Isaiah 55: 6-9; Matthew 6: 7-13
Taking a “Wound Walk”
In preparation for this sermon, I went on a couple of “Wound Walks.” Wendy Janzen introduced me to the concept of a “Wound Walk” at a Burning Bush Forest Church worship gathering. Similar to what was described in our homework for this week, a “Wound Walk” invites us to take a walk outdoors and look for places and things that are wounded, scarred or damaged in some way.
I didn’t have to go far. Right across the street from my house is this tree, bearing a deep slash wound down its trunk. (Show slide). I remember when that wound happened. A maple tree on our property fell into three pieces under the weight of ice accretion after an ice storm several years back. One piece fell on our driveway taking down our electrical line. Another fell toward our next door neighbours but didn’t cause any property damage. And the third piece fell across the street striking a large section of the neighbour’s tree, ripping down a large branch and nearly a third of its crown, leaving this wound. I felt terrible at the time. Their tree was a good sized maple, a shade tree. I didn’t know if it could survive that kind of wound.
I found a similar type of wound on an old majestic tree in Schneider’s Woods west of Waterloo, where I like to hike and ski. (Show slide). I like to say hello to this tree when I walk or ski. Now I don’t know how long it will last with this kind of wound.
On another part of my walk I went through the Victoria Glen forest on my way to the Kissing Bridge Trail, which runs through Elmira. I came to an old fallen log along the path. (Show slide). It has deteriorated, and disintegrated so much over the last couple of years. You used to be able to stop and sit here, but now the wood has gone soft, and it crumbles to touch it. What was once a majestic tree is now fallen, broken and decaying.
Soon, I will get to one of my favourite spots. It is like an outdoor cathedral, next to the stream, with a stand of massive trees reaching for the sky–maple, spruce, ash. (Show slide). But all is not well here. There are significant wounds–several of the trees are clearly dying–whether from age, disease or a lightning strike, I don’t know for sure. But for a while now bark has been peeling and falling off in long strips.
When I get to this natural cathedral, I am stopped in my tracks. I haven’t been through here in weeks because the bugs have been so annoying. Two of the tallest trees have been felled, and they lie, sawed into several logs on the forest floor. (Show slide) I don’t know when this happened. The cuts look pretty fresh. I feel sad. I have been expecting this day would come, but this feels so harsh and final.
I understand why they needed to come down. It is a public trail. A safety issue. I get it. It still makes me sad. I run my fingers over the growth rings on the closest stump and try to count them. What stories this tree could tell!
I move on down the trail. Here is a hollow stump of a tree, stripped of its bark, broken off at the top, with signs of holes drilled in by birds or insects (Show slide ).
Closer to the Floradale Road access to the trail, is a large area where ash trees were logged as they succumbed to the emerald ash borer, and began to die. It was sad to see so many majestic trees come down and get hauled away. And clearly there are many more that still need to come down (Show slide). I understand the necessity, for the safety and health of the woodlot, and it makes me sad.
Bearing Witness to the Wound: Taking Time for Lament
Part of the invitation for a “Wound Walk” is to stay in that place of woundedness and open your senses to it. To touch it, to observe it, to bear witness to that wound. To be curious about what caused it. To notice what feelings are arising, and take time to feel them.
It gives us an opportunity to be honest and tell the truth about what hurts in our world. To grieve what has been damaged and lost. Maybe we can even recognize our own complicity in bigger systems and choices humans have made that have contributed to this wound.
That is part of what we are doing in our service this morning. We are taking time to lament the losses, the damage and destruction Creation has suffered, much of it at the hands of humans, who for millenia have claimed their right to fill the Earth and subdue it, rule over it and master it, take from it and extract from it, without considering the cost. In our songs and scripture, in the images and in our prayers, we are bearing witness to these wounds. We are practicing how to be present to suffering.
But there is more to lament than weeping over what has been. Lament asks us to be real before God and each other. Healthy lament also calls us to confession and seeking forgiveness. You may have noticed that the practice of confession has been built into each worship service in this series.
Today, in our scripture reading we hear Jesus’ instructions on prayer. When you pray, do not go on and on…Your prayers need not be labored or lengthy or grandiose…Your prayers, rather, should be simple, like this (see Matthew 6:7-8, The Voice). Your prayers should be simple…expressing honour for God, calling for God to make things right, asking for what we need, seeking forgiveness, and protection from harm. In the Lord’s Prayer we are given a prayer posture to guide our daily life.
In the middle of this prayer we find the words forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors (or sins, or trespasses, depending on the translation). It is a central part of our life in relationship with God and others to confess our wrongs–the way we have missed the mark, or lost our way, or caused hurt and harm. And to seek forgiveness. Not to appease an angry God. Not so that we can absolve ourselves and go on sinning. But to be truthful before God and each other. To learn how to forgive others, to be transformed and moved to change our ways. So that on earth as it is in heaven, becomes our life’s work.
Isaiah also calls us to change our ways, and banish all thoughts of doing wrong. To turn to the Lord for mercy, or in some translations it is return, for God will forgive generously. God will abundantly pardon (see Isaiah 55:7). Turn. Return. These are words of repentance. Of remorse. Of change.
And in the words that follow there is honesty and humility. A recognition of our human limits. The restraints and brakes we need. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the LORD. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts (Isaiah 55:8-9). Here there is a call to let go of our arrogance, our hubris, our pride. Our assumptions that we are at the pinnacle of creation, and get to enjoy all the privileges that come with that power position. That we get to decide, we get to control what happens. We get to use Creation for our own wants and purposes.
Our world is wounded. So are we. It is important to name and acknowledge that. We should not ignore, minimize, dismiss or make light of that suffering. It is impactful. It is painful. And it leaves a mark–sometimes permanently changing us, and affecting future generations. We can and we should lament the losses, the damage, the willful ignorance, the reckless overuse, the aggressive extraction, the thoughtless disposal, mindless throw “away” culture that harms Earth and its creatures.
Lament, confession and forgiveness are spiritual practices. They are a commitment to honesty. And they can create the fertile ground for action–for learning, for growth and change. But lament is only half of the story. And it is never an end in itself. For it could quickly lead to despair. To denial. To inaction. To frozen indifference, and the fear that nothing I do will make any difference.
Reflecting on Woundedness
A“Wound Walk” is also an opportunity to reflect on our wounds–physical, emotional, social, spiritual. The outer landscape has a way of reflecting our inner landscape. When we bring our woundedness into the presence of God, we allow God to minister to us through the Beings we encounter. For even broken things can teach us.
Remarkably over the years my neighbour’s tree has shown resilience, continuing to flourish, despite its somewhat lopsided appearance. (Show slide). The wound has closed up a bit over the years. New growth has filled in around it. This tree speaks to me. It reminds me that I don’t need to be perfect. That the scars we bear are part of our story. Nearly everything is wounded or scarred in some way. All of us are wounded. None of us is perfect. And there is a difference between perfect and beloved.
The old log along the path speaks to me too (Show slide). It will become a nurse log. Seeds will land here and sprout. Spores of lichen and moss will attach here. Mushrooms and other decomposers will do their work, all nourished by the decaying material in this fallen log. (Show slide). A small creature may find a hiding place in a hole here.
This old log shows me that our legacy goes far beyond what we achieve in our prime, what we accomplish at the height of our strength and power. We are so much more than what we attain in property and things, and what we produce in offspring, wealth, business. We can still nurture life even when we are old and weakened.
(Show slide). It appears that these newly fallen logs will be left here on the forest floor, to soften and decompose, to hollow out and return to the soil over time to nurture the next generation of growth in the forest. And the forest canopy has some significant gaps where more light can get through to the forest floor.
These fallen giants speak to me too. That none of us is invincible. All of us will die one day. And that even in our endings, in our grieving, light does get through. The fallen logs also speak of a softening. Suffering has the potential to harden us–turn us bitter, resentful, hard-hearted, judgmental and narrow.
Suffering also has the potential to soften us–to break us open, make us more understanding and compassionate, and help us to be more gentle with ourselves and with those around us who also suffer. Wounds and scars have a way of changing our posture and our assumptions. We shift from being dominant to being vulnerable. From being in control, to accepting what is.
(Show slide). If we look more closely the broken down shell of a tree is full of holes. It has become a haven for birds and bugs, a home, a place of refuge, a place to find nurture. It reminds me that when we are wounded and broken ourselves, we can find our hearts opened, more compassionate, and able to be a haven, a safe place, a place of comfort and care for another who is grieving.
(Show slide). Where the dying ash trees were logged I now marvel, a couple years later, at the new growth here–a vine, and a new shrub where there was just a stump.
There is a cycle here. From seed and sprouting through growth and maturity, to wounds, collapse, death, and decay, and then the nurturing of new life. It is a cycle we witness over and over again in Creation. A cycle we recognize in our own human journey too. From the earth we come, and to the earth we will return. Earth to earth. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. And then, the promise of new life.
Woundedness and Restoration: The Garden in Scripture
for more on this theme see: The Significance of Gardens in Scripture
The cycle of life we see in nature echoes a cycle we also see in scripture. The biblical metaphor of the “garden” offers us hope and the promise of new life. It assures us that God will always seek to renew and reconcile.
It begins in Genesis in the Garden or Eden.That place of promise and potential abundance and nourishment, flourishing vegetation and fruitfulness. The Garden is rich in resources, beauty and goodness. It represents God’s intent for all creation for all life–to thrive, to be in a dynamic relationship, to be whole, to be one. It is also a place of honesty and openness, of naked joy and delight. A place of harmony with plants, animals, with each other and with God.
But then, the wounds start to pile up in the Garden of Eden. There is deception, mistrust, blame, shame, and hiding from God. The beauty of the Garden is tarnished. Relationships are damaged and broken, disrupting the original harmony. And the humans are exiled from the Garden. They lose their physical home and their close, honest spiritual communion with God.
In the biblical story the Wilderness becomes a contrast to the Garden. It is a place that seems dry, stark and barren, empty and lonely. Life is a struggle here. It pushes even the most hearty to the brink of their coping. It is a place of testing, and trial. A place finally for lament, for confession, repentance. For turning around, and opening ourselves to a new way.
Sometimes we get exiled to the wilderness–the consequences for our actions. Sometimes we end up there without choosing. Sometimes we make our way there on our own.
Thankfully, the biblical story doesn’t end with exile, with wilderness, with being lost and wandering in the desert. There are echoes of the beauty and wonder and goodness of the garden in many parts of scripture. They represent our deep human longing to return to the Garden. To be reconciled to God and Creation and each other.
- “The Tabernacle is described as a mobile ‘garden of God’ in the wilderness (Ex. 25-27).
- For the Hebrew people the Promised Land was that new garden. It is a place of abundance, rich with resources, flowing with milk and honey, a place to thrive and flourish and prosper.
- When Solomon builds the temple he decorates it with a garden theme (1 Kings 6).
- In the Song of Songs, two lovers meet in the garden, open and vulnerable.
- The Psalms are full of images of the glory of God expressed in the natural world: flourishing trees, flowing streams, cultivated vines, with God as the master Gardener.
- Isaiah envisions the exiles returning home, restored to Zion and describes how the desert will blossom like Eden, her barren wilderness like the garden of the Lord (Isaiah 51:3).
And let me give a sneak peak at where the Isaiah 55 passage we have been using in this series is ultimately going. Next week we will read of rain watering the earth, seeds sprouting, growing, producing good food. The mountains and hills will burst into song. The trees of the fields will clap their hands. And instead of thorns cypress trees will grow. Instead of briers (thorns) the myrtle plant. Sacred, symbolic plants that remind the people that God provides, and God is faithful. Hope, renewal and transformation are possible. The wilderness blooms again. We return once more to the Garden.
And of course, garden imagery shows up in the New Testament too. The Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus prays before his death is a place of temptation, a place of anguish, of suffering, betrayal, and violence, echoing the harms that damaged that first Garden of Eden. Gethsemane “is like an “antigarden.” And yet it is also sacred space, where Jesus’ choice brings the longed for reconciliation and healing, undoing the damage done in the first Garden.
And then we have the resurrection garden. Jesus’ tomb is in a garden, where Mary Magdalene goes to weep. At first she mistakes the risen Jesus for the gardener. When she finally recognizes him joy is restored, hope is renewed and the Easter gift of reconciliation begins to unfold anew.
Finally, in Rev 22:1-2 we have a vision of heaven, the New Jerusalem with a river, a tree of life and fruit for all the nations. A heavenly garden, a place of ultimate joy. Paradise regained.
The Bible story begins and ends in a garden. This is good news. As the plants in our gardens die back for the winter, as trees lose their leaves and become dormant for a season, we do not despair. I found amazing little mushrooms on my Wound Walks too. (Show slides x2). One is hardly noticeable unless you look closely because of its colour. The other is bright and vibrant.
Just like these mushrooms grow from the composting material of the earth, God takes our wounds, God takes our scars and our pain, and shapes something beautiful, something new. We will return to the Garden. God is making all things new. AMEN