Christopher Thomas
Sermon for Seventh Sunday after Pentecost, Year A – 7/19/20
Genesis 28:10-19a
Wisdom of Solomon 12:13, 16-19
Romans 8:12-25
Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43
When Great Trees Fall by Maya Angelou
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance, fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of
dark, cold
caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
― Maya Angelou
I’m taken aback, breathless, again, by the poet and prophetess Maya Angelou, to put words to that which in my heart seems so unspeakable.
For we know, somewhere, deep within our imaginative selves, that we ride along this thing called the river of life; we enter something that was in motion, that stretches out long before our existence, and we will exit long before it ceases. This bizarre thing known as Chronos, human time, in which we bob, and weave along, trying to maintain some sense of self within as we ride out our 80- or 90-, or if we’re lucky, 100-years.
And as we cascade down this river toward, toward…
We are allowed, graced, fleeting glimpses of these mighty oaks, and pines, and cedars, all sorts and shapes and conditions of God’s great forest lining the banks of this mighty river, this river called life.
I’ve spotted a few in my 54 years, some I managed to grab hold of, catch a glimpse of, maybe even snatch a picture of, if I am lucky, some not so much. I bet you could name a few of those you’ve witnessed as well.
Some may have even been so tall, so majestic, so mighty, that they changed the course of that river, if even for yours, or my brief moment in said river. And the river will never be the same for that tree having existed. That tree will have bequeathed something to that river, the coming occupants of that river, some new aspect of eternal life, that will wellspring on into eternity. A difference has been made.
Inheritance.
Those who come after live in the blessed shade of everything that that one tree, a forest of trees, bequeathed. The entire shape of that river, the river of life, owes its very nature to those trees, God’s ecosystem, and vice versa. One does not exist without the other.
I love the idea that we stand squarely on the shoulders of those who came before us, because, if you think about it, inheritance, in every sense of the word, means that we really do. Everything that I have, everything that I am, everything that I do, all my ways of being, I inherited from someone else, one of those great trees, well, it really dispels any ridiculous notion of the “bootstrap mentality.” I didn’t pull myself up by any bootstraps; that’s literally impossible. I am not a self-made man. You are not a self-made woman. We ARE the product of those who came before us, pure and simple, for better or for worse. We owe, are indebted, who we are, to those who came before us. For the life of me, I don’t know how one can argue with that, although I know some may and some will.
Sons and daughters, Abba, Father, Mother, children, adoption, heirs, joint heirs…
“…all of the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; and not only creation, beloved, but we too, we groan inwardly while we await our own adoption, our redemption, our inheritance…”
Paul beckons us, ever deeper, toward this sense of being, living in a state of hope, centered on who we are as adopted children of God.
“We boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope never disappoints us because God’s love has been bequeathed, given freely, poured into our hearts (we inherit it) through the Holy Spirit.”
– Romans 5:3-5
There’s a funny, potentially corrupting aspect to inheritance that, like weeds, has a way of creeping into the wheat field if we’re not paying close attention. Jacob and Esau tangled over this, as have many others down through the ages, even today.
Inheritance bestows a “right of lineage.” We don’t do anything special to earn or deserve it. It’s based on where we came from, what came before. It’s our “right.”
But you know this. “Rights” become weeds in that wheat field when “rights” (It’s my “right!) get disconnected from the intentionality of “responsibilities.” To be clear, rights always come with responsibilities. Inheritances always come with responsibilities. We are indebted to where we came from, and we credit with responsibility those who are all around us and who will come after.
To whom much is given, much is expected. This expectation is not a bounty we pay for the inheritance. It’s the spark we pass on, like the one that was passed on to us.
Rights, inheritance comes with responsibilities. To others and to Creation.
We stand in a long (LONG) line of fallen mighty oaks. This weekend, we saw two more felled oaks, CT Vivian and John Lewis, both pillars in the great struggle for civil rights movement. We all, indeed all of creation, are inheritors, benefactors of the hard work, toil, suffering, pain and strife of these people and many, many others. I am sure you have your own oak trees, as do I, that you could name, the people who have gone before you, who impacted and changed the course of your existence, on some small or possibly large scale. They inherited something, whatever that something was, and they paid it forward. It wasn’t about them. That is what made them mighty!
So, what is God’s expectation of love, and hope, and faith, so freely bequeathed, if it is in fact, done so?
As I sit in repose, in wonderment of this rightful inheritance, what would a fitting response to all those felled trees around me be? What might I do, who might in be in my own desire to become a tree?
Because, after all, it seems to me, that to be a tree, the kind of tree that I would want to be, a tree that is strong and mighty and skyward bound, like these that have gone before me, they grew in the difficult ground of sacrifice.
What am I willing to give up so that others may inherit?
Suffering. Endurance. Character. Hope.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
And hopefully, and “hope-filled-ly,” because each of us existed!
Amen.
