The Redbud

The Redbud

(A post from when I was a pastor in Galion, Ohio. I offer it as a tribute to this beautiful tree, now passed.)

If you would have asked me a few days ago about the Redbud tree by the Episcopal Church, I would have said, “What Redbud tree?”

You might have gone a little farther with it.  You might have said, “You know, the one by the east end of the Episcopal Church.”

And I would have said, “There’s a Redbud tree by the east end of the Episcopal Church?”

But, if you asked me today, I would have said, “Wow, that tree is pretty spectacular!”

I should know everything that there is to know about the outside of the Episcopal Church.  I drive by it often enough.  It’s not unusual for me to drive past the Episcopal Church  five or six times a day.  Often, I am stopped at the light at the corner of Walnut and South Union.  I have lots of time to look things over.

But, as I said, I would not have known anything about that Redbud tree until today.  Because today, I followed my usual path, and  as I was coming to the  light, glanced over towards the sign, and today, for the first time, I said to myself, “What a glorious sight that tree is!”

As I began driving along, I started looking for more Redbud trees.  I had an easy time spotting them.  Every one of them was like a diva at the opera stepping up to center stage, proud and ready, poised to command the attention of anyone within earshot.

What shall I compare this to? The meek shall inherit the earth? Suffer the little children to come to me? Consider the lilies of the field? The woman with two coins who was going unnoticed that day at the temple Treasury box?  Then Jesus glanced at her and exclaimed, “Look at that woman’s faith!” While everyone else was saying, “What woman?”, Jesus had his own Redbud experience.

The miracle of all this is that we know we are surrounded by Redbud trees all the time, even though, most of the time, we barely notice that they’re there.  And truth be told, we are surrounded by “Redbud” people all the time as well.  God keeps surprising us.  God keeps populating our lives with folks who, at first glance, seem to blend into the background.  They are not the movers and shakers.  They are not the majestic Oaks, nor the towering Redwoods.  They’re just, kind of, “there”.  We pay them little mind, but just when we have forgotten them, God bedecks them with glory and a spectacular presence in our lives.

I have visited many an aged saint in a nursing home or in the confines of their living room, who I would count as people of the Redbud variety.  Their aches and pains and creaking bones have forced them into the background.  They no longer can take their place front and center to use the gifts God gave them.  But just when they seem to disappear, you look up into their face or into their eyes, and there is the very glory of God.  In a comment, in the flash of a smile, in the lilt of a laugh, in a bit of wisdom simply stated, there is a spectacular view of God.

Likewise, they say that children should be seen and not heard, and a lot of the time, they are.  But, on the other hand, nothing can light up a dull day like a child just being themselves and offering up a bit of innocence and the majesty of God.

It might be worth taking a look around you.  The Redbud trees are about to fade into the background again.  But one thing is for certain: there are Redbud trees and Redbud people lurking all about you, gifts from God, and God is about to show you beauty and glory in and through them.

The Parson Ponders: Pushing Up and Turning Green

What do they know that I don't know?  

A few weeks ago, I was driving along on  a cloudy, cold, wintry, ugly day.  One more day just like all the rest of the winter that had chilled my bones, plugged up my sinuses and made my nose drip.   It seemed to me, however, that the grass was turning green.  "Couldn't be," I thought to myself.  "It's too early for grass to get green.  Foolish grass.   Why doesn't it just wait until it gets warm?"

Come to think of it, that grass wasn't any smarter than the tulips that sent up a test finger in February as if they couldn't wait for their time.  There they stood in the midst of cracked ground and ten degree temperatures.  I would have stayed longer to lecture them on learning to push up at the right  time, but it was too cold, so I darted for the warmth.

Out back, here come the chives, the lambs ears, the yarrow and the tiger lilies. The daffodils didn't wait for me to signal the all clear either before they risked frost bite.  Out front, the lilac bush buds are liable to get coated with ice before its all over with.

It seems to me that thirty two degrees today is just as cold as thirty two degrees was in December.  Last week I had a talk with a robin, bouncing around in the snow.  "It's your own fault," I said.  "Why don't you use your head?   Why don't you wait until the snow's gone before you come back?" 

What do they know that I don't know?  All these plants and animals just keep pushing up into the chilled air, turning green beneath the snow and saying a  defiant "no" to the cold.  Every year, they do it on their own.  They never ask for my advice.  Every year it seems to me they do it too soon.  Every year, though, they do just fine.

Maybe in the midst of Easter, I should let those tulips and robins rub off on me a little bit.  Maybe some day late in March I should take a tumble through the snow and get some grass stains on my pants.  Maybe as Christians, people should be saying about you or me: "What does he know that I don't know?"  "How can he be poking his head up so high in the midst of this dark, cold world we live in?"  "Why doesn't he wait for better times before he comes out in the open and expresses optimism about the future.

Foolish Christians, they just keep pushing up in the cold, turning green and letting their buds swell in anticipation of what is to come.  It takes some daring to be a Christian.  The Easter "son"rise calls for us to come out of our tombs and into the cold and snow.  It might be a little nippy, but there's no doubt about what lies ahead.  God put within the plants and the birds and insects a mechanism that knows just when to spring to life.  Easter is God's way of saying that this same mechanism has been placed within us.  When you see Easter, when you see the Risen Christ, it is time to spring to life.

So push up, turn green, shoot up a test finger.  God is on the move, and so are we.