The Silent witness to time

In Eden an acorn fell and nestled in God’s ‘good’ earth. Being nourished as it was, it was not long before the acorn grew into a handsome oak tree beautiful to behold.

One day a man hid from his friend, brother and Father behind the tree (so he thought) for he did not want to own his mistake, or his pain and of course, it was her fault! The man shivered and shook, he felt a pain in his chest and he couldn’t bring himself to look upon God. That night the wind picked up and the Oak tree began to shed its leaves for the first time. Evening came and morning too and with it the first frost. Our tree, leafless now shivered at the beginning of the first winter.

The squirrels came to feast on the fallen acorns taking some away, ‘just in case’ but forgetting just where ‘just in case’ was, so in time other oaks began to grow and the squirrels prospered.

Some time later, another man hid behind our tree waiting for his sibling determined to do him some harm. As he waited evil brewed inside him. He climbed into the Oak tree and taking his axe, hacked off a branch fashioning a club with which to damage his own mother’s second son. The Oak tree winced and wept until the wound had healed, by which time a man lay dead-and-buried beneath its majestic sway.

It was always thus; people came and went; some took its branches for house beams others took them for winter fuel, the tree however became a spinney, a wood and a forest and our tree gave shelter to the birds of the air and of course the squirrels, who were still saving some of its acorns ‘just in case’.

Our tree now deep in the forest heard the sounds of a chase, and a man on a mule dashed into view. The rider was more intent on those chasing him than where he was going. The mule didn’t seem to care as long as it got away for there was a distinct look of fear in its eyes. So it was that the young man who had cared much for his looks and grown his hair to great lengths pampering it with oils and lotions found that same hair holding him fast to a low branch, the mule continuing on its way quickly now shed of its burden that had whipped him so. The young man suspended by his hair struggled to free himself from, as he saw it, the clutches of the tree. Those in pursuit arrived and taunted him until they tired of it then taking a javelin one thrust it through the hapless young man skewering him to the trunk of our tree. They returned home rejoicing to report their ‘success’. A few days later our tree witnessed the prostrate form of a king weeping copious tears for it was his rebellious son who had died there.

Many years later, a Roman centurion ordered the local carpenter to provide some good strong beams for a gallows he had to build and our tree was felled. The gallows was built and many were hung on them, but there was a day when one, hung on the gallows of our tree changed the world by his self-sacrifice. At that time a mother gazed up at the tree and the one hanging there and how she wept, oh how she wept.

The carpenter had used the rest of the tree to make a chair amongst many other things and it was on that chair that a high ranking man sat to deliver convenient justice to the throng though he didn’t believe in what he was doing. That chair was moved to another place some years later where it became the seat of authority of a murderous despot and many knelt before the chair and there breathed their last. Usually those watching were members of the victim’s families, this was the despot’s way. Some had vengeance in their hearts others only fear but all hurt inside and none forgot.

The despot died but others followed in his wake, however one day a good man used the chair but being less well upholstered than his predecessors he found the chair uncomfortable so he decided the chair should be donated to the local church; for the bishop to sit on.

The chair now witnessed many a wedding, but more funerals, some rejoicing and babies writes of passage but more grieving and the shedding of many tears. However try as they might, those seated on the chair endeavoured to comfort the bereaved but without much success, for it was in grieving that many found for the first time in their lives they were the focus of attention and that gave them more comfort than the words of any cleric.

So it still goes on; the silent witness to the passage of time sees many a pain-wracked soul and occasionally it is privileged to see the healing of pain and lifting of burdens and the encouragement that comes when human kind gives its fellows more than a hint of their real worth to the Father.

©Andrew March Penrallt Baptist Church Bangor 2009