Sermon #61 (12th June 2022 at Essex Church / Kensington Unitarians)
Victoria Safford, a Unitarian Universalist minister, once told the story of a child in the Sunday school of her church in New York state. This young boy was overheard by his mum, talking about the UU church they went to, and the little boy said ‘I don’t know the name of it, but the church where we go, we’re really interested in trees. All of us believe in trees.’ His mum, presumably amused by this, but perhaps also a bit concerned about what the boy had been picking up in Sunday school, got in touch with the minister to ask whether it might be time to supplement his understanding with a more comprehensive Unitarian theology. Victoria Safford reflected on this, saying: ‘I don’t know if there is a more comprehensive Unitarian theology. All of us believe in trees. Like my young comrade, I’ve always been “very interested in trees”, meaning I have always (as far back as I can remember) had a spiritual orientation that unfolds itself, reveals itself outside, and inside, one that cannot be contained within any single creed or book or building or tradition.’
Now, I know what Unitarians are like, so I wouldn’t dare go as far as Victoria Safford did in saying that ‘all of us believe in trees’ – I’m wary of any such generalisations about what ‘we all’ believe in – but still it’s my hunch that we are indeed a tree-loving bunch on the whole. And there are different ways in which we each might come to love trees and learn from them. We might think of trees-in-general, a kind of abstract notion of the tree, and what it symbolises: In the poems we heard earlier, Kathleen Raine wrote of how God still lingers in the ‘green world’, and how London trees ‘quench the sorrows’ of we humans who are still spiritually searching in the midst of life’s struggle; Mary Oliver wrote of how she is saved by being amongst the trees, who remind her that they – and we – have come into the world ‘to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine’; and Jackie Kay – I believe her poem, which Chloe just read for us, was written in collaboration with a class of London schoolchildren, and was commissioned by the Norwegian embassy to celebrate the presentation of the Trafalgar Square Christmas Tree a few years ago – Jackie Kay hints at trees as wise beings who benevolently watch over our human lives, and deeds, and misdeeds, and which perhaps call us to be our best selves.
As I mentioned earlier, there is so much poetry written about trees, so many stories, and lots of folklore too; we might each have a favourite poem or tale that comes to mind this morning. Or perhaps your love of trees is not quite so abstract or arm’s length – maybe you have a real-world relationship with a particular favourite tree (like Marianne does with her apple tree) – a creature-to-creature connection between a-particular-human and a-particular-beloved-plant. Long-lived trees accompany us for years and we see them grow, and flourish, and fruit, endure through all seasons, all weathers, and sadly sometimes we see them sicken, and die, or be felled, as well.
I came across a lovely quote from Satish Kumar – activist, environmentalist, pacifist – the founder of Schumacher College and long-time editor Resurgence magazine – the quote can be found on the front of today’s order of service (and also on the ‘sermons’ section of our website along with the full text of today’s service and all our services). Satish Kumar writes: ‘How much I can learn from a tree! The tree is my church, the tree is my temple, the tree is my mantra, the tree is my poem and my prayer.’
How much we can learn from a tree! And there are, approximately, 8.5 million trees in London – or at least there were at last count – so there’s a whole lot of learning right here on our doorstep. But I wonder, is there one tree that comes to mind as being particularly special to you, or significant? Of course it doesn’t have to be a tree in London, think about one that’s close by to you, if you can, wherever you are. One that’s been in your life a while, that you see quite often, have some sort of relationship with? Maybe even one you could visit in the next week or so? Or perhaps a tree from your childhood, or from some other time in your life, that holds special memories? Maybe one that you can only visit in your memory, now, but which is significant to you. I’m not going to limit you to one tree – you may well love a great many trees – but for now maybe let’s just focus on one of them.
And let’s return to a meditative state of mind, if we can, to see what we might learn. I thought it was worth making time for another pause here so that we can each go deeper with ‘our’ tree. So I invite you to ask that tree – in your imagination – what it has to teach you right now – what message, or lesson, or subtle guidance, it has for you in this season of your life. Maybe there’s a question you’re struggling with or a possibility that you’re wondering about. What would your tree say to you? It might not be something that you can put into words. More of a feeling, a hunch, a nudge towards the deeper wisdom to which and through which we are all ultimately connected.
Let us sit in silence and stillness for just a few minutes now as we each take the time to inwardly, imaginatively connect and commune with our tree and see what it has to say to us this morning. And after a few minutes I will end the time of silence by sharing my favourite poem, simply called ‘Tree’, by the Finnish poet Solveig von Schoultz, to bring this short time of reflection to a close.
(2-3 minutes of stillness)
‘Tree’ by Solveig von Schoultz
There’s nothing for it but to be more tree.
Make peace with the soil. The ever changeless soil.
Changeless: the stones.
The gravel changeless.
Forever nailed to this: immobility
Be moved in the tree’s direction:
deeper down.
Can a tree that loves the gale become a gale?
A tree can do nothing but wear out its crown.
Be shaken by visions
shot through with burning cries.
The nailed-down tree roaring
born to tree
thrusts its longing inwards
in tree-form.
The dark-shadowed one grows broader. Broad,
the column pushes down, and with no fear of height
sings its leaf-heart greater towards the clouds.
Rest for all travellers
safety for birds and seeds
always in motion
deep in its innermost wood.
There’s nothing for it but to be more tree.
Amen.
Sermon by Jane Blackall
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