Old Oaks, Old Queens, and the Things That Do Not Last

I speak English, but I do not speak it as an Englishman.

Still, my ancestors came from England, or through England, to America centuries ago. I have always had an affinity for the people of England. I have felt, in some distant but persistent way, that they are my cousins.

That may be why I have long had a fascination with the British monarchy, and especially with that institution embodied by Queen Elizabeth II.

She was more than a monarch to me. She was one of those fixtures in the landscape of my lifetime. She was on the throne when I was born. She remained there through my childhood, my adolescence, my adulthood, my years of ministry, my seasons of change, my aging, and well into the years when I began to notice that more and more of the world’s leaders were younger than I am.

Her reign spanned my entire life until her death.

That sort of thing does something to the imagination. It makes a person feel that some things are simply there. They are part of the furniture of the world. They are constants. They are like old houses, old trees, old titles, old empires, old institutions, old books, old hymns, old prayers.

But even stable things are not eternal.

Even long-term things are not permanent.

Even enduring things pass.

Leadership changes. Faces change. Nations change. Titles change. Empires rise and fall. Governments reorganize. Customs fade. Assumptions collapse. The things we thought would always be there may not always be there.

Queen Victoria once bore the title Empress of India. Titles like that can sound grand, almost immovable. But titles are strange things. Sometimes they are full of meaning. Sometimes they are already hollow by the time they are spoken. Sometimes history fills them with weight. Sometimes history empties them out.

Whatever they are, we get used to them.

We get used to things being the way they are.

And then they are not.

Photo by Dulcey Lima on Unsplash

The Old Oak

When I was a child, I believed that our house was the most solid reality in my life. I could not imagine a time when it did not exist. I certainly could not imagine it ever ceasing to exist. It was strong, firm, and warm inside. It was a world unto itself, a place removed from the larger and more threatening environment.

It was real.

There was an old oak tree in our backyard, a majestic oak, reaching upward beyond any height I believed I would ever scale. To be as tall as that oak, or even to sit in its highest branches and look out over creation, would have been the grandest of human elevations.

When I lay on my back under the summer night sky, gazing into the stars, it was in the shadow of that old oak tree. I believed it had something in common with those distant stars. It seemed ancient. It seemed untouchable. It seemed permanent.

My house and my oak were sources of strength in my young life.

Then one day, the neighbor’s house was struck by lightning and burned.

Later, our governor’s daughter was struck by lightning on the beach and killed.

That same year, I watched my father build a room in the attic. With fascination, but also disappointment, I came to understand that houses were built with hands. They were somewhat artificial. They were profoundly vulnerable to forces like lightning.

So were people.

But the oak continued to shade us in the summer and shield us in the winter. It was the mightiest oak on our avenue. It had been there long before us. It had reigned over the neighborhood before it was even a neighborhood.

Then one day, the old oak was struck by lightning too.

One of its noble branches was severed and fell upon our house. Concerned that the old tree might give way in another storm and destroy the house, my parents made plans for its removal.

That oak had been a monarch of the backyard.

But even old oaks come down.

The Lesson of Passing Things

Empires come and empires go.

Queens come and queens go.

Houses are built, lived in, sold, abandoned, remodeled, demolished.

Trees grow, tower, shade, weaken, split, and fall.

We may not feel invincible ourselves, but sometimes we believe other things are. We imagine dynasties that cannot collapse, institutions that cannot fail, systems that cannot break, families that cannot fracture, reputations that cannot fade, churches that cannot decline, nations that cannot be shaken.

But nothing and no one on this earth is invulnerable.

That is not to say nothing is solid.

It is to say that solidity must be sought in the right place.

Jesus said:

“Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away.” — Matthew 24:35

That is the line between transience and permanence.

The house passes.

The oak passes.

The empire passes.

The monarch passes.

The body passes.

The title passes.

The office passes.

The applause passes.

The platform passes.

The trend passes.

The moment passes.

But the Word does not pass.

Jesus was a mighty oak, and they chopped Him down. But He stood up again, alive and thriving. His words last. His promises endure. His truth prevails. Nothing can silence Him. He is the temple that was destroyed and rebuilt in three days. He is the Word, and He is the only permanence in a transient world.

Servant Lessons from a Queen

When Queen Elizabeth died, I did a video tribute and called it “Servant Lessons from a Queen.”

I reflected on what her life had modeled:

She promised to serve. She worked long hours. She loved her people. She put aside many personal interests. She modeled care for family. She spoke from her heart. She had hobbies. She worked until she died. She maintained a sense of humor.

No human being is flawless. No institution is beyond critique. No crown is eternal. But a life dedicated to service carries a kind of moral weight.

As I said then:

“No man lives to himself and no man dies to himself. A life dedicated to others — the Queen wore it as a crown.”

The tribute is here:

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What Do We Do with the Time?

So the question becomes: What do we do with the time?

Not how do we build an empire.

Not how do we preserve our title.

Not how do we make ourselves untouchable.

Not how do we become the old oak that everyone assumes will always stand.

The better question is this:

What kind of legacy lasts after the oak comes down?

My grandmother had a plaque that reflected her attitude. It quoted a portion of a poem by C. T. Studd:

“Only one life, ’twill soon be past; Only what’s done for Christ will last.”

That is not a call to withdraw from the world. It is not a call to despise history, institutions, nations, family, heritage, beauty, memory, or service.

It is a call to put them in perspective.

Love the old oaks, but do not worship them.

Respect the crown, but do not confuse it with the Kingdom.

Honor the house, but know that it is built with hands.

Read the books of the past, and let the dead mentor you through their writings, but remember that even the wisest among them were mortals.

Serve your generation.

Bless your family.

Speak truth.

Keep your humor.

Work while it is day.

Do justice.

Love mercy.

Walk humbly.

And build your life on what cannot be struck down by lightning, buried by history, or removed by time.

Because even the old oaks come down.

But the Word of the Lord endures forever.