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Several weeks ago, I attended a family reunion in Nebraska. We met on the farm where my aunt lives. This farm, though hundreds of miles away, is the place I have had the longest-standing relationship with over the course of my life. My Nana grew up at this farm, and then fell in love there with my Papa, a hired farm hand. My grandparents raised their family on this farm.
The farmhouse still has the same smell on the third floor where we slept—and the same wind that waved through the prairie grasses in my grandparent’s days still whistles through the trees. When I walk the old roads, the same gravel still crunches under my feet and it feels a little like time collapses. It’s like our generations are all layered there on top of each other.
Most of us at the reunion were from my generation with a handful of our kids running around. The couple of gray haired members present were the ones who had tucked me in at night years ago.
In some senses, those of us gathered that October weekend, were different. Some of us live close to that little praire town, others now live in rural Florida, and still other in urban Chicago. And yet, the sense of connection that we share with each other--and with the place—is strong. Also thick in the air was that grief that comes with aging, illness, the pain of missing those who weren’t there, and just knowing that loss is a pattern in life.
I arrived at the farm to see that the top had blown off the old maple tree in a storm months earlier. As we walked around the grounds my cousin and I noticed how many trees had come down. The old mulberry grove was gone. My aunt and uncle had planted new trees but many of them were still young and thin. Way down in the low corner lot a half a mile up the road was the black walnut grove my grandpa had planted many years ago. He had once brought the walnuts back to the farm after visiting our family in Illinois and planted them to see what would take root. Some of the walnut trees had died—there had been a lot of drought in the last decade, and yet, as we walked through the grove, the ground was carpeted with round green nuts.
Our world is not an easy one—there are wars and deportations, catastrophic storms and poverty. There’re loneliness and wounded relationships. Bigotry and illness. Anna Blaedel wrote "it is a great gift in this life to survive to old age...It is also so hard, so brave, so tender: confronting death’s inevitability.”
One afternoon, I walked down the hill from the farm house towards the pole barn and saw the elders sitting together in the big open doorway enjoying last lingering bit of dusky light. I had brought a couple of walnuts back with me from my walk to show the kids. The walnut grove, I later learned may have had what is called a mast year. Every few years, nut trees have a mast year where they produce an exceptional amount of nuts. In such a year, the ground may be covered with walnuts and it’s a welcome treat for all the squirrels and chipmunks who store away the tasty nuts or plant them. A mast year requires an extra push of energy from the tree. It’s a lot of work to grow all those extra nuts!
Anna Bladel reflected on trees and wrote: “It’s an intense labor [of the trees], growing possibilities, sowing seeds, imagining what is not yet but could be. During mast years," she explained, "trees practice their laborious commitment to a future they may or may not live to see.” Nut trees don’t lavishly bloom like this every year. Some years, they rest. But, in a mast year, they give everything they have—it’s this act of reckless hope.
It’s truly a mystery how trees are able to do this together in symphony. Scientists have said that they think trees communicate through their roots, through the soil and through fungi. Apparently, they are able to sense the same cues in the environment, think as one, and respond together. Just like an orchestra tunes to a first violin, the trees seem to hear the same notes and tune their beings into sync. And, in a mast year, they decide that this is the year, this is the moment to give it everything they've got!
In a perfect world, isn’t this what the Communion of Saints does, too? Sometimes we get it right. We listen for and share each other’s needs. We sense our community’s needs, we bear together, and we give when it matters most.
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None of us knows how much time we have left. Some of us are all too sharply aware of how fragile life is. Our choir director, Derek, was recently telling me that his grandpa turns 100 next week. Each day is a gift. And, we do think about what kind of legacy we want to leave and what kind of future we want to plant. Last week, Miriah spoke in church and reminded us that we have done so much as a congregation that we never could have done alone. The Communion of Saints entrusted this building to us. The ancients entrusted this deep rooted faith to us that leads us to sense and listen for those who are hungry, those who those who weep, those who mourn. The harvest we’ve shared and the new seeds we’ve planted as a church have been many.
Over this last year, we’ve helped five migrant families achieve independent living. We’ve buried the saints who have gone before us. We’ve baptized those who are growing up in our midst. We’ve raised more money for the crazy boiler than anyone else ever thought was possible. We’ve shown up for each other, sometimes just as a quiet presence down the pew. We’ve shown up for our neighborhood as a persistent steward of hope. We’ve held one another through grief and change.
A grove is like a mini forest and is full of trees that have fallen and those just beginning to take root. It’s like a church: some of us in this grove here, are deeply rooted, others newly planted. Together, we weather storms and bear fruit, all in our seasons. They say that trees in a forest are mysteriously connected through the roots that run through the soil. This Communion of Saints also extends to what we can only sense: we are connected through time and space mysteriously to those who have come before us and to those who will come to be.
We are a Communion of Saints. Like pride of lions, an army of ants, a murmuration of starlings that soars in the air, we are a Communion of Saints: A mysterious Communion that stretches across time and space to connect and unite us. In the Communion, the stories of our ancestors, the faith of the ancients and the hope for the future crystalize with purpose around us.
In just a bit, we’ll welcome our new members to the front of the sanctuary and welcome them into the life of the church. We join, we participate, we share in these struggles and joys of life here in the church because we know that we cannot save ourselves. Try as we might, we need each other. If this current moment we’re living through in society has shown us anything it is that we cannot save ourselves and need to lean on the Holy One: on God present in our midst; on Christ made alive among us.
New members, we are so thankful to welcome you! Long-time members, we are so blessed by your presence in our midst! May we, as a congregation--as a Communion--make this year that we are living through a kind of mast year: A year overflowing with love and grace for each other and those around us.
May we give generously, and forgive heartily, may we hope extravagantly and commit tenaciously to this mysterious project of the church. Like my grandparent’s walnut grove, we may not see the full harvest of what we plant—but still we plant, still, we hope, we insist, we love. For grace unfolds slowly over time, God works on us gradually through the seasons, hope takes root and takes ahold of us and bears fruit in astonishing, untamed grace.
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