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Birds of every kind shall dwell beneath it, every winged thing in the shade of its boughs. |
The marvelous ring of glory round the church where heaven comes to earth is green with leaves still fresh though no longer spring bright. They whoosh and rustle with touchable lushness as the breezes ease these gentle days so soft and glorious it seems a shame to step inside. Mainly maples but other trees too, our campus is pillowed with swaying green giants whose limbs extend in proffered embrace and whose whispers beg, please stay.
This week as well is surrounded by trees. We started the season of green Sundays with Genesis’ sad song of tree, fruit, and fall, shame and blame, the exile that endures for all. Still green, this Sunday comes with promise of another tree, Ezekiel’s cryptic prophecy pointing to a tree planted atop a mountain by the very hand of God. Though small, it will offer shade and shelter, rest and respite reaching unto every creature, all from the tiniest of seeds. The cross of Christ seen from such great distance is too remote to recognize.
Funny, isn’t it, how the work God does to rescue castaways is all organic as those markets claim to be, not mechanical, not political. No program nor system, but seed and plant and sprout and shoot and life that grows green and new while our eyes are closed; we know not how. Even death, death on a cross, is organic; no GMOs, you know.
Behold how the cross of Christ stands revealed as the tree of life! The trees on our parish lawn both protect and salute the mystery they surround.
The trees of the two Sundays around this week and the trees around God’s house and mine give glory to Him and joy to us. The famous poem of these great green things was penned by a man whose infant daughter’s crippling illness brought him to the fullness of the Faith and the communion of the Church. Both gave him solace and confidence, I hope, as he fought and died at the Battle of the Marne beneath trees stripped and shattered by the malice of men. So here, now, Joyce Kilmer’s “Trees”
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
Last week I recalled Saint Boniface, who put his axe to a tree that men had mistaken for a god worth worshipping. This week it seems sensible and only fair to recall it was no fault of the tree, whose beauty is a gift from God, and whose wood once held Him.
Monsignor Smith
*While you may be surprised to learn that Joyce Kilmer was a man -- with a mustache no less -- that would have been less uncommon in his own day. The founding pastor of Saint Catherine Labouré Church over in Wheaton was Msgr. Joyce Russell. He had retired but was still residing in the rectory when I was assigned there as a deacon for the summer of 1997.
