Barren Branches: A Good Friday Reflection from the Forest
I have died many deaths:
death of parts of my identity and abilities,
of power and privilege,
hopes and dreams,
ideas and beliefs,
certainty and trust,
relationships and traditions.
I have embraced very few of these deaths,
most I have resisted.
I recently attended my first “Forest Church” service. The conservation area where it was hosted was one of the most beautiful sanctuaries I have ever gathered in. The snow was melting, and the creek was rushing with its runoff, creating a background rhythm, which was joined by a gentle breeze whistling through the trees and accompanied by a choir of birds singing their choruses. After an opening prayer, a reading from scripture, and some devotional thoughts, we were invited to go on our own 20-minute hike through the conservation area. We were asked to consider where we saw death giving way to life.
As I walked, the trees caught my attention. They were barren, their exposed branches stretching upward to the sky like bony fingers. The leaves of the deciduous trees had withered and died. Their decomposing remains could be seen peeking out from beneath pockets of snow as they slowly nourished the soil below. Looking up, the laced skyscape was dotted with bird nests made of dead leaves collected from the woodland floor. I also spotted knuckles of buds waiting to bloom on a couple of those bony branches. All of this was evidence of death making way for new life. When we reunited, we discussed what we had witnessed of death and life and then concluded our time with communion in remembrance of Christ’s death and resurrection.
As Good Friday brings me back to that gathering of Christians among the trees, my thoughts turn to the tree upon which Christ was crucified. Once a mighty cypress or maybe an olive or palm tree, its branches reached toward the heavens while its roots were firmly grounded in the earth. It was a symbol of strength, a provider of shade and shelter, and a sanctuary to countless creatures. But on that fateful day, the tree's fate was forever altered. It was struck down and became a tool for one of humanity’s most brutal and tragic events. The life that had once pulsed through the veins of the tree had been drained away, leaving it as a dead and barren trunk.
However, in its death, the tree also became a symbol of hope and redemption. For it was through Christ’s’ death on the cross, nailed to that tree, that humanity was given the opportunity of new life—resurrected life. The tree, once a symbol of life, became a tool of torture and death, but through Christ, what was meant to serve as a symbol of death and destruction became the greatest representation of forgiveness, love, and hope the world has ever known.
This holy weekend reminds us that the death of things is not the end but rather an essential precursor to new life, more abundant life. And yet, though we claim this Friday to be good, we still tend to cling to the comfortable, familiar, and well-worn paths that we've tread countless times before. We hold on tightly to what we know, what we've built, and what we've trusted for so long, even as it crumbles beneath our feet. Even when it no longer serves us or, worse, contributes to the harm of others. We resist change, letting go, and the death of most things—ideas, systems, structures, relationships, traditionalism, power, and self—as if by sheer force of will, we can keep them alive. If my experiences of death have taught me anything, it is that resisting the death of things only serves to prolong suffering.
If I am honest, I still want the resurrection of Easter Sunday without the reality of Good Friday. But there is no Easter Sunday without Good Friday. Resurrection requires death. It's a scary prospect and oftentimes will involve sacrifice, but it's also the way forward. We can't keep clinging to what was, hoping it will come back to life. We need to be willing to let it go and trust that the Spirit will and already is birthing something new and beautiful in its place.
My thoughts wander back to the woods. As I reflect on what Creator has revealed through creation, it seems fitting to present it as a parable:
In the depths of the forest, an ancient tree stood tall and proud, its branches stretching towards the heavens as if in a perpetual embrace with the divine. For generations, the tree had held strong, weathering countless storms and providing shelter and shade to all who sought refuge beneath its boughs. But as time passed, the tree began to wither and decay, its once lush foliage growing brown and brittle, its bark cracking and peeling away.
Despite the efforts of the forest's other inhabitants to nurture and protect the tree, it soon became clear that its time had come. The tree had begun to rot; its roots were exposed, and life was draining from the tree. At first, the tree resisted this notion, clinging to the hope that it could somehow revive itself. But as the days passed, it watched as its leaves fell to the ground, nourishing the soil and providing sustenance for new life. It felt its branches begin to snap and fall, returning to the earth from whence they came. And as it surrendered to the natural process of decay, the tree found a newfound sense of peace.
At first, the forest creatures mourned the loss of their mighty sentinel. They had relied on it for so long, and its absence left a gaping hole in the landscape. But as time went on, they began to see things in a different light. Seeds had taken root in the rich soil that had been exposed by the tree’s upturned roots. Saplings sprouted from the fallen branches, their tender green shoots stretching for the sky. Birds and insects buzzed about, drawn to the fresh growth and the promise of new beginnings. Small animals made their homes in the hollows of the trunk. And as the forest around it teemed with life and vitality, the tree knew that its death had brought about new life.
I have died many deaths:
death of parts of my identity and abilities,
of power and privilege,
hopes and dreams,
ideas and beliefs,
certainty and trust,
relationships and traditions.
BUT
It was only through these deaths,
that I have been able to contribute to and experience resurrection life,
growth and healing,
purpose and belonging,
liberation and justice,
equity and empathy,
blessing and flourishing.
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