There it was: following a violent wind storm, yet another enormous branch from the Norway maple in front of my house had come down. It had landed perfectly parallel to both my car and my neighbor’s house, right between us, almost as if caught and gently placed by someone’s guardian angel. I called the Parks Department—again.
(Every time I call, I want to ask for Leslie Knope; then, when they say she doesn’t work there, I want to say, “Then give me someone who can get stuff done!”)
When I first moved into my house twenty-five years ago, the tree was tall and stately, a beauty in every season, from spring chartreuse to winter bareness.
Then, the tree developed tar spot disease following a wet spring. At the same time, the trunk weakened, and branches started dropping—big branches, large enough to crush a car, damage a home, or kill a person.
I called the Parks Department, and they promised to send someone to look.
That was more than a year before storm that brought down the latest branch.
How many times have I marveled at the tree’s loveliness at sunrise, or after a snowfall, or with a full moon peeking between its branches? How many times have I watched the weather with anxiety, peering through a window in the middle of a storm, wondering whether it was too late to move my car?
At 7 AM the Monday before Thanksgiving, a man rang my doorbell. He was holding a cup of coffee.
“We’re here for the tree.”
Thanks be to God.
John the Baptist is a bit much, though. You know? All that, “Chop ‘em down, throw ‘em on the fire” stuff? Especially in this season when, all around us, people are doing everything they can to make trees beautiful. It put me in mind to write a little song.
Have a John the Baptist Advent!
In the dark days of the year!
When that voice cries out: “Repent!”
You know that John is near!
Have a John the Baptist Advent!
And in case it wasn’t clear,
When the ax is at the root,
A bonfire is near!
But, as we all know, sometimes trees do need to come down—literally, and metaphorically. A tree that is diseased isn’t merely unfruitful; it’s dangerous.
John is interested in clearing the way, de-cluttering, you might say, a first century, camel-hair wearing, locust-eating Marie Kondo. But John isn’t asking what sparks joy. He’s demanding that we repent, and prepare.
“Repentance” is a word that gets a lot of bad press. But consider: this is the very same concept we find at the heart of Anne of Green Gables’ supremely optimistic statement, “Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it…”
When we repent, we recognize that the course we are on is a mistake. We repent when we’re ready to change our mind. We repent when we are open to seeing another perspective, looking out another window we may not have known existed. Repentance means, to think again. To reconsider.
And sometimes, to be able to reconsider, we need to prune back the vegetation cluttering up our souls and blocking our view. Maybe we even need to chop down a few trees.
And for John, we need to repent if we’re going to prepare.
All around us, people are preparing for the public holiday known as “Christmas.” They’re preparing for parties at home and in the office, they’re hanging lights on their houses, they’re shopping for presents and food. In here, we’re preparing, too, but getting ready for Christmas as a Jesus-follower means something more than twinkling lights or our retrieving our favorite ornaments from the attic. In here, when we’re de-cluttering, we’re doing soul work. Not that physical de-cluttering can’t be good—it certainly can open up mental space as well as physical. But each of us needs to search our souls, in order to understand exactly what it is that we need to de-clutter, in here. If, in this chaotic season, we can find the space for some quiet reflection, we can discover what we need to prepare for this powerful celebration, the feast of the Incarnation—the moment when God-made-flesh appeared in the world. What does your heart need?
I rediscovered some music this week, almost by accident. I remembered, suddenly, singing with a choir when I was in college, and before long I had an urgent sense of wanted to recall exactly what piece we were singing. All I could remember was that it was Russian, and one transliteration of a Russian word, evidently, lodged itself permanently in my eighteen year-old mind: “Gospodne.” I Googled it. It turns out to mean, “Lord.” And then, after a fairly short time, I found it—the music itself. It was a choral suite by Rachmaninoff. Now, the music has been with me all week—the deep and soaring harmonies have accompanied me as I’ve driven around in my car or cleaned my kitchen.
The piece I found was called “All-Night Vigil,” a pretty good metaphor for Advent.
Something about this music has helped me this week. It’s helped to open a space for stillness in me. Listening helped me to achieve some level of spiritual de-cluttering.
I guess my heart needed a particular kind of music.
What does your heart need?
This image of the ax lying at the root of the tree seems so violent, and so final. It even suggest, on some level, that we might be part of the clutter. Are we ready for the bonfire? But then our Matthew reading works in concert with the reading from Isaiah, and we are reminded that with God, endings are always beginnings.
A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse,
and a branch shall grow out of his roots.
The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him,
the spirit of wisdom and understanding,
the spirit of counsel and might,
the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord ~Isaiah 11:1-2
The tree may have come down, but what will God put up in its place? Or, in this case, who? According to John, the one who is coming will baptize us with Spirit and fire.
I suppose fire achieves another kind of de-cluttering. We can think of how it, literally, changes objects, turns wood to ash. But think about other kinds of fire—think of how it feels to burn inside for someone—a person you love—or something—a cause you deeply believe in. That kind of fire is de-cluttering as well. It’s cleansing. It helps you to understand what is important. Everything that isn’t, just falls away.
John implores us: Repent! Prepare! How can we make ourselves ready? The first task is finding a new view. The second, is clearing away the clutter—letting the fire of the Spirit do its work, so that, hearts burning within us, everything else falls away, and we are left with that peace that passes understanding. All is truly ready.
Thanks be to God. Amen.