Sorry for my neglect of the blog for the last few days. My excuse is simply pre-occupation. A wonderful universal excuse. I will however attempt to bring you something each day of the Holy Week.
I have known this story for a long while and it is a great parable to reflect upon in Holy Week.
The Story of BambooOn the hillside in the Kucheng District of China, the most valuable trees are often marked with the owner’s name. A common way of conveying water from the mountain springs down to the villages is in channels made of lengths of bamboo fitted one to the other Some of these bamboos are four or five inches in diameter A beautiful tree stood among scores of others on a lovely hillside, its stem dark and glossy, its beautiful feathery branches gently quivering in the evening breeze. As we admired it, it seemed to say: “You admire my tall stem and graceful branches, but I have nothing to boast of. All I have I owe to the loving care of my Master. It was he who planted me here in this fruitful hill, where my roots, reaching down to hid den springs, and continually drinking of their life- giving waters, receive nourishment, beauty and strength for my whole being.
“Do you see those trees to one side, how parched they are? Their roots have not reached the living springs. Since I found the hidden waters I have lacked nothing.
“You observe those characters on my stem? Look closely—they are cut into my very being. The cutting process was painful—I wondered at the time why I had to suffer—but it was my Masters own hand that used the knife. When the work was finished, with unutterable joy I recognized it was his own name he had cut on my stem. Then I knew beyond doubt that he loved me and prized me, and wanted all the world to know that I belonged to him. I may well make it my boast that I have such a Master.”
Even as the tree was telling us of its Master, we looked around and lo! the Master himself stood there. He was looking with love on the tree. In his hand he held a sharp axe.
“I have need of you,” he said. “Are you willing to give yourself to me?”
“Master,” replied the tree, “I am all yours— but what use can such as I be to you?”
“I need you,” said the Master, “to take my living water to some dry, parched places where there is none.”
“But, Master, how can I do this? I can dwell in the living springs, and imbibe their waters for my own nourishment. I can stretch up my arms to heaven, and drink their refreshing showers, and grow strong and beautiful, and rejoice that strength and beauty alike are all from thee. I can proclaim to all what a good Master thou art. But how can I give water to others? I but drink what suffices for my own food. What have I to give to others?”
The Master’s voice grew wondrously tender as he answered, “I can use you if you are willing. I would cut you down and lop off all your branches, leaving you naked and bare. Then 1 would take you away from this, your happy home, and carry you out alone on the far hillside, where there will be only grass and a tangled growth of briers and weeds. Yes, and I would still use the painful knife, for all those barriers within your heart should be cut away one by one, till there was a free passage for my living water to pass through you.
“You will die, you say; yes, you wily die, but my water of life will flow freely through you. Your beauty will be gone indeed. Henceforth, no one will look on you and admire your freshness and grace, but many will stoop and drink of the life-giving stream which will reach them through you. They may give no thought to you, but will they not bless thy Master who has given them his water through you? Are you willing for this,—to die?”
I held my breath to hear what the answer would be.
“My Master, all I have and am is from you. If you indeed have need of me, then I willingly give my life to you. If only through my sacrifice you can bring your living water to others, I give myself to you. Take and use me as you wish, my Master.” And the Master’s face grew still more tender. But he took the sharp axe, and with repeated blows brought the beautiful tree to the ground. It rebelled not, but yielded to each stroke saying softly: “My Master, as you will.” And still the Master held the axe and continued to strike until the stem was severed again, and the glory of the tree, its wondrous crown of feathery branches, was lost to it forever.
Now, indeed, it was naked and bare”—but the love-light in the Master’s face deepened as he took what remained of the tree on his shoulders, and bore it away,—far over the mountains.
Arriving at a lonely and desolate place, the Master paused, and again his hand took a cruel looking weapon, with sharp-pointed blade, and this time thrust it right into the very heart of the tree—for he would make a channel for his living waters, and only through the broken heart of the tree could they flow unhindered to the thirsty land.
So the Master, with the heart of love and the face of tenderest pity, dealt the blows, and spared not,— and the keen-edged steel did its work, till every
barrier had been cut away, and the heart of the tree lay open from end to end.
Then again he raised it, and gently bore it to where a spring of living water, clear as crystal, was bubbling up. There he laid it down—one end just within the healing waters. And the stream of life flowed in, right down the heart of the tree from end to end, along all the road made by the cruel wounds—a gentle current, to go on flowing noiselessly, flowing in, flowing through, flowing out, never ceasing. And the Master smiled and was satisfied.
Again the Master went, and sought for more trees. Some shrank back and feared the pain but others gave themselves to him with full consent, saying, “Master, we trust you. Do with us what you will!”
Then he brought them, one by one, by the same painful road, and laid them down end to end, and as each tree was placed in position, the living stream poured in, fresh and clear from the fountain and, till through its wounded heart the line growing longer and longer, till at last it reached to the little children, who had thirsted, came and drank, and hastened to carry the tidings to others: “The water has come at last—the long, long famine is over; come and drink.” And they came and drank and revived. And the Master saw, and his heart was gladdened.
Then the Master returned to his tree and lovingly asked, “Do you regret the loneliness and suffering? Was the price too dear—the price for giving the living water to the world?” And the tree replied. “My Master, no; had I ten thousand lives, how willingly would I give them all to you for the bliss of knowing, as today I know, that I have helped to make you glad.”
The day after ‘Good Friday’, the middle of the Triduum is often passed over by theology and by many Christians without comment. Yet on this day the Church invites us to reflect deeply on the fact that Jesus is truly among the dead – stone cold dead and buried, experiencing death in its starkest reality, cut off from the land of the living, with all human relationships severed. There is no room for automatically interpreting the cross as resurrection. Not to have time to linger over the meaning of this day means repressing the horror and the mystery of the real death of Jesus and therefore not to appreciate its significance. For making his death simply mean resurrection is a serious denial of the deadliness of death. To leave out this day, to reduce the Paschal Mystery simply to two days is to leave out too much. We cannot allow resurrection to swallow up death. We dare not prematurely smuggle into Jesus’ experience an anticipation of the resurrection – as though this were the automatic consequence of going down into darkness. Death means death. Jesus lays in the tomb, dead and buried, dead among the dead. Stone cold dead.
Today begins three days and three nights of constant liturgy. This liturgy begins with a remembering. On Holy Thursday night, in churches throughout the world, people will gather to celebrate the eucharist and re-enact a visual parable. In the Gospel of John, we have a wonderful illustration of the 'attitude of eucharist'. Jesus, the host of the meal, rises from the table and washes the feet of the disciples. They are stunned by this action and Peter cannot contain his horror that his Messiah could consider washing his feet. Jesus points out that his action must be the attitude of his disciples. 