truth is, without trees there is no life. Trees turn carbon dioxide into oxygen, without which we cannot survive. They provide fruit that nourishes us, medicines that heal us, shade that protects us, wood to heat our homes, beams for our roofs, and planks for our doors and floors. Without trees we would only have plastic chairs and tables and metal bookcases. Without trees there would have been no boats and ships, and as my forebears arrived in South Africa from Europe by sailing ship, as did your pilgrim ancestors in New England, we would not be where we are without sturdy oak timber. Without trees there would be no pencils and paper, no baseball or cricket bats, and no wood from which to turn bowls or make furniture. Perish the thought! Even alien trees provide firewood for those in deep rural areas without electricity and are of use in many other ways. And, until the recent evolution of digital books, without trees there would be no books, including this one. The list of the roles trees play in our lives may not be endless, but it is remarkably extensive. No wonder we should care for the trees and strike up a better relationship with them.
And I know, from what you said about your early sermon, one of those relationships is really a sacred one. After all, trees figure prominently in most religious traditions as they do in the Bible. They demarcate sacred space as well as have symbolic significance. The Buddha was enlightened beneath the Bo tree. In the Psalms trees shout for joy and clap their hands. Jesus likened people to trees that bear good and bad fruit, and was eventually crucified on a cross of wood, sometimes also referred to as a tree. In fact, the story of trees runs all through the biblical narrative, not only as an important source of food but also providing symbols for life-giving creativity as well as the seduction of power. “Out of the ground the Lord God made to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food, the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil” (Gen 2:4b–9).
According to the Genesis creation myth, God planted many trees in Paradise and invited Adam and Eve to enjoy their fruit. But these two trees take center stage. Adam and Eve are encouraged to eat the fruit of the tree of life, but forbidden that of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. We can readily understand the first, but the prohibition to eat the fruit that enables us to know the difference between good and evil seems strange. Surely that is a part of our growth towards full maturity? After all, some great theologians, starting with Irenaeus in the second century, interpreted the “Fall of Man” as a necessary stage in human development, so we should not press the metaphor of the tree of knowledge lest we miss the point—humans proudly positioning themselves beyond good and evil as the measure of all things. God tells humans not to eat of its fruit because in doing so they will think they know everything, that they can control and dominate everything, and that they can use everything for their own ends and purposes.
There is another angle that is worth thinking about. The Hebrew words translated “good” and “evil” have a wider reference than the English words. They actually speak of a split in our personalities. If the fruit of the tree of life brings wholeness, the tree of the knowledge of good and evil splits us apart. Pleasure, beauty, and the good can no longer exist without pain, ugliness, and evil. Tasting the fruit of the tree of death injects into our being a tension in which despair battles with hope. If the tree of life heals us because its fruit brings together the disparate parts of life, reconciling them and renewing us, the tree of death plunges us into ambiguities, giving us knowledge that is separated from wisdom. We become incapable of living in freedom and empowered to do the good.
Yes, indeed, our ancestors in faith knew a thing or two about the significance of trees. That is why the tree of life frames the biblical narrative from the opening chapters to the closing ones in the book of Revelation. And in the middle of the story stands the tree on which Jesus was crucified (Acts 5:30). Reserved for the worst of criminals and terrorists, and later blasphemed in the burning of crosses and lynching trees of the Ku Klux Klan, the cross has become a symbol of the tree of life that brings healing and reconciliation to people and nations—thus awakening the hope that in the end all things will be restored and renewed in a new Paradise, as in John’s vision in the book of Revelation of the tree whose leaves are for the healing of the nations (Rev 22:2).
There is also a lot in contemporary mythic literature involving trees and the stark struggle between good and evil. In Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings the Ents protect the forests from the dangerous Orcs. They are tree-like creatures who actually become trees like those they protect. They are powerful creatures who had been taught how to talk by the Elves. So when war broke out between the Elves and the awful tyrant Sauron and his minions, the Ents came to their rescue. The myth of the titanic struggle between the Ents and Elves, on the one side, and the Orcs of darkness led by Sauron, on the other, is symbolic of the struggle between the forces of life—namely the forests—and the forces of death—unrestrained technology, symbolized by the dark mines from which comes the iron ore to make weapons of mass destruction.
The struggle symbolized by trees and wood, on the one hand, and iron and steel, on the other; between the saving of the forests which give life, and their destruction for profit by powerful machines owned by powerful institutions, is the struggle between the use of technology for the good of the earth and its inhabitants, and the abuse of technology for greed and exploitation. The dark forests of older times that symbolized danger for travelers and folk living close by have been replaced by the dark mines at ever-increasing depth that produce precious metal and other minerals at enormous cost, not least of lives, and the metals needed to make the machines of war and terror.
There can be no gainsaying the enormous benefits of science and technology, and the many machines they have made possible. I write on a laptop computer that is more powerful than any that existed when men were first sent to the moon. I would be lost without it. Every time I go to the doctor or the dentist, I rejoice in the advances of medical technology, and I marvel at the way my ISUZU bakkie (what you call a “pickup”) keeps going. I gladly embrace the speed and ease of global travelling, despite the hassles of airports and the size of the seats. And all the machinery in my workshop is the outcome of advances in woodworking technology, even the hand tools that many a woodworker cherishes. Yes, I am a fan of science and technology, and I confess that I daily add to the carbon footprint that endangers the world. So I need to remind myself constantly—for the sake of my soul, if nothing else—that technology makes weapons, harmful drugs, and pollutes the earth. Ah, yes, and what about turning wood into massive clouds of carbon monoxide? That is why I return again and again to ponder the wonderful myth of Paradise.
Every day as I wake up and look down the Hemel en Aarde Valley, this tree-filled vision comes to mind and feeds my soul. But even this daily reminder did not prepare me for a recent visit to a mythically charged and mysterious “enchanted forest” that lies a few miles away over the distant hills. I couldn’t wait to tell you all about it, because it embodied in splendid fashion our conviction that learning to love trees helps us recover a sense of the mystery of soul and the mystery that enfolds us and which we call God.
So here’s the story of our visit. Less than an hour’s drive from Volmoed, hidden behind the hills above Stanford and Gansbaai, lies a beautiful valley. And in that valley is a forest of indigenous trees named Platbos—an Afrikaans word meaning “flat woods or forest.” An information pamphlet describes it in this way: “Platbos is a mystery forest. Growing upon an ancient sand dune with neither a river nor spring to sustain it, the forest survives the hot, dry summer months by drawing moisture from the morning mists that bathe its thirsty canopy.” Numbered amongst its trees is a milkwood reputed to be a thousand years old. On the surrounding hills fynbos flourishes, and invasive aliens struggle for control. But in this enchanted forest above a sand dune with neither a river nor a spring to sustain it, indigenous trees grow and flourish.
I don’t know the botanical names of the trees in the forest, but let me mention their popular names and how they are described by those who lovingly manage Platbos and extract their essences. The milkwood is the tree of wholeness; the white pear, the tree of joy; the rock alder, the tree of bliss; the bladder nut, the tree of self-knowledge; the wild peach, the tree of courage; the hard pear, the tree of forgiveness; the spike thorn, the tree of loving
