home | contact

Message from Pastor Marty

Trying to be autumn

By Pastor Peter W. Marty

It is not autumn yet. But it is trying hard to be. The leaves on the large walnut tree in my backyard have turned yellow. Whenever the wind blows, they take off in any direction they want. Most of them give the illusion of flying so carefree. They are actually very determined objects, headed straight for my gutter, like heat-seeking missiles in love with aluminum. There they sit and rot until the day I grab the ladder and render them homeless.

The rain outside is falling gently tonight. I stepped out into it moments ago and cut eight leaves of fresh basil out back — not seven or nine, but eight. They are for dotting the tomatoes a neighbor dropped off. Is there anything better than the taste and smell of fresh basil? I don’t think so, though homegrown tomatoes are pretty special, and the act of giving them away is even more special.

I culled the basil leaves with the aid of a flashlight. The days are shorter now, and if the truth be told, I was late for dinner again. This time it was for good reason. Bob is dying over at the hospice house. I wanted to see him. How do I know he’s dying? Well, anyone who takes up residency with hospice does not sign a long-term lease. Besides, Bob’s breathing is shallow. I put my hand on his forehead for a blessing. His skin was cooler than he must be accustomed to. It’s not autumn yet for Bob. But it is trying hard to be.

Autumn gives us that chance to remember life’s transiency and continuity all wrapped up in one. We see the abundance of summer beginning to decay. The temperature is falling — down to 44 degrees tonight. But seeds are being scattered all over the place by nature herself. Come spring, we’ll know if Mother Nature’s fall seeding project, carried out with such complete abandon, actually worked.

There is something else about autumn that doesn’t have to translate into diminishment. It involves an opportunity. What a great time of year to re-evaluate life and decide what we can afford to relinquish. Think of the personal health that comes with stepping into your garage (if you have one), or your closet (you surely have one), and saying to yourself, “Now what is there that I could afford to give up? What should I surrender and give away or throw away that would help me become a freer person?”

Maybe the most important closet to sort through this autumn is not full of possessions at all; it’s that one packed with character flaws that keep getting inflicted on the lives of others. Whatever the storage bin, autumn can signal the planting of new seeds as much as it can signal browning and decay.

Christian people know that a life grounded in Christ delivers both transiency and continuity. In Him, we gain this strange and paradoxical idea that living is always hidden within dying, and dying is always tucked inside living. We get to cherish the visual glories of autumn, yet remain aware that brown follows orange and red on the color spectrum. We also know that seeds of new life are being sown even into the brownness.

Some people find death to be nothing short of ugly and obscene. But death can have an elegant peace about it — some would say even beauty. Death and life don’t have to be irreconcilable opposites any more than light and darkness do. How would light mean anything to us if we did not know darkness? The same in reverse. Or how would we know the fullness of life if the reminders of death didn’t teach us how to live creatively every day?

We have a hard time holding opposites together in this either/or world we inhabit. Everybody wants to yank out paradox and complexity when two things don’t seem to cohere. But the mystery and unity of appreciating life and death together get right to the heart of God.

So how about this for a plan: Get yourself a box of crayons. Open it up and sniff elementary school all over again. Draw yourself the most magnificent orange and yellow maple tree you have drawn since second grade. Then, sit beneath that tree and take in the day. You just might feel and smell the testimony of autumn — one that prizes life and death.

Pastor Peter W. Marty,

  ::