From Where I Sit Judith Lynch (Melbourne) Judith's previous articles Judith's website
March 31, 2012
GUM TREE Palm Sunday - Year BI
don’t know if it is theological to image God as a gum tree but last Easter I
did just that. Our
home sat on the rim of the Maribyrnong valley. Steep sides ran down to a sandy
walking track and then flattened out to edge through the undergrowth to the
placidly flowing river. The drought
had not been kind to the valley and lots of dead trees stretched grey arms over
ground littered with rocks, dead branches and occasional clusters of green that
could have been mistaken for grass.
A
metre or two from the low chain link fence that kept the valley kangaroos out of
the garden was a gum tree – lanky,
smooth barked with sparse,
leaf-tipped branches occasionally occupied by passing magpies or the odd
kookaburra. The trunk was
lovely shades of rusty orange and brown, broken here and there by splits
and breaks that blotched the bark like scar tissue or the stretch marks left
after giving birth. It balanced precariously on an angle, a tribute to
years of tenacity in a difficult location. Just
one of the 700 species of eucalyptus trees,
blending in with the all the other valley gums.
God
has written a sacred story across our land - Uluru’s red heart, crumpled brown
earth, now and again rivers, green paddocks, ancient purple mountains, cities
that hug the coastline and blink- and- you’re- through- them towns – and gum
trees. When the landscape of the northern hemisphere is throwing off the winter
snow and breaking out into fresh spring colours, our gum trees are shedding
their bark in what is possibly a more subtle, but no less spectacular yearly
event. This is what caught my eye as summer gave way to autumn.
The
old bark was peeling away, leaving behind smooth, creamy trunk. For a long time
it had protected and nurtured the growth of the new skin, now its work was done.
One particularly long bark peel hung, exposed and vulnerable, from an
outstretched branch and I had a vivid awareness that God was writing a Holy Week
story to me in Australian sign language.
My
religious and spiritual journey is set against a backdrop of Australian
landscape. Every year, as Easter church liturgy unfolds, I struggle with imagery
that originates and resonates with the other side of the world. Imagery has the
power to transform our lives, to move us into a broader and deeper understanding
of mystery. Holy Week bombards us with images. While the shopping centres are
telling us that it’s about chocolate eggs, rabbits, chickens and hot cross
buns, the Church offers us the story of Jesus’ last week as it is written in
the Gospels, pieces of cyprus tree, feet to be washed, bread and wine, blessed
oil, a wooden cross to touch.
All
that twirling, shredding, dropping bark was Aussie-speak for loss. It happened
to Jesus and it scars every human life. I was reminded of loved ones who have
died, of every injury or illness that was gradually limiting my physical
possibilities, of relationships that have faded away with time. I watched the
nightly news with its never-ending Holy Week story of physical pain, injustice,
treachery, evil, grief, blackmail, indifference, misuse of power, humiliation,
remorse, cowardice, mob rule, death, execution, suicide, violence and rejection.
And as I looked at the lone bark strip hanging on that outstretched limb of the
gum tree I recalled Jesus’ words: “Father, if it is your will, take this cup
from me; yet not my will but yours be done.” He tasted the anguish. He bled
with worry.
The
gum tree tells me that suffering and death are mysteries and they are not the
end but just the beginning of new life, that the
days of our lives are a constant movement between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.
It reminds me that Jesus’ death and resurrection brought
to the world the unbelievable certainty of the newness of life and its
possibilities.