Parable of the Bradford Pear

God has a knack for juxtaposing things that seem to have no connection – and connecting them.

We’re most open to catch what he’s saying in moments when our minds relinquish the role of teacher and sit as lowly learners. This doesn’t happen as often as we might think.

Our minds like to take charge. In “learning” settings, they filter what we’re hearing, dictating what to receive and how to interpret it. Even when God is talking, our minds block and rearrange, dismember and puree what he is saying before actually considering it.

Thus usurping the teacher’s role, we remain unteachable and untaught. Thinking we’re learning, we pummel and crush what would have given fresh understanding until it fits into our pre-approved compartment of choice.

Recognizing this, God delights to teach us in times and ways we least expect it, times when our conscious minds don’t see truth coming and so don’t get in the way.

Last October, I was walking neighborhood streets, taking a path I’ve trodden so often and so long that I’ve almost worn ruts in the blacktop. This path takes me past a school where I’ve discovered a surprising oasis of sorts – a small secluded area with shade trees and benches.

That afternoon, nearing the end of my walk, I had a brief, one-sided conversation with God. He did the talking. “Go sit,” he said.

Turning aside from my path, I headed for one of the concrete benches and sat.

“Look up,” he said.

Above me, a Bradford pear spread its branches. Tilting my head backward, I gazed up at a delightfully variegated tree. Random sections of leaves had turned a deep red. Other sections remained green. It looked as if someone had taken a giant paint brush, dabbed it in red paint and, circling the tree, had repeatedly flicked the brush toward the tree, splashing red everywhere.

Ah, but those leaves weren’t dabbed with an exterior latex. Once intrinsically green, they had changed from within. Now intrinsically red, they could not turn back. Soon, the still-green leaves would change too.

Just a few days before Jesus’ crucifixion, he was leaving the Temple in Jerusalem when someone remarked, “What a beautiful building! How impressive the architecture!”

According to Luke 21, Jesus responded, “The time will come when not one stone will be left on another; every one of them will be thrown down.” He added, “When you see Jerusalem being surrounded by armies, you will know that its desolation is near.”

Not good news, I’d say. But to the minds of those listening, Jesus’ statements sounded more ludicrous than frightening. How could such a fine structure, such a permanent structure, be so thoroughly demolished?

When a few learners asked Jesus to elaborate, he talked about seasons and trees. “Look at the fig tree and all the trees. When they sprout leaves, you can see for yourselves and know that summer is near. Even so, when you see these things happening, you know that the kingdom of God is near. I tell you the truth, this generation will certainly not pass away until all these things have happened.”

Less than 40 years later, in A.D. 70, the Roman army besieged and conquered the city of Jerusalem. Both city and Temple were completely destroyed.

In another place, another century, I sat on a concrete bench, head tilted back, eyes open to a new season in progress. Staring upward at the leaves of a changing Bradford pear, I saw the people of God.

© 2007 Deborah P. Brunt. All rights reserved.