in the language of the trees, he is failing to look through his wintry fears to see that God is here, and God will get us through this, and we will be okay as long as we keep helping each other, and our neighbor, and the stranger.
For several weeks when the weather was a bit warmer, I would watch as the kids played in the Grace gaga-ball pit. Gaga Ball is frustrating: in a fraction of a second, the ball hits you and you are out. We live in a time when I fear that disappointments like this are devastating. Each time a kid got hit with the ball, I braced myself for tears and anger. In a time of trees without leaves, isn’t a sudden loss like this just devastating? I confess that I myself might want to act out. But each and every time, the player handled their loss well. “Oh well,” they seemed to say, as they removed themselves from the pit. “Next time.”
They can see through the bare trees: they can see a better world, a world coming into view even now, in this wintry time, a world of justice and peace, a world of accidents and sadness, a world of challenge and crisis, and a world of authentic, enduring hope.
When you look through the winter trees, what do you see?
***
Preached on Sunday, November 15, 2020, Proper 28A, at Grace Episcopal Church, Bainbridge Island, Washington.
Zephaniah 1:7, 12-18
Psalm 90:1-12
1 Thessalonians 5:1-11
Matthew 25:14-30
Photo: Some of the trees on the property of Grace Episcopal Church, Bainbridge Island, November 15, 2020.