Psalm 84:1-7; Luke 17:20-21
“A toxic climate.” We hear that phrase a lot these days–on the news, on Facebook posts bemoaning the state of our nation. Sometimes the reference is to the political climate–the culture of lying whenever the truth is inconvenient, hyper-partisanship that boxes in even the most broad-minded of our politicians. Sometimes the reference is to the climate of public discourse. Blatant expressions of racism and xenophobia have been newly empowered; social media silos allow us to hear only the perspectives we already agree with; lies go viral and eventually we begin to assume they are true. And then there is the actual climate, whose toxicity we have seen all over the world this summer: record heat and humidity, devastating wildfires and floods.
The climate–political and social if not physical–in which Jesus lived might also have been described as toxic. Rome exerted its power in ways that were terrifying and disempowering–military shows of force, crucified rebels lining the road. The puppet ruler of Galilee–Herod–was brutal, corrupt and prone to outrageous displays of excess. Amongst the Galilean and Judean people, there was sharp disagreement about how to hold on to their identity and faith amidst this occupation. People accused each other of profiting by cooperating with the Romans, or of reckless protest that threatened the survival of the entire community.
In this toxic climate, Jesus began his ministry, proclaiming, “Repent and believe the good news: the basiliea– the realm, the kin-dom, the inbreaking of God’s love–is at hand.” There is something more at work, he promised, than this toxic climate around you. There is a power greater even than the Roman empire. Another realm, another climate, is breaking in. It is a realm ruled by love, a climate that enables healing. Jesus’ words offered a powerful message of hope and a powerful invitation to be part of something transformative.
Everyone in Jesus’ time struggled to understand what he meant. A violent overthrow of the Roman empire? An internal spiritual transformation that would enable people to endure the otherwise unbearable atmosphere? The destruction and re-creation of the universe by forces from beyond? I take comfort in knowing that even Jesus’ closest disciples didn’t fully grasp what he was talking about. Of course we don’t, two thousand years later.
The gospels do give us some clues. We know this Realm of God was about healing, for Jesus understood his healings as signs it was at hand. We know this kin-dom was about breaking down barriers and bringing together people who would otherwise be enemies. We know that the kingdom of God redefined power and so threatened those who were clinging to their own power.
The disciples in Jesus’ time also struggled to understand their role in the coming of this new realm. Occasionally it seemed Jesus was describing an act of God they could only prepare themselves to receive. Other times, Jesus called them to be part of ushering in God’s realm. While Jesus’ healings took many forms, in most cases the individual’s initiative–or the initiative of family and friends–was central. And Jesus’ radical acts of sharing meals with strangers and enemies and folks who were ostracized only happened when ordinary people accepted and offered hospitality. If the disciples understood Jesus’ healings and his shared meals as expressions of the coming of God’s realm, they would also have recognized that they had a role to play.
In our gospel reading from Luke, Jesus challenges a Pharisee’s desire to pin down the realm of God. It is not, he said, something separate from yourself that you can point to. It is “among you,” or perhaps, “within you.” It is God’s realm, not yours, and yet you are a crucial part of it.
In that toxic climate of Roman occupation, how did Jesus’ disciples make sense of their role in the coming basileia of God? In the toxic climate in which we live, how do we make sense of our role in the Realm of God’s love, which Jesus assures us is still breaking in?
Two weeks ago, I began a two-part sermon series drawing inspiration from the book, The Hidden Life of Trees, by German forester Peter Wohlleben. Recognizing how every metaphor ultimately falls short, I explored what for me is a new way to envision God–comparing God’s love to the maternal instincts of the oldest trees in the old growth forest, who both shade the younger trees and nourish them through their roots. After a break for brunch worship and backpack-blessing last Sunday, today I return to this intriguing book. I want to lift up three insights from stories Wohlleben tells, which together offer an apt metaphor for the multiple ways we are part of transforming the climate in which we live, the multiple ways we help to usher in the realm of God’s love.
The first story he tells speaks to change at an ultra-micro, personal level. Wohlleben describes how beech trees thrive in climates where rain is less frequent. The branches in their canopies angle in such a way that the leaves capture not only the sunlight but also the rain. The leaves create a funnel, directing the rainwater down the stem to the branches and down the trunk, so the roots can absorb the maximum possible amount of water.
If the in-breaking of God’s realm of love can be compared to rain in a parched environment, what does it mean for us to point our leaves–our attention, our energy–in such a way that we can be nourished by moments of hope? In a climate infected with hate, how do we prepare ourselves to absorb expressions of love? With all the ugly words around us, how do we open ourselves to beauty? We sing. We garden. We walk in the woods. We read and tell stories of hope. What enables you to be nourished by hope?
The second story is about a small forest growing near Bamberg, Germany. The soil was sandy, dry and lacking in nutrients. Pine trees grew, but were not flourishing, in part because their needles made the soil so acidic it was not attracting beneficial insects. Foresters decided to plant beech trees in between the pines, hoping their leaves would neutralize the acid so the pines could grow.
No one anticipated what happened next. As the fallen beech leaves accumulated on the forest floor, the soil did become more alkaline. It also became more able to store water. The moisture in the air increased, as the leaves slowed down the dry wind that blew through the pines, leading to less water evaporation. Eventually, the beech trees created the microclimate they needed to thrive as a forest community.
What does it mean for us to shape a microclimate that offers the nourishment we need to thrive in what might otherwise be a toxic environment? I sometimes envision the kin-dom of God breaking in through pockets of transformation– small communities that become an oasis of compassion in a harsh world. They become a practice ground for a new way of living. They bear witness to the power of love in a world that can’t imagine love could be that powerful. When we gather on a Sunday morning, when we give a ride to a friend or a bed to a newly-reunited immigrant family, we are working with God to create a microclimate of hope, a pocket where the kin-dom of God is made real in our world.
The third insight comes from Wohlebben’s chapter called “The Forest as Water Pump.” He opens with a puzzle. Since land is almost always higher than water, and gravity causes water to flow to the lowest spot, how is it that land has any moisture at all? The answer is that water evaporates from the sea, forming clouds that blow over the land and rain upon it. Those clouds, though, can only travel about 400 miles. Another mechanism is needed to pump the water further inland, or else the center of our continent would be uninhabitable desert.
The water pump, Wohlleben suggests, is the forests, beginning with the ones near the coast. Some of the rain that falls stays on the leaves of the coastal forest canopy, and eventually evaporates. The rain that flows down the tree trunks to nourish the roots ultimately is transpired–exhaled–back into the air. The water vapor forms clouds, which are blown on an inland journey to the next forest, where they produce rain, the beginning of a chain effect across the continent.
The forests shape the climate of the entire continent. What does it mean for us, as a community, to shape the larger national climate? How do we move from being an oasis of compassion to creating a global environment of compassion? How do we take the nourishment we receive here and breathe it out so the winds of the Spirit can carry it beyond us?
There are many ways we already do this: collecting backpacks and supporting asylum seekers; teaching our children they have something to offer; offering opportunities for holistic healing and multi-faith bridge-building to the wider community; planting demonstration gardens; encouraging each other to vote, speak up, write letters and hold signs. What else might we do?
Individual trees shape their leaves in order to absorb drops of water. Communities of trees create a microclimate where all can thrive. Forests breathe out precious moisture to create a chain reaction of nourishment across a continent. These images offer a powerful metaphor for the range of ways we are called to help usher in the realm of God’s love. We receive and absorb gifts of beauty. We create a community of compassion and hope. We send forth gifts–our time, our talent, our voices, our resources– to nourish the world.
Believe the good news–the realm of God’s love is at hand, among us, within us. Believe the good news–we get to be part of bringing it to fruition. Let us live this good news joyfully. Amen.