Jeremiah 17:7-8; Luke 17:5-6
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
October 16, 2022
“Quick!” Fran cried out. “Pull over here. I have to take a picture of that tree.” I veered off into the parking area just in time. Fran leapt out of the car. She was in photography heaven.
We were on Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park—a steep, narrow road that winds its way up to the alpine tundra. At the top, we marveled at tiny flowers poking through the snow and searched for marmots.
It was on the way back down that Fran urged me to pull off the road, again and again and again. Just below tree line, we began to see small trees with unusual shapes clinging to the side of the mountain. Some were shaped like stairs—growing almost parallel to the ground and then stretching upward before being bent sideways again. Others had trunks that were twisted, as though they had been caught in a whirlwind. Their odd shapes revealed the impact of fierce winds, snowstorms, and their instinct to reach for sunlight.
There are many adjectives we could use to describe these trees—scraggly, scrawny, scrappy. Fran’s photography taught me another one: beautiful. Every time we stopped to take a photo of a uniquely shaped tree—which was many times—I began to discover the beauty in their twists and turns.
I found myself thinking of Rocky Mountain trees this spring on my sabbatical, as I sat on a deck overlooking Eastham town cove on Cape Cod. I was listening to recordings of the interviews Mike Ellis and our Open Spirit intern Aliyah Collins conducted last year as part of our Resiliency in Community project.
The project emerged from our perception that the communities of Edwards Church and Open Spirit had played important roles during the pandemic, helping us feel connected, empowered and hopeful. What could we learn about resilience from these two different but overlapping communities? What wisdom might emerge that could contribute to a broader societal conversation about the role of community and spirituality in helping humans thrive amidst adversity?
Danielle Rousseau, Mike, Aliyah and I created a survey. Based on the responses, we developed interview questions. Between the two communities, Mike and Aliyah interviewed thirty-five people. One of the great joys of my sabbatical month was sitting on that deck on Cape Cod with my earphones on, listening to the interviews. Over and over, I was moved by honest stories of struggle and inspired by wisdom and faithfulness.
On this particular day, when I was transported in my mind from Cape Cod to the Rocky Mountains, I was listening to Mike interview Len Ezbicki. Mike asked Len what resilience means to him. “Bending without breaking,” Len began. He went on: “Maybe [you] don’t come back fully to where [you] are…. It’s okay; don’t feel less about yourself.”
Based on what I know of Len’s love of the woods, I imagined he was picturing trees that bend without breaking. I learned this week that my imagining was on target, as Len showed me a photo of a tree beside their house that almost completely fell over but now is reaching for the sky with its green leaves.
Len’s definition of resilience transported me first to the Rocky Mountains. Then it led me back in time a few years to our Lenten theme, “A Grove of Trees.” Finally, it nudged me south to one of my favorite places, Sanibel Island.
This morning I will paint three pictures of trees that have been shaped by their bending. I hope the resilience of these trees will inspire you to think about what shape resilience takes in your own life.
The first picture is of Fran’s favorite trees in Rocky Mountain National Park. Bent, twisted, shaped and reshaped by wind and snow and storm, they cling to the rocky soil, doggedly seeking sunlight. It is picture of toughness and perseverance. And, as Fran highlights in her photography, it is a picture of beauty. Resilience involves the determination to keep seeking the light no matter how the storms have twisted our lives. But there’s more to it than that: resilience comes in awakening to the beauty of how life’s storms have shaped us. Len suggested that one component of resilience is being okay with not unbending to where you were before. I’d like to take that a step further—more than just being okay. Resilience is recognizing and celebrating the unique beauty of who we have become.
I invite you to reflect on the ways your life has been shaped by the storms you have endured. How have you been bent by grief and struggle, shaped by your own search for light and hope? Do you see beauty in who you have become? Can you choose to claim that you are so much more than a survivor? You are beautiful, not in spite of the bends and turns and twists that shape you, but because of them.
The second tree picture I will paint is of a grove of trees. Trees in a grove have a different kind of resilience. When wind or snow causes one to begin to fall, there are other trees beside it to catch it in their branches. Intertwined roots help prevent it from being uprooted; overlapping branches cushion a fall before the trunk snaps. From its new not-quite-upright position, the tree finds a way to reach for the sky, to grow so it can once again contribute to the well-being of the entire grove.
How does the grove of trees speak to your own experience of resilience? When storms have threatened to uproot you, what intertwining root system has helped you stay connected with the soil that nourishes you? When a violent wind pushes you beyond your capacity to stay upright, whose branches have cushioned your fall and enabled you to reach again for sunlight? The grove of trees is a place of mutual support: how have you cushioned someone in your branches? When have your roots helped ground a friend in hope?
The third picture I will paint is very much on my heart and mind these days. For decades Sanibel Island has been a place of renewal for Fran and me—especially the J.N. Ding Darling bird sanctuary. Most of the buildings on the island were severely damaged by Hurricane Ian. The day after the hurricane, though, birds had already returned to the roosting islands in the wildlife sanctuary. While there are surely broken branches strewn around, the complex root systems of the mangrove trees held them fast through the storm.
One of the unusual qualities of mangroves is that they continually develop new roots, which grow out of their trunk, branches or other existing roots. These stilt roots, sometimes called prop roots, begin their growth above the water. They grow downward, away from the light. Eventually they reach the surface of the water and continue to grow down. Finally they reach the soil under the water, where they develop smaller roots that extend out, helping to anchor the mangrove tree when the next storm arises.
Every time we visit Sanibel I rent a kayak and paddle through the mangroves in the bird sanctuary. I am awed at the stilt roots growing downward, not yet hitting the surface of the water. I think about the amount of energy the mangrove tree devotes to that root, long before the root can offer any kind of anchor. Mangroves have evolved with the capacity to prepare for future storms.
In our gospel reading, Jesus uses a strange metaphor to describe the power of faith. With just a little faith, he says, you can uproot a mulberry tree and plant it in the sea. It’s hyperbole, and it’s almost comical. Why would you want to move a mulberry tree into the middle of the sea?
I find myself wondering how Jesus might have described the power of faith if his ministry had been in Florida instead of Palestine. If you have the faith of a mangrove tree, he might say, you will thrive in the storm. If you dare to trust that God is at work in the new roots you grow, if you trust they will eventually reach the soil, you will be anchored in faith.
What does it mean for us to trust enough to grow the equivalent of stilt roots? I think about the practices of faith, the habits we develop, that anchor us when hard times come. We come regularly to worship, so that when we are forced to switch to something as strange as zoom, we can sense the presence of God through the computer. We say grace before meals, so when we are having a hard time finding meaning or hope we are reminded of our blessings three times a day. We pray when it doesn’t feel like we need any help from God, so that when we are too distraught to come up with words, familiar ones come to our lips. We pay attention to creating a caring community—so that when we are apart we still know we are loved. It takes time for those habits to make their way down into the soil so they can anchor us when storms of uncertainty swirl.
What are the stilt roots that anchored you during the pandemic? What are the roots you are just beginning to grow now? Can you trust they will eventually reach the soil?
Three pictures of trees that bend without breaking. Three invitations to claim your capacity to thrive in the face of adversity. I invite you to celebrate that the bends and twists and turns of your life make you beautiful. I invite you to lean on others and allow others to lean on you. I invite you to trust that the energy you devote to growing new roots—habits and practices, new and deepening relationships—will anchor you in the rich soil of faith.
You are beautiful. You are not alone. You are anchored in love. Amen.