The Twig and the Tree.

An allegory.

In discipling men, often I have met with resistance from them in reaction to the plain and repeated declaration of God’s word that, spiritually, they can do nothing in-and-of themselves and that it is God - and only God - who can accomplish in them His supernatural, transforming work (Phil. 1:6; 2;13; 4:13; Eph. 3:16; 6:10; Ro. 8:13; 2 Cor. 3:18; 1 Thess. 5:23-24, etc.). These men have seen in Scripture the many commands of God to them and assume they must immediately set about, in the powers of their own flesh (mind, will, physical strength), to achieve for God what only He can achieve in, and through, them. They object, in particular, to the seeming passivity of waiting upon God to work in them both to will and to do of His good pleasure (Phil. 2:12b-13). “We aren’t puppets!” they’ve declared to me, “We must be obedient to God’s commands.” To which I reply, “No, you aren’t a puppet, you’re a branch in the Vine, a vessel for the Master’s use, a helpless sheep in the care of the Good Shepherd (Jn. 15:4-5; 2 Ti. 2:21; Jn. 10). You can only ‘work out’ what He has first worked into you.”

The following allegory explores the relational dynamic between the child of God and their Heavenly Father, addressing the question of how the life of Christ is made manifest in the Christian (2 Cor. 4:7-11; Ro. 8:29; Ga. 5:22-23). As is always the case for every analogy, the parallel between the relationship of a Christian and their Lord and a twig in a tree isn’t perfect, the latter exactly reflecting in every respect the former. So, don’t expect strict identicality between the two. Despite this lack of a perfect parallel, the analogy of twig and tree in the allegory below is, I believe, very apt in addressing the points I wanted to make. Enjoy!

The Twig and the Tree.

The twig trembled with delight at the rays of the sun warming its tender, silvery bark. Fluttering in the early morning breeze, the twig’s single, shapely leaf invigorated the twig’s otherwise motionless existence, the leaf drinking in the nourishing sunlight as the playful air swirled around it, making it bob, and bend, and twirl. From its topmost position on the tree, the twig could take in the surrounding grasslands for many miles and it could view the fascinating, ever-changing clouds drifting across the azure expanse above unobscured by fellow twigs and branches. Ah, life was good! Being so small, the twig had no fear of pesky birds landing carelessly upon its length, pecking away at its skin, or building a nest. And how wonderful it was not to have been made a root, never seeing the sunshine, or feeling the breeze, just pushing down into wormy darkness, endlessly searching for moisture.

But staring at clouds, and surveying miles of meadow, and gorging on sunlight is not, in the end, particularly satisfying. When, for the umpteenth time, the twig had tracked the path of a billowing mound of fluffy whiteness from horizon to horizon, it sighed deeply and began to wonder about the point of it all. Such wondering is always a very dangerous business if it goes on for too long; it will lead, of course, to Difficult Questions. And challenging Answers. The innocent twig had not been warned about the jeopardy of Difficult Questions, however, and so, it began recklessly to ignore the comfortable complacency of its usual distractions and to ponder the purpose of its existence.

Why am I here? Why does anything exist? Where am I going? Is there any purpose for my life higher than myself? In what way ought I to be related to the tree of which I’m a part? Is my life to be just clouds, sunshine and an endless sea of grass forever? These sorts of uncomfortable Questions crowded the twig’s mind so that it forgot about the sun and clouds above, and the waving pastures below, a terrible desperateness for Answers settling upon it.

Until this time, the twig had not thought to communicate with anything else. It had been entirely self-involved, absorbed completely with what it was, and what it wanted, and with the sensations of being a twig. But Serious Questions now burned in its mind and the twig couldn’t produce satisfactory Answers from within itself. It needed help. Was there anyone else out there thinking such deep thoughts? Had Answers to its terrible Questions been found by others? Not knowing what else to do, the twig called out. Not like a cawing crow, or yapping coyote, of course, since a twig hasn’t the equipment for such noise-making, but with thought directed outward beyond itself.

I am twig. I have Questions. Does anybody have Answers?

Instantly, a cacophonic chorus of thought-voices replied, their words crowding the mind of the twig near to bursting.

It’s first words!

Finally.

I thought it’d never start thinking.

Who’s this?

Who said that?

Did the young one just try talking to us?

They’re always the same.

Welcome.

Shocked, the twig cried out, its leaf shaking violently.

Ah! Oh! Eeee!

The thought-voices ceased abruptly. Then, a single voice spoke:

Young one.

For a long moment, silence reigned, but finally, very tentatively, the twig replied:

Me?

Yes, you.

Silence resumed. It continued until the twig said:

Are you there?

Yes.

Who are you?

I am the Tree.

Once again, there was silence. Eventually, the twig said:

You are a part of me?

More accurately, the Tree answered, you are a part of me.

This was news to the twig.

Are you not growing out of me?

At this, the voices that the twig had heard at first erupted into laughter. In an amused tone, the voice of the Tree cut through the tumult:

Shush. It is a twig. It knows nothing.

Amidst much coughing, snorting and whispering, the voices subsided.

The Tree said:

You spoke of Questions and wanting Answers.

The spinning of its mind subsided as the twig fixed upon the Questions for which it had become so desperate for Answers. It replied:

Well, they are very Difficult Questions. I’m sorry I have them, but being above everything, I have deep and complex thoughts.

In a bemused tone, the Tree answered:

You don’t say. Well, I shall do my best to help you answer your Great Questions. What are they?

The twig began:

First, I should like to know why I’m here. Why do I exist? And how have I come to be?

The Tree replied:

You exist, little twig, to become one of my branches, bearing many leaves and twigs, in due time, bearing much fruit also. You have come to be because I willed it, your existence an extension of my own. You are nourished constantly by my life-giving sap and depend entirely upon me for your existence.

The twig was silent for a time, contemplating this answer, and then responded:

Oh. Well, I thought I should be more than just a branch in a tree. I am, after all, at the very top of everything with the highest, clearest view of earth and sky. And I’m nearest the Sun, too, not pushing about in the dark and dirt, like a root. But you say I’m like you. Will I one day be a Tree myself?

The Tree said:

Is there a twig without roots?

And, no, you will never be a Tree. I can exist undiminished without you, but you cannot exist at all, separate from me.

It’s leaf shivering excitedly, the twig exclaimed:

Ah! Another Question! Do they never end? Let me think for a moment… Can I be a twig without roots? Hmmm… I am very far from the roots. And they know nothing of the sun, and blue sky, and birds. But, then, I know nothing of worms, and bugs and mud. Hmmm…

Reaching out with its mind, the twig slid down the trunk of the Tree from which it had sprouted all the way to the ground and then pressed its consciousness along the length of a root, deep into the earth. The twig could sense that its journey had been permitted by the Mind of the Tree, and by a lesser awareness that was the root, and that either one could have barred the twig’s travel into the loamy dirt in which the Tree was anchored.

When it had probed to the very end of the root with its mind, the twig withdrew to itself to consider its experience:

I… I’m… connected to the root. We are different but the same. Both of us are part of the Tree - and each other!

The twig was ashamed. It understood now that without roots, twigs did not exist. Its lofty position at the top of the tree was impossible without the roots. And what a surprise it was to the twig to discover that the root loved being what it was. Squirming through the dark, damp earth was as much a delight to the root as soaking up sunlight in its leaf was a delight to the twig. The root didn’t long to be other than what it was; it was being exactly what it was made to be, and joyfully so.

What of you? Queried the Tree.

Will you delight in what you are? Or will you forever yearn to be what you are not – and cannot be? A cloud, perhaps. Or a blade of grass in the meadow. Or the Sun. Will you accept what you are, little twig, and be content and fulfilled in living according to your intended purpose?

Not having had much time to invest in the misery of wishing to be what it wasn’t and to form a habit of sour dissatisfaction with itself, the twig replied:

Yes, I think I can be content to be what I am. I am well-suited, it seems, to becoming a fruitful branch in you, the Tree.

But here is another of my Big Questions: How shall I become the branch you intend for me to be? I am only a twig. I have but a single leaf – though, it is a very lovely one, I think. I am supple and silvery, too, but I have no length or girth sufficient to bear fruit. How do I become a mighty branch full of leaves and fruit, then? It seems impossible that I could be. What must I do to be what you intend I should be? Do I determine very hard to be a big branch full of fruit? Must I exert all of my physical, twiggy power to grow? Shall I be very clever and strenuously apply my mind to systems, and steps, and procedures by which I might develop myself into a fruitful branch?

Once again, laughter erupted within the Tree, the voices of old roots and great branches saying:

Such a foolish twig!

Only a twig would think such things.

I remember having the same silly thoughts.

I’m so glad I did not remain a twig!

It cannot help being immature.

Quiet, now. The Tree commanded.

Immediately, the voices subsided.

In reply to your Questions, little twig, I have my own Questions, the Tree said.

How did you become a twig? Did you determine very hard to be a twig? Did you exert yourself into existence? Did you think yourself into being a twig?

The twig thought for a moment and then laughed.

How brilliant you are, Tree! You have given me Answers, but as Questions! I have, of course, not become what I am by any of those things! You have made me to be. It is your life in me, your sap filling me, that has made me what I am. Have I contributed? Not at all. I have only received what you’ve given.

As the twig ruminated on these things to itself, a small, nasty, selfish part of the twig rose up in protest.

Is this all I am, though? Just a thing in and through which the Tree expresses Itself? Surely, I am to participate in my own growth and change. I’m not just a leafy tube, mindless, doing nothing but what the Tree makes me do. I have my own will, my own mind; I’m not just a sap-tube for the Tree!

The Tree, knowing the thoughts of all of those in Itself, remarked:

What can you do apart from me, little twig? If you fell from me to the ground, what could you do?

Uncomfortable now, the twig resisted these Questions, stubbornly refusing to admit what was obvious. It sharply rankled the twig that it was so terribly dependent, so…weak. Finally, it grumbled:

Nothing.

The Tree pressed:

You could not make yourself grow? You could not think yourself into a big, leafy, fruitful branch? You could not will yourself into becoming such a branch?

Grudgingly, the twig acknowledged the Tree’s point:

I cannot. If you don’t cause me to grow, I will not grow.

Why are you able to think, little twig? Why are you aware of yourself, of others and of me?

This was an odd turn to their dialogue, the twig thought.

Because you’ve made me so.

To what end, little twig?

To… um… hmmm… I don’t know, actually. Why?

I want friends, young sprig, not sap-tubes; I want you to be able to love me, as I love you. But you must freely choose to do so. I cannot force you to love me. And you can only choose to love me if you’ve got a mind and will that can make such a choice.

I see… the twig murmured, its understanding of things expanding at such a rate it felt it might burst into smithers. It felt also a strange thrill, right at the very core of itself, at the idea that the Tree loved it.

You love me?

Yes. Perfectly.

And I must choose to love you in return? The twig paused in silence for a moment and then continued, very timidly:

What will happen if I don’t?

The Tree answered:

Yes, to your first question.

And nothing, in answer to your second question.

So, whether or not I love you, nothing will happen to me? The twig questioned in a puzzled tone.

No. If you love me, my dear sliver, a great deal will happen to you, as I’ve already explained. But if you don’t, nothing will happen to you. A twig you are and a twig you will remain, immature and useless, if you don’t choose to love me.

The twig thought this very hard news. There was no room for negotiation! No flex in the statement of the Tree. Was the twig not forced to choose to love the Tree, then? Dire, indeed, would be the result if it did not!

The Tree interrupted these contemplations:

Have I not given you great cause to love me? Do you suffer a cruel life atop myself? Are the unobscured blue sky and warm sunlight hardships to you? Are you not well-made and sporting a beautiful leaf? Is my life-giving sap not satisfying? And do I not give it to you in abundance? Are you abused by my offer of friendship and love? Do you think it unkind that I will make of you a great and fruitful branch? All that you are depends upon me; I sustain your existence at every moment. Why, then, should you not love me?

Ashamed, the twig cried out:

Yes! All right! It’s true: I have much reason to love you! But is loving you all I must do? Is there nothing more that I do in order to become a fruitful branch?

In a low and ominous tone, the Tree replied:

Yes, there is. Never forget that you are a branch and I am the Tree. This is easy to do as you are now, weak and small, but when you enlarge, and your leaves multiply, and beautiful fruit ripens upon you, it will be very tempting to think you are the Tree and not a branch. Fallen are those branches who yielded to this belief and would not repent of it, their withered, lifeless husks lying scattered upon the ground below, good for nothing. Their precious souls I have gathered to myself until a later time.

Quivering violently, its leaf wobbling wildly, the twig exclaimed:

But that’s terrible! I don’t want to be a branch, if such danger awaits me! Upon the ground? Dried up and dead? I almost wish I’d not sprouted!

Can you avoid an unknown danger? Said the Tree. I don’t wish to terrify you, my shivering shoot, only help you escape such an awful end.

Somewhat mollified, the twig said:

Oh. I see. So, that’s all, then? I just love you and I’ll become a large, leafy limb?

You must trust me, too. The Tree responded. My transformation of you will be so subtle, gradual and profound that you will not perceive your own growth as it happens. It may often seem that nothing is happening to you. But if you will be patient, trusting my promise to change you, loving me above all else, in due time, it will be evident that I’ve done to you as I said I would do.

I can do that. The twig declared. It all seems so… passive, though.

Amused, the Tree asked:

Aren’t loving and trusting me things that you do? Are they not actions you take in your mind and will?

Well, yes. I suppose they are. The twig replied. But I feel like a parasite; like the benefits of our relationship are all in just one direction. It’s humiliating.

Silly sprout, all you have and are you received from me. Said the Tree. I give; you receive. This is always the way it is between us. Why should this shame you? I am the Tree, you are a branch; without me, you can do nothing. So, enjoy all that I give to you! I give it freely, joyfully, in love and without end.

A thought-cheer broke out from the roots and branches, silent audience to the exchange between Tree and twig. Then, the roots and branches began to sing:

Praise the Tree from whom all blessings flow!

Praise the Tree, all branches and roots below!

Praise the Tree, you birds above, praise every chunk!

Praise the Tree: Mind, Sap and Trunk! Amen.

Filled with joy and gratefulness, the twig thought to itself:

How glad I am of troubling Questions! And how much better their Answers than the blue sky, and sunshine, and breezes that once captured my mind. I wanted only their color, warmth and touch and happily believed foolish, dangerous things. But now. Now, I begin to know the Truth!

As the twig considered the verdant sea gently waving below, and the cerulean expanse above, it mused:

I am a lowly twig and can do nothing of myself. I am a very small part of a Very Great Tree who gives me richly of Itself, loving me, teaching me, and making me a fruitful branch. I have only to be, to rest content in the Tree as the twig that I am, loving the Tree, trusting it, and It will bring to pass in me what it wills in its own good time.

Had it a mouth and lips, the twig would have smiled. And were it equipped for tears, rivulets of wonder and joy would have poured out from it. Instead, it trembled, soul-delight rippling its leaf, and exclaimed:

But look! How much bluer the sky! How much warmer the Sun! How much more wonderful the caress of the breeze! In the light of the Truth, I see them now as I never did before!

The twig learned to live in love of, and faith in, the Great Tree. The twig learned to rest in submission to the will and power of the Tree, too, waiting patiently for the changes it had promised to make in the twig. Finally, one day, far removed in time from the day of the twig’s Difficult Questions, the twig was no more. It had become a mighty branch, thick, crooked, reaching out far from the Tree, bearing many silly, leafy twigs, and full of fruit. And it minded not at all the pecking birds that nested upon it.