There comes a point in every respectable Ontario summer when a person develops a rather profound theological appreciation for shade.
This realization usually arrives somewhere around two o’clock in the afternoon when the humidity has climbed to the point where stepping outdoors feels remarkably similar to walking into a bowl of warm soup. One leaves the cool comfort of the house full of confidence, only to discover halfway across the lawn that perhaps the pioneers were not nearly as cheerful as history books suggest.
Fortunately, God invented trees.
Or perhaps more accurately, God created trees long before any of us realized just how desperately we would need them.
I have always admired an old shade tree. There is something wonderfully dependable about one. It has likely stood in the same place for decades, watching generations of children race bicycles, grandparents sip iced tea, dogs chase squirrels, and neighbours wander over for conversations that somehow begin with the weather and end with the meaning of life.
The remarkable thing is that the tree never asks who deserves its shade.
It shelters everyone.
Rich or poor.
Churchgoer or skeptic.
The fellow who carefully waters his lawn and the fellow whose lawn has become an official wildlife sanctuary.
The Gospel has always been rather like that.
Jesus never seemed particularly interested in distributing grace only to those who had completed the proper paperwork.
He welcomed fishermen who smelled like yesterday’s catch.
Tax collectors whose popularity could not have survived a parish council election.
Women, children, foreigners, lepers, Roman officers, and people whose lives looked thoroughly untidy.
The shade of God’s mercy has always been gloriously indiscriminate.
Isaiah writes:
“The Lord is your keeper… the sun shall not strike you by day.” (Psalm 121 borrows the same comforting image.)
One suspects the Psalmist had experienced at least one unpleasant afternoon without sunscreen.
Of course, every shade tree also teaches patience.
The magnificent maple under which you now enjoy your lawn chair did not become impressive overnight.
It spent years doing something that modern society finds terribly unfashionable.
Growing slowly.
One ring at a time.
One season after another.
Roots before branches.
Strength before spectacle.
We admire the broad canopy but forget the decades of quiet becoming that produced it.
The Christian life works much the same way.
We often pray for instant holiness.
God generally grows oaks.
That may explain why the Holy Spirit occasionally seems less interested in speed than in depth.
Stephen Leacock might have observed that Canadians possess an extraordinary ability to drive hundreds of kilometres searching for the perfect picnic location while entirely overlooking the magnificent shade tree already standing in the backyard.
The Kingdom of God frequently suffers from the same condition.
We search for spectacular spiritual experiences while quietly ignoring the ordinary places where God has faithfully been meeting us all along.
Perhaps the old maple behind the garage.
Perhaps the bench beside the church.
Perhaps the familiar chair on the porch where morning coffee somehow turns into prayer without anyone announcing that prayer has officially begun.
Some of the holiest moments of my life have not occurred in great cathedrals.
Many have happened sitting quietly beneath trees.
There is something about leaves whispering in a summer breeze that reminds us we are not responsible for holding the whole universe together.
God has that well in hand.
The tree simply invites us to stop striving long enough to remember it.
That may be one of the finest invitations of Ordinary Time.
Not every season needs fireworks.
Some seasons simply need faithful roots.
So today, if you find yourself beneath a generous old tree, don’t rush away too quickly.
Sit for a while.
Listen to the breeze.
Offer thanks.
Rest in the cool shade.
And remember that long before you ever sought God’s shelter, God had already planted it there, waiting for your arrival.
After all, the Gospel has always had plenty of room beneath its branches.
And thanks be to God for that.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for the shade You provide when life becomes hot, hurried, and exhausting. Thank You for the quiet places where our souls can rest and remember that You are always near.
Plant our lives deeply in Your love, that our faith may grow strong with patient roots and generous branches. Help us to become people who offer welcome, kindness, and shelter to others, just as Christ has welcomed us.
Teach us to slow down enough to hear the whisper of Your Spirit in the breeze, to find holy moments in ordinary places, and to trust that while we are growing quietly, You are faithfully at work within us.
May we rest today beneath the wide canopy of Your grace, and then rise refreshed to share that same grace with everyone we meet.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.
Oh, thank you for this. Your analogies are profound.