Psalm 1 has beautiful imagery that's worth our meditation.
Up and down our street, the fall leaves have gathered like old bits of paper—final drafts of summer stories let go in the coming cold. I remind myself of why this happens.
When the temperature drops, trees begin producing something called abscisic acid, which closes the doors between leaves and their stems, cutting off the flow of nutrients.
Chlorophyll production ceases, drawing out other pigments of color in the leaves before they dry up and drop off. The trees then enter a state of dormancy, a sort of hibernation. In the heartwood of the tree, the phloem (food-carrying tissue) slows down, and the xylem (water-carrying tissue) freezes. Everything churns to a near halt for a season of rest and stillness.
I know this and then take a step back and ask the question again. Why do trees lose their leaves? Because the chapters on warmth have ended. All the stories of the leaves have been told. The next seasonal chapter relies on the sugar gathered by those leaves. The stored sugar can sustain the roots and the rest of the tree until the temperature rises again. In late March, when the earth shifts a bit closer to the sun, the promises of new stories in the trees will emerge as buds—seed-like pages waiting to unfurl and speak with the sun. Their conversations will take on crowning chlorophyll again. And eventually those leaves will fall to the earth with their veined stories.
Stories . . . there are so many stories gathered on the ground. That’s what I kick through in October and November: stories told. That’s what our dog sniffs at as we walk down the street each day.
Around this time of year, I think of what it’s like to be a tree, to leave so many stories on the ground. It sounds silly, but thinking of yourself as a tree isn’t so crazy. God encourages it, in fact, in the very first psalm.
Psalm 1
Psalm 1 is a short but potent depiction of two types of people, two types of trees—though we don’t meet the tree imagery until verse 3. For the psalmist, there are only two sorts of people that exist: wicked and righteous. That doesn’t mean there aren’t degrees of severity on both sides, but it does mean that there’s no neutral middle. There is no one who is neither righteous nor wicked. We tell the stories of our lives on one side or the other.
How do we tell our stories? How do we give meaning to the minutes and hours of our lives? The psalmist uses three verbs.
Blessed is the man
who walks not in the counsel of the wicked,
nor stands in the way of sinners,
nor sits in the seat of scoffers;
Everyday our lives tell stories as we walk, stand, and sit. To walk is to follow; to stand is to surround ourselves; and to sit is to speak. Let me explain.
Blessed is the person who does not follow the advice and value track of the wicked. The wicked are murderers, liars, and hoarders. They are self-serving takers. They long only to satisfy themselves, to sponge in the goodness around them for their own benefit. The psalmist says, “If you don’t follow them, you will be blessed.”
But not following the wicked isn’t the only point. No matter where we are, we surround ourselves with others. We stand in the midst of company. I’m not talking only of the people you have to be around (such as co-workers or people on your daily commute), but people you choose to be around. Our hearts mold to the shape of those around us, to the company we keep. The psalmist says, “You will be blessed if you don’t surround yourself with sinners.” Sinners are mark-missers and law-breakers. Sinners are those who look on the speech of God and spit. They have no interest in submitting to another authority. They submit only to themselves.
In addition to following and surrounding ourselves with others, we are speaking about those we see. The psalmist specifically names “scoffers,” those who sit on the sidelines to chide and abuse everyone else, especially the righteous and the helpless. The psalmist says, “You will be blessed if you don’t scoff. Do something better with your words.”
The Tree with Everlasting Leaves
And then comes the shift in focus for verses 2-4. We know what the righteous or blessed person is not like, but what is he like?
his delight is in the law of the Lord,
and on his law he meditates day and night.
He is like a tree
planted by streams of water
that yields its fruit in its season,
and its leaf does not wither.
In all that he does, he prospers.
The wicked are not so,
but are like chaff that the wind drives away.
Notice that we are who we are (as those made righteous in Jesus Christ) not by simply avoiding what is evil but by delighting in what is good. We delight in the law or instruction of the Lord. We delight in hearing from God which way we should go, what thoughts should fill our minds, what our words should do for others. We delight in hearing from God about every aspect of our lives.
Do you delight in hearing from God when you open your Bible? Does that delight crowd out all lesser delights, all the smaller treasures that everyone else seems to be chasing after?
We all struggle with this, of course. And God is patient. So very patient. But to encourage yourself, look at the image God gives us. To those reborn by the Spirit of God and hidden in Christ, God says, “You are like a tree.” And not just any tree. You are a tree with three defining features: (1) you are planted by the source of life—God himself; (2) you yield good fruit in season; and (3) your leaves never wither. You are a super-tree. You are a tree with no winter threat.
And those leaves that all the other trees are losing—the stories that fall to the ground—you will keep them. Not a single one drops to decay. All of your stories are safe with the story-telling God. The beauty captured in every moment of your life has no autumn. That’s a promise worth dreaming about.
In contrast, what are wicked trees like? They would have the opposite features: (1) they are planted far from the source of life; (2) they yield no fruit; and (3) their leaves keep withering and falling. The psalmist chooses instead to focus our eyes on the eventual ruin: they are chaff in the wind—dendrons turned to dust.
Trees in Motion
Yet, for all the glory in the image of our being super-trees, we still have the practical points that began the psalm: we still walk, stand, and sit. We follow, surround ourselves, and speak. We are trees in motion, like Tolkien’s Ents. As people made righteous in Christ, we are the tree that the psalmist talks about. That truth is solidified in the providence of God. But we are still moving towards that divinely definitive destination. Put cryptically, we are not yet who we already are. And so, as a tree, you have your choices—all throughout the day.
Today, you will choose whom you will follow in a particular social engagement. Will you follow the self-serving or the self-giving? Keep in mind that Christ is the ultimate self-giver. And he is always in the room. Even in our ordinary social situations where Christ is unseen, we can still follow him.
Today, you will choose whom you will surround yourself with. Your wild heart will take the shape of the company you keep. But closer than all others, keep the Spirit. Talk to him. Keep yourself immersed in dialogue with Spirit of the living God.
Today, you will choose what you will say about those around you. Your words have the divinely endowed power to build others up, to give grace (Eph. 4:29), like fresh water to tired roots. Don’t be the scoffer, who tears down all the trees he can find.
Today, you are a tree in motion. And so am I. Let us tell our stories while we can, as we delight in the one who speaks to us.
(Every person is a tree. Every tree tells stories.)
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