Homily on Maple Trees

         I usually base my Sunday sermons on the assigned Bible readings.  However, on this first Sunday of Spring, here we are outdoors on Maine Maple Sunday at Jo’s Sugarbush.  The odor of syrup-in-the-making is wafting about, and we are surrounded by trees. 

How could I talk about the Prodigal Son as I would have if we were worshipping in the sanctuary – except to wonder whether the younger wayward brother might have wistfully recalled Springtime on the family farm as he tried to scavenge bean pods among the swine in a distant country.

How could I talk about the Prodigal Son - except to wonder whether the older hardworking brother might have been better off putting down his hoe for a time and simply soaking in the change of season, appreciating the natural world around him, breathing deeply the newness of Spring and the clean slate it brings the world.  If he had, perhaps he might have uncovered a new understand of his place in it and a different perspective on his relationship with his brother.

         Those first signs of spring – birds returning, crocuses sprouting - do that for us – for me at least.  They remind me of new life and a new start.  

However, though I did see about 30 robins in our side yard the other day, but nary a crocus, I look less to the birds and early blooms for insights into Spring and my life and more to the trees, to which I am partial. 

         We have a lot of trees on our 33 acre farm.  Joe cuts our firewood – ash, oak, birch. Birds nest in them, and they provide shade on hot summer days.

          Trees are amazing.  Did you know that trees communicate with each other through a network of root connections? Many biologists believe they can communicate their needs, and even send one another nutrients via a network of fungus buried in the soil. They seem to “talk” to each other, sending warning signals about environmental change and transferring their nutrients to neighboring plants before they die. The forest is a cooperative system.  

It all makes me wonder whether we as humans are meant to be the same, a cooperative system - not just to survive, but to thrive – as a forest can.  Would we thrive if we shared rather than hoarded?  If we created and expanded our own networks in order to care for one another in these trying times?  

We can learn a lot from the trees around us  That is why I love them, but I am particularly partial to maple trees. You see, like the Hartwell’s, Joe and I tap some our maple trees.

         I love that maples freely offer us some of their lifeblood each spring. I love to look up into their branches – now bare but soon to be filled with leaves.  I love to run my hands down their nubbly gray bark and imagine their roots holding firm under the ground.  

         If I would take the time when Joe and I are collecting sap – and unfortunately I rarely do – I would think about the life cycle of the maple tree.  I would ponder what I might learn from this marvelous creation.

         I would imagine one of those butterfly-shaped seed pods fluttering to the earth and becoming buried in the soil and muck.  I would imagine the seed finding enough warmth to germinate and one day pushing its way out of the darkness of the humus and rotted leaves. 

I would imagine the seedling becoming a fragile sapling and somehow surviving blustery spring winds and the frosty gales of a Maine winter.  I would imagine that sapling over time bending more easily into the wind and, over the years, developing a strong trunk, its growth rings expanding as its branches continued to reach toward the sky.  I would imagine its leaves providing a canopy of shade and a protective home for birds and squirrels in the summer.  I would imagine the very first tap hammered gently into the trunk one future spring, and the sap flowing generously. 

It is mind-blowing to me that such a fragile seed could one day become a strong and sturdy tree, offering so many gifts to the world, playing out that yearly cycle of re-creation over and over again.  It is such a hopeful symbol for us humans, perhaps one to hold especially close as we near the end of Lent and anticipate Holy Week where death and life intersect in a new way.  

That  repetitive life cycle of a maple makes me ever more assured that we too – you and I - have the capability to constantly re-create – even resurrect - ourselves, with the Spirit’s help.   And so I ask myself:  Might we too, like the maple tree, learn to live lives of possibility with the expectation that the inevitable change we encounter means growth?  I know full well that the answer is yes.

Might we too have it in us to survive the wintry chill of disappointment and difficulty, intuitively trusting that warmer, sunnier days lie ahead, days when we would offer shelter to all who need it as the maple tree offers shade? Again - yes.

 Might we too someday offer some of our lifeblood (whatever that might be) to whomever needs it with the same unquestioning generosity that a maple tree offers its sap in the spring? Oh, yes.  I hope so.

So much to learn about human possibility from trees, especially the maple tree!  And so I challenge you in the weeks ahead to notice the trees.  Take note when the maple trees leaf out – and later when the apple blossoms bloom. And remember the ways that trees care for each other and thrive because they are interconnected.

I challenge you also to have some fun and pretend that you are a tree.  Spread your arms and imagine that they are branches bursting with lilac flowers. Wave them in the wind, noting that they bend and sway, but when healthy do not break.  

Let your body be a firm trunk, feel the blessed earth beneath your feet, connecting you to the ground, connecting you to our faithful God who nurtures us always and roots us in hope for the future as we send out tendrils of comfort and love to those around us.