Psalm 121
Imagine that we are walking through an old growth forest in the Bavarian region of Germany. It’s kind of like the forests we may have envisioned as children when we heard the stories of Hansel and Gretel or Little Red Riding Hood. There are giant deciduous trees–maybe beech–with broad canopies of leaves above us. The air is cool and moist. Only random patches of sunlight make their way through the thick canopy to the forest floor.
As we walk, we come upon what we assume is a young tree. It’s about as tall as we are, and its trunk is less than an inch in diameter. Thinking back to how quickly the trees in our neighborhoods grow, we try to guess this tree’s age. “If it grows a foot a year, that makes it about five years old,” one of us says. “It’s pretty dark here,” someone counters, “so I’d say 10–or maybe even 20–years old.”
Fortunately, we have a forester with us, who shows us how to count the nodes on the twigs of the tree to estimate the age. We do the calculations, and we are shocked. This skinny little tree is 80 years old.
How could that be? If the shade of the big trees stunts the growth of the smaller ones, won’t the whole system eventually collapse? If this is a game of survival of the fittest, we ask, then won’t the smaller trees will all die out? Is that dense canopy of leaves far above us the fatal flaw in the old growth forest?
If the forester accompanying us happens to be Peter Wohlleben, author of The Hidden Life of Trees, our questions will be answered with a resounding no. We will learn that old growth forests call into question our assumptions that nature is all about competition and that rapid growth is always the best way to grow.
In a deciduous old growth forest, only about 3% of the sun’s light gets through the canopy created by the leaves of the largest trees, which might be 200 or 300 years old. It is not enough light for a younger tree to grow even an inch each year; it’s not enough light for the tree to grow a nice thick trunk. Instead, these comparatively young trees grow internally, developing a very tight cellular structure.
Far from being the fatal flaw in the old growth forest, this shade-enforced slow growth is the source of the forest’s stability and longevity. The tight cellular structure gives the slow-growing trees strength and flexibility to withstand storms, resist destructive fungi, and heal from wounds.
In his book, Wohlleben asks whether that 3% of sunlight is enough to sustain even that very slow growth. He concludes that it is not. To solve the mystery of the 80-year-old skinny tree’s survival, he turns to the work of Dr. Suzanne Simard, Professor of Forest Ecology in Vancouver, Canada. Dr. Simard studied temperate rainforests in North America, where she discovered a web of interconnectedness beneath the surface. A rich, complex network of fungi connect tree roots to each other in a mutually beneficial sharing of nutrients and sugar. Dr. Simard’s discovery, Wohlleben realized, applies as well to the old growth forests of Europe. The young trees receive nourishment through the roots of the old trees. The very leaves that are blocking their sunlight are creating sugar that indirectly feeds them.
Peter Wohlleben joyfully uses terminology coined by Dr. Simard, who talks about the maternal instincts of the established trees in the old growth forest. The mama tree shields the young one from sunlight that would lead it to grow too fast and feeds her offspring through her roots.
Eventually, after 400 years or so, the giant mama tree falls over, creating a patch of unfiltered sunlight. The 80-year-old tree spends a couple years changing its metabolism, producing tougher leaves that can take full advantage of the direct sunlight. Then it shoots up tall for a few decades, until the other mama trees expand their canopy to close up the patch of light. The young tree reverts back to slow internal growth, until another giant tree falls. The process continues for centuries, until finally that no-longer-young tree becomes part of the canopy, able to produce enough sugar to share with its offspring.
Wohlleben loves to attribute qualities we think of as human to trees. That makes it easy to see in his discoveries about trees insights into our own lives. Inspired by these insights, I decided to do a month-long series on The Hidden Life of Trees in my Gentle Yoga class, seeking to embody wisdom from the trees in our yoga postures.
In one class, we paused in child’s pose to reflect on the shaded times in our lives, the times our own yearnings to grow or achieve feel overshadowed by circumstances, the times we struggle to get enough light–or hope or energy–to thrive. How have those times led us to grow internally, to build resilience and develop compassion?
We stood in mountain pose, imagining roots growing out of our feet, grounding us. I invited the yogis to reflect on ways we have been nourished by our roots–perhaps by tradition, by family ties, by faith, by music or stories or poetry that have become embedded in our memories.
We did moon salutations, stretching side-to-side as we acknowledged that sometimes seeking the light means expanding our horizons and broadening our perspective. We did sun salutations, celebrating the seasons in our lives when the sunshine is direct, enabling us to grow tall and live into our potential.
At some point in the class, I found myself thinking about Psalm 121, especially the middle verses: “God is your shade at your right hand. The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night.” Most likely, the Psalmist wrote these words in a desert context, envisioning God as shade that shields us from the dangerously hot, parching sun. I began to wonder what fresh insights about God might emerge if we hear this psalm in the context of the old growth forest.
Every metaphor we use for God is incomplete and ultimately flawed. And the only way we can talk about God is through incomplete, flawed metaphors. Acknowledging those realities, I invite you to join me envisioning God as a giant mama tree in an old growth forest. We, then, would be the young trees–young by forest standards even if we are 80 years old. God is like the mother tree who gives us birth and who shades us so we can grow strong and resilient. That shade may take the form of the realities of human living. We don’t always get what we want. Things don’t usually happen on our timeline. Life is full of disappointments and losses. It’s not that God is deciding to withhold sunlight from us; it is simply the way of the world.
In some ways, God’s shade canopy is the teachings of our faith, which challenge us to look inward, to focus on growing in wisdom and faith. Jesus assures his disciples that life is not a race to the top but a gift to be treasured and shared for the good of others. Jesus tells the rich young ruler that there is so much more to life than being the tallest or the richest or the most famous. Slow down and trust, Jesus says to the 5000 hungry people who gathered to hear his message. Trust that there is enough food–enough sap, enough sunlight–for everyone, if we share.
If we had to face the harsh realities of life alone, if we had to rely only on ourselves when we were stuck in the shadows, then we would not get the nourishment we needed, and we would shrivel up. Fortunately, we are not left on our own. God feeds us through our roots. God feeds us through the community that holds us and cares for us when we are struggling, a rich web of connection. God feeds us through traditions and faith practices that we keep following even when we’re not sure why. God feeds us through those roots so that we can choose to grow in inner strength, resilience and compassion during the shadowed times of our lives.
If we take the metaphor too literally, it falls apart when the Mama tree falls and dies. God does not fall and die. God is at work, though, in those moments when a space emerges in our lives for new possibility, when we find ourselves in the sunlight, with an opportunity to claim our potential.
God is in the shade, and God is in the emergence of light. God is in the challenge to slow down, to build resilience and compassion during the hard times. God is in the opportunity to live into our potential. God is in the way the forest comes full circle, the way the young tree eventually grows tall enough to produce sugar it can share through its roots.
The Bible is full of metaphors that help us come a little closer to comprehending the incomprehensible love of God. God is like a forgiving father and like a mother eagle. God is like fire and wind, like a well of living water and bread for the journey. None of these metaphors come close to capturing the fullness of God; each of them gives us a glimpse of the wonder of God.
For me, the metaphor of God as a mama tree in an old growth forest offers another glimpse into the wonder of God. It is a glimpse that helps me claim the gifts in the shadowed times of my life, a glimpse that calls me to value my own rootedness, a glimpse that assures me God yearns for me to grow and thrive and offer something back to the web of life.
May we all be blessed with glimpses into the wonder of God. May those glimpses shape our lives and fill us with gratitude.
Amen.