Native Americans tell the story of a sacred tree, which the creator has planted. Under it all the people of the earth may gather and find healing, power, wisdom and security. The roots of this tree spread deep into mother earth, its branches reach up like praying hands to father sky. The fruits of this tree are all the good things the creator has given to his people: love, compassion, generosity, patience, wisdom, justice, courage, respect, humility and many other wonderful gifts.

Their ancient teachers taught that the life of the tree is the life of the people. If the people wander far from the tree, if they forget to seek nourishment from its fruit, or if they turn against the tree and try to destroy it, great sorrow will come to them. Many will become sick at heart, they will cease to dream and see visions, they will begin to quarrel among themselves over worthless things. They will be unable to tell the truth and deal with each other honestly. They will forget how to survive in their own land. Their lives will become filled with gloom. Little by little, they will poison themselves and all they touch.

But the tree would never die. As long as the tree is alive, the people would live and one day they would come to their senses and begin to search for the tree and its truth. Wise elders and leaders have preserved knowledge of this tree and they will guide anyone who is sincerely seeking for it.

On this Good Friday we spend time at the foot of our sacred tree – the cross.

There is a medieval poem called The Dream of the Rood which describes the crucifixion from the point of view of the cross, the tree that was cut down and used as a shameful support for a dying man. But the tree says that, much to his surprise, he wasn’t the support for a dead weight, but rather the mount for a triumphant Christ, who rode him like a victor in battle. Over the page is a modern version of the same idea.

Rood-tree (Medieval anon)

I might have been his cradle, rocking him, folding securely against harm.

I could have been a ship, turning my sturdy timbers to the wind, keeping him safe from the storm.

Instead they used me as his cross.

No infant rages rocked the cradle tree, or storm lashed ship such as unleashed on me that day.

Shock waves of hatred crashed against me, bearing on me through his body weight of world’s pain,

Weight of his agony; wringing from him drop by drop,

‘Why , God, you too?’

No comforting protection could I offer, or deliverance; only support, his mainstay in distress.

But did I hold him, or did he with strength of purpose lovingly embrace his work of suffering,

Stretched on my arms?

They say it was a tree whose fruit brought sorrow to the world.

The fruit I bore, though seeming shame, they call salvation.

My glory was it then, to be his tree.

The cross is not ashamed to be associated with Christ and nor should we, marked with the sign of the cross, be ashamed to bear Him with us in our world.

Prayer

If you can, get up and go to your window – take a look out and spend a few minutes in silence looking at the trees or plants you can see around . You might want to make the sign of the cross on yourself – even if it is not your usual custom – this is not a usual day.

Holy God,

May I, signed with the sign of the cross, never be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified, for sake of Him who died and lives for the world, Jesus Christ. Amen.