After Gaza

a sermon from Sunday, October 8

Note: Today’s bonus post for supporting subscribers is open to everyone—the sermon I preached yesterday at Trinity. We’ve been in a series about “tree stories” from the Bible, entitled The Tree of Life: The Roots and Branches of Faith. As I was finishing up the sermon, the news came in about the incursion into southern Israel by Hamas fighters, and Israel’s response. The response was such that I thought I’d share it here. You can also watch it online.

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MaryAnn McKibben Dana
October 8, 2023
Trinity Presbyterian Church, Herndon VA
Judges 9:7-15

The Roots and Branches of Faith: We Serve

Our sermon series continues in the book of Judges. This book describes the period of, well, judges: temporary leaders appointed by God. In this section, Gideon has brought victory to the Israelites. They want to make him king, but he says there is no king but God. After he dies, his son Abimelech maneuvers his way to becoming king in a way that would make the writers of House of Cards or Succession blush. He lobbies the people at Shechem to let him take charge—they give him money which he uses to hire henchmen. These henchmen end up killing all the other sons of Gideon. Abimelech will go on to reign for three terrible years. It’s a dreary period in Israel’s history. The only other son who survives is Jotham, who’s the one speaking here:

The Parable of the Trees

⁷ When it was told to Jotham, he went and stood on the top of Mount Gerizim and cried aloud and said to them, “Listen to me, you lords of Shechem, so that God may listen to you.

⁸ The trees once went out
    to anoint a king over themselves.
So they said to the olive tree,
    ‘Reign over us.’
⁹ The olive tree answered them,
    ‘Shall I stop producing my rich oil
        by which gods and mortals are honored
        and go to sway over the trees?’
¹⁰ Then the trees said to the fig tree,
    ‘You come and reign over us.’
¹¹ But the fig tree answered them,
    ‘Shall I stop producing my sweetness
        and my delicious fruit
        and go to sway over the trees?’
¹² Then the trees said to the vine,
    ‘You come and reign over us.’
¹³ But the vine said to them,
    ‘Shall I stop producing my wine
        that cheers gods and mortals
        and go to sway over the trees?’
¹⁴ So all the trees said to the bramble,
    ‘You come and reign over us.’
¹⁵ And the bramble said to the trees,
    ‘If in good faith you are anointing me king over you,
        then come and take refuge in my shade,
    but if not, let fire come out of the bramble
        and devour the cedars of Lebanon.’

Perhaps you heard the story several days ago about the famous tree in the northern part of England, right along Hadrian’s Wall, an ancient border of the Roman Empire. If you can’t picture the tree, you may have seen its distinctive image; a solitary sycamore tree nestled in a dip in the wall, it’s appeared on packages of gin, beer, and cookies, or maybe you’ve seen it in the movie Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. About 10 days ago, a park director got the news that the 200-year-old tree had fallen and was no more. The director assumed it was the 60 mph winds that had blown through during the night, but no: the tree had not been brought down by natural forces. The cut was too clean. The trunk had been daubed with white paint. An incision known as a wedge cut had been made, designed to guide the tree’s fall. The park ranger who investigated it was unequivocal. Someone had cut it down.

A week and a half later, the residents of the area and really people all over are mourning the loss of the tree, and what’s left in its place, two short questions, Who? And Why? Authorities still don’t have answers to either question. But as one commenter put it, “Whoever did this woke up one day and thought, ‘How can I make the world just a little bit worse?’”

So far in our series of tree stories in scripture, we’ve been able to focus on many positive lessons and inspiration. But the destruction of the sycamore gap tree, and the biblical story of Abimelech in which our passage appears, tells the other side of the story, which is how much damage we humans can do to one another and to the world given into our care. Here in week five of our series, we are reminded of the yawning chasm between the world as it is and the world as it should be.

Today’s story is a parable, a teaching intended to make a point through metaphor and imagery. Jotham could come out and say, “Hey you guys, I’ve got a feeling that this Abimelech guy is no good,” which would probably fall on deaf ears, but instead, by using a parable, he gets people’s attention—draws them in to this fanciful story of trees, looking for a king and asking the different varieties if they’re up for the job. The olive tree says “no thank you.” It already has a job to do. Same with the fig tree and the vine. It’s only when the trees go to the bramble, what Eugene Peterson translates as a tumbleweed, that they finally have a taker. But imagine for a moment trying to find shade under a tumbleweed, or picture a fire devouring a forest, which we don’t need much imagination to do this year, and you realize that the trees got more than they bargained for.

In our group Bible study on Wednesday, we talked about this text in terms of power and leadership. The specifics of Abimelech’s story are very particular and quite grisly, but the basic contours are a tale as old as time. We talked about how often it is that the people who end up being in charge of countries and corporations are often the most ego-driven, the most ambitious—you don’t rise to that level without being at least a little ruthless—and often the ones who care the most about the common good are the least likely to step into that power over others. Perhaps you saw the headline this week, “How do Americans feel about politics? ‘Disgust’ isn’t a strong enough word.” One amateur historian in our Bible study reflected on the times in human history when people have been so desperate for someone to rule over them that they’ve submitted to petty autocrats, the bramble of humanity if you will, who’ve left a trail of destruction in their wake. And we talked about how strange it was to read this scripture just hours after the Speaker of the House was ousted for the first time in our nation’s history. I said I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that aspect of the story, and at the end of the Zoom call, the rest of the group basically signed off with a “So good luck with that, MaryAnn!”

Folks, the last thing I wanted to do is connect this story with Kevin McCarthy. And well, that turned out not to be a problem. After spending all day Friday and Saturday leading an event in Baltimore for NEXT Church, I sat down at my computer to put some shape around this message, and happened to refresh the New York Times.

And then I saw.

I saw, as you surely saw, the news of Palestinian militants infiltrating dozens of towns in southern Israel, of Hamas firing rockets and taking hostages, everyday people including a grandmother, which prompted vows from the Israeli government to annihilate the opposition. It’s an attack that has shaken the country in a way that’s been compared to 9/11. A tale as old as time.

Many of you know that I traveled on pilgrimage to Israel and Palestine four years ago—I know some of you have done the same; in fact not three days ago, I was talking to one of you about potentially organizing a trip for Trinity folks to visit.

The entrance to Tent of Nations, a family farm and educational center run by Daoud Nassar and his family. We refuse to be enemies.

One of the things you hear when you prepare for a trip to the Holy Land is how unbelievably complex the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is. We met with Israeli settlers, and we met with residents of a refugee camp in Nablus. I was told if you’ve done it right, you come back with more questions than answers; if you’re sure of yourself you’ve done it wrong. I’m definitely feeling that today. But I did come home with some convictions. And today, I know one thing for certain. What I know is the worry for people I met. People I grew to care about, people who live peacefully in occupied territory, people behind a border wall, and many more whom I don’t know, those people will suffer. The cedars of Lebanon are ablaze now, and the bramble provides no shade from the punishing sun.

One of the people I met was Mitri Raheb, a Lutheran pastor in Bethlehem (yes that Bethlehem) who is also founder and president of Dar Al Kalima University. Dar Al Kalima means House of the Word. Mitri hosted us for a rich day of learning and laughter and conversation. Mitri reminded us that Jesus himself lived under occupation, and it was clear that his Christian faith was the engine for the peacebuilding work he does. Dar Al Kalima is key to that peacebuilding work. Mitri is committed to building skills and job opportunities for young people in a region with an unemployment rate of 25%.

What do they teach at Dar Al Kalima for this peacebuilding work? Not construction. Not diplomacy. Not even health care or human services. (There are places for that.)

No, Dar Al Kalima is a university focusing on arts and culture.

In a place where violence and poverty have taken away so much, Mitri is guiding a generation of artists who tell the story of the people there, a story for the world to hear. After our tour and a lecture and conversation, Mitri led us up to a little tower where a beautiful table was laid with white tablecloths, and the students served us lunch. Dar Al Kalima is also a culinary school where young people are trained in hospitality. Tourism is a large part of Bethlehem’s economy and the student are gaining skills to allow them to serve.

And serve us they did:

Olive oil, drizzled on a shallow bowl of hummus;
Figs, drenched in sticky honey;
And the fruit of the vine.

You know, those trees in that parable—notice they don’t provide firewood, or building materials. Those things are important, of course. No, it’s the olive tree, the fig tree, the vine, trees that feed people, feed people, and sustain them and give them enjoyment. It’s a parable about power and leadership, yes, but it’s also a parable about service. About doing what you can. Doing what you can. Those things don’t always feel like a lot, and on a day like this, my efforts seem so miniscule. But this parable gives me a little hope that these actions matter—that the kingdom of heaven is built on such as these.

The words of Wendell Berry are on my mind and heart as I think about this scripture and the weekend’s news. Permit me in closing to read a portion of Work Song, part 2: A Vision:

If we will have the wisdom to survive,
to stand like slow-growing trees
on a ruined place, renewing, enriching it … then a long time after we are dead
the lives our lives prepare will live
here, their houses strongly placed
upon the valley sides, fields and gardens
rich in the windows. The river will run
clear, as we will never know it,
and over it, birdsong like a canopy. …

On the steeps where greed and ignorance cut down the old forest, an old forest will stand,
its rich leaf-fall drifting on its roots.
The veins of forgotten springs will have opened. Families will be singing in the fields.
In their voices they will hear a music
risen out of the ground. … Memory,
native to this valley, will spread over it
like a grove, and memory will grow
into legend, legend into song, song
into sacrament. The abundance of this place,
the songs of its people and its birds,
will be health and wisdom and indwelling
light. This is no paradisal dream.
Its hardship is its possibility.

We live in a world where people cut down trees for no good reason, where people resort to war because they’re too desperate and unimaginative to conceive anything different. But what if?

Last week I suggested we were a human forest, connected to one another, dependent on one another for survival and flourishing. What is possible if we serve one another out of our individual gifts?

You: olive tree.
You: fig tree.
You: the vine.

What kind of health and wisdom and indwelling light would we create?

May it be so.