I stood inside a tree today. Yes, inside of a tree, and not just any tree but a gargantuan Cottonwood. I do not know the age of the tree exactly, but it looked as if it could have been at least 150 years old. There was still life throughout this tree as its offspring had grown up through their father’s root system, inside its woody caverns, and out towards the food of the sun. As I stepped inside of its hollowed bowels, I was greeted by a soft foot mat of woody fiber. The air was significantly cooler than the air outside, as the large cottonwood soaked in the cool air from last night and breathed it out today. I looked up and realized this organic shelter lacked a roof. I could see the blue sky above, and the little sunlight allowed just enough light to bring out the stoic texture within. I also noticed that inside, sound was dampened. I could still hear the outside, but only subtly. What I could hear in great magnitude was the beat of my heart, and my breath in and out. I sensed as though the tree and I shared a certain intimacy. This large friend of mine had created silence for me so that I could listen to the very breath that sustains me, and perhaps he could listen too. As I stopped my breath for a moment I realized that someone else was speaking. This large hollowed out tree was creating a faint tone of something like a pipe organ. As the wind and other waves of sound outside passed over its opening above, this tree was reverberating it into his own. It then occurred to me that this tree has been listening all along. Has it heard the language of Native Americans, what about the voice of those early Dutch settlers in this area, did he make sense of their words?

As I reflected on the days that he has seen, and the people whom he may have encountered, I begin to hear the things outside; An ambulance in the distance, the passing cars, and the airplane flying over head. As all these sounds break into the silence within, I realize that I am not the only one hearing them. This deep tone made by the Cottonwood now made sense to me. My ancient brother is not singing, or celebrating, but what I hear is a deep groan. Saint Paul writes to the church in Rome that “all of creation is groaning” for redemption and things made right. While I have often forgotten to groan for the sake of creation’s fall, this landmark in the middle of the woods groans and has been groaning all along for our hurt as well as his. As I continued to listen to this deep groan of mourning, I begin to groan as well. When Adam bit the apple we all suffered, in this fallen world sadness has crept into ever fabric of life. We as creatures of God should groan together, but we as creatures of Christ should also rejoice in the day that groaning will be no more, and the hymns declared by the cottonwood will only be hymns of praise.

Keep groaning for me O Cottonwood, and I will groan for you.
As the saints pray for me, pray for my fallen state O brother.
For our God is good and He hears our groans, let us rejoice in the midst of our cries.

“You ride on the wings of the wind, you make the winds your messengers, fire and flame your ministers" Psalm 102:3-4

In the midst of all the godly prophets of today, and of all the faithful ministers gathered around us, it is refreshing to find God’s word and works through a vast array of means. As I took another Michigan camping trip this weekend I was able to see God crying out to me in a new-found way. While studying at seminary to become a pastor, being around the clergy of creation reminded me that God is going to do God’s work with or without me, and this is as refreshing as the crisp water from an autumn lake.

When asked to rebuke his disciples for hysterically praising the work of God that they experienced, Christ told the Pharisees “if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out” (Luke 19:40). Being in a transitional time of life when I am trying to figure out what exactly is it that I am supposed to be doing in this world, I often find myself being reminded that the preaching of the Word of God and God’s work throughout the world is not somehow hinged on what I will or will not do. God’s Word will go forth! It is part of the DNA of the Word of God that it cannot be contained, and it will go out and not return empty, as the prophet Isaiah writes. God’s Word is not dependant on my feeble lips uttering a sound or preaching a word. If it comes to it, the stones will cry out, and all creation will sing for me in my silence. In the loudness of life it often takes utter silence to be reminded of God’s Word.

As the kayak broke the surface tension of the water, I immediately felt the tension I possessed shatter into a million pieces. The wind gently whispered across the water, gracefully moving me as it desired. I was reminded of the Psalmists words “you make the winds your messengers”. I reclined in my seat and sat motionless for a while, feeling the gentle messages of God moving me. Looking around and realizing that there was not another boat on the small kettle lake, I gently broke the subtle current and plunged the blade of my paddle deep into the water. With each stroke through the placid current, I picked up more speed and began hearing the whisper of the autumn breeze, and feeling the sting of the cool air on my ears. Being carried away with the pattern of the paddle-stroke, I was soon captivated by the scenery racing by me on shore.

Still reflecting on the words of the Psalmist, I soon found myself moved by the ministers of fire and flame. As I stopped pushing through the water, and the rippling mirror settled, I found myself enthralled by the reflection of a colorful array of trees ashore. In the midst of the early autumn green, there seemed to be a cluster of trees blazing, yet not being consumed. Perhaps this is what the burning bush looked like to Moses.

Wind of God move me,
Fire of God consume me,
Word of God change me.

Fungi intrigue me. It is such an exotic species. But, in many ways it is like all life, in that it needs decomposing organic material to survive; it is dependent on death. We enjoy the taste of fungus as it is piled on a juicy steak. I have heard that a small amount of certain fungus can kill when it is consumed. I have also heard of people enjoying mushrooms to reach a stellar high like no other. Fungi is a very sensitive organism, as certain species will only grow in just the right conditions during the right time of year. The Morel Mushroom is prized as a jewel because of its rarity and great taste. But even it, looks alien when compared to the average creature.

In any case, I enjoy the Fungi around me. As I see an ancient oak lay helplessly on the forest floor, it is refreshing to see nature use it for the good. The slimy salamanders burrow in the soil below it, the termites begin to sink their tiny teeth into its woody fiber, and my friend the fungi begins to proudly grow upon its decomposing bark.

As creatures of life, we look to death as the arch enemy. It is hated, ignored, masked over, and it is triumphed over. If you have enough money you can have enough surgeries to fool yourself and those around you into thinking you have infinite years ahead of you yet. What I see in nature is death being embraced. Rather than fleeing from the end of life, i have observed the wild around us running to it.

As the Lord of the Oak, fungus, termite, and salamander offers life in the midst of death to His faithful creature, so too He gives us a beautiful hope to rejoice in, even in the midst of things ceasing.

You, O Lord are our true joy.

You turn death into life, and sorrow into rejoicing.
Amen

Asclepias syriaca

I had in mind today that I would sit down during my hour in the wild, so I brought with me into the pasture a folding chair. I never did open that chair today, instead I awkwardly carried it in the crotch of my arm as I frantically meandered throughout the grasses. Sometimes my body is not as contemplative as my mind want its to be. Today I felt fidgety. I entered the wilderness in hopes to find something thought provoking and soul stimulating, in the same manner that I would enter the grocery store to pick up milk or bread when running out of them.

Despite my ill motives and selfish intentions, nature gave me exactly what I needed today. It was not anything that I found, or that I stumbled across, as I might find something that I need wandering through the aisles of the grocery store, but it was everything that the patient inhabitants shouted at me despite my selfishness, that gave me what I needed today.

The Golden Rod has now turned to an awful brownish hue. The bright yellow that had once brought with it a sort of playful spirit, is now gone, and a mattress of decomposing stems and leaves replace it. The bold white spread of the Queen Anne's Lace has now retreated to a bud of rotting material interspersed with the once Golden Rod. Yet even in the midst of all this death there is new life. The Purple Aster must have a higher tolerance for the cold nights, as it stands firmly among its dieing brothers and sisters as if to honor their life, perhaps giving an eulogy of sorts.

Other life in the prairie is dieing, or perhaps dead, yet it seems to be glowing with life in its own way. The Milk Weed, for instance has long since made food, from the sun this year. The Chlorophyll has been gone from it for many weeks now, yet with the departure of this life-giving liquid comes colors that not even an artist could mix up on her palette.

As the fruit trees begin to shed their leafs of death, there seems to be still some hope in the air. The seed of these trees are encased in appetizing fruit. The promise of their offspring is as sweet as the fruit that they it is presented in. As I walk by an apple tree I can not help myself, so I climb the base of the tree finding the perfect apple that has not been too eaten by insects, and i partake in the sacramental feast prepared.

Creator God, bitterness has disguised itself as sweet, and death has some how appeared as life.

May the taste of life you give to my soul, be as real as the cool meat of the apple is to the pallet of my mouth.