Advent and the Trees

Trees

Weeping or releasing?

Letting go of more than leaves

Leaving what trees do in order

To hold something better.

Empty branches filled again

With the weight of waiting.

Leaves hit the forest floor

And blanket the ground below.

Twigs and leaves cover the dirt

And walking paths

Become welcome parades.

Open up, you ancient trees

And let the King of Glory in!

The willows make welcome mats

Their gift to the new king.

They make ready a highway,

A path for our God

 These words came to me as I was walking through some forested areas of a convent almost exactly a year ago. I live about a 15-minute drive from a beautiful Franciscan convent that has some lovely walking paths. Visiting this place has become a bit of a Sabbath practice for me, mostly in the warmer months, but occasionally in the winter months when the weather is right.

 Celtic spirituality uses the term “thin place” to describe geographical areas where it seems the barrier between heaven and earth have been “worn thin” and it seems that God is just more present and active in these places. For me, this convent and its forests are this kind of thin place.

 And as these words came to me, I was struck by how Franciscan it all felt. St. Francis of Assisi was known for his mystical flare and his canticles of creation, referring to the sun and moon as “Sister Sun” and “Brother Moon” respectively. It seemed quite fitting to me to be personifying these trees around me in such a similar spirit as the man to whom this convent was named after.

 I remember as I was walking, I noticed just how dead and dry the trees looked. On that brisk December day as I wandered through these wooded paths, I remember the trees grabbing my attention. They were barren and sickly looking without their leaves. Some had been knocked down by the wind and storms of the eleven months prior. Their foliage was gone, and with it their function and purpose. And I recall asking myself, “As these trees die, are they weeping the end of their season or submitting to this little death to await resurrection?”

 The storms of this past year have hit us all in different ways. Many of us have been able to weather these storms far better than many of our neighbors. Yet far too many have had no life raft or hand to hold. This year has stripped us of financial security, mental stability, physical energy, emotional resistance, and more things than I can count. I saw myself in these trees. Perhaps you see yourself.

 Not only had these trees been knocked down by wind and rain, but the dead of winter took the life out of them. The leaves faded and fell to the ground, leaving these skeletal frames exposed and vulnerable. They had nothing left to do except to keep their branches held up. They looked as if they were trying to support their branches to stay up, as though they were carrying a weight that was too much to bear.

 We all experience little deaths in our lives. We weep the death of opportunities, death of relationships, death of convictions and beliefs, and the list continues. As the winter of the soul sets in, we relinquish old patterns of ourselves. Old ways of thinking or living fall to the ground and we are left feeling cold and uncomfortably open. We feel that we carry the weight of unknowing, the anxious present. And that weight feels crushing.

 Yet I believe the trees can teach us the hope of Advent

 Advent is the season of waiting and anticipating the coming of Jesus. We not only relive the good news of the coming of Jesus and the hope of this moment, but we pray “Come Lord Jesus” in hopes that as His Kingdom comes in its fullness, the world will be restored and made well again. It is a season of earnest reaching out to welcome Jesus and invite him into our lives.

 Historians note that Jesus’ birthday was not actually December 25th. Rather, as early Christian liturgy was being formed, the ancients thought it wise to place the celebration of the birth of Christ on the winter solstice, which is the shortest and darkest day of the year. This would suggest that, as a means of utilizing the seasons, our Christian brothers and sister before us wanted to communicate that in the darkest hour, the greatest light came into our world. This is the second Genesis that John refers to in the beginning of his gospel:

 “What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” (John 1:3b-5 NRSV)

 As I was walking that day, my pondering helped me see the trees in a different light. The reality was that they were indeed dead and dying. But their limbs and branches began to look like outstretched arms to me, as if they were reaching out for something. They were indeed burdened by a weight, but it seemed more like the weight of waiting. It seemed less like they were weeping, but releasing the old in anticipation for the new. There was a steadfastness and a confidence in the future. They knew winter’s death as well as they knew spring’s resurrection.

 This new lens changed my perspective of the leaves I was walking on. I was reminded of Jesus’ triumphant entry into the city of Jerusalem. The welcome he received was warm and full of joy. Those that welcomed him had a hunger for the kind of justice and equity that the Law and the Prophets spoke of long ago. And they flooded Jesus’ path with their cloaks and branches. They took the clothing off their backs and whatever they could to welcome their new found hope.

 All of the sudden, these trees that looked destitute and broken took on new meaning. These trees were indeed anemic and dying, but they were readying themselves for the coming of a new season. These spindly branches, sickly and meek though they seemed, were reaching out to greet the Messiah as he rode into his kingdom. And all of the sudden, I felt like I was caught up in the welcome parade that creation was putting on for their King.

 In Advent, we pray “Come Lord Jesus” realizing the brokenness in ourselves and our world. We especially come to this Advent season tossed and turned over by the events of this past year, having lived through many little deaths (or very real and significant deaths for that matter). We indeed weep the events of this year, but our hope is not lost. In the rawness of this year, in our vulnerability and openness, we confess the mystery of our faith: Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again. And we reach out, much like the trees, desiring to make a path for the Lord to enter in.