It was a typical phone conversation with Myrna.
"Yes, I know, Myrna, they're the flower's sexual
organ, but . . . . no, Myrna, that won't be at all
necessary . . . but . . . oh, okay, Myrna, if it will
make you feel any better, sure. You can
confess it to me the next time you see me . . .
informally you know . . . in my office . . . or in the kitchen. Wherever. Whether you then go to formal confession beyond that is up to you."
Myrna Jonkers is a member of our Altar Guild. Lots of folks last year had complained about sneezing all through the service because of the strong scent of the lilies that were massed before the altar and all along the back of the chancel rail. The lady who chairs the Altar Guild told Myrna that if she removed the stamens of the lily, the bloom wouldn't put out such a strong, allergy-inducing scent. Myrna went online to check this out. That's when she discovered she'd be pulling out the long phallus-like sex organs of the plant. Although she'd be doing it with tweezers . . . and wouldn't actually be touching the stamen . . . still, it got her all hot and bothered . . . so to speak . . . but in a feeling guilty sort of way.
Myrna is one of those folks who takes certain things with a seriousness that deserves a week of nonstop laughter in response. I'd gladly oblige, but I'm a man of the cloth and I tell myself that such humor wouldn't be seemly. Of course, not every member of the clergy would agree with me. Snark, for instance.
He's (I sort of hate to own it) a protege of mine. I mentored him when he first graduated from seminary. He's always pushing the envelope and walking on the thin ice of heresy . . . or at least very poor taste. Like the time he created an outrageous label for a wine he called Last Supper Red. The label intimated it was the official wine of the Last Supper. That nearly cost us our relationship . . . although I'm happy to say that we resolved it after a considerable amount of individual soul-searching and dialogue on both our parts.
If I told Snark about Myrna, he'd be laughing for a week . . . at least!And then he'd start going on about how we shouldn't use Easter lilies anyhow on account of how they're not theologically appropriate. Come to think of it, if you're a bit outrageous yourself, I think you'll enjoy hearing what he had to say about the matter.
During the third week of Lent, I made a detour from an errand that took me to his part of the city and paid him a visit at his coffee house named Elsewhere.
I walked in and was greeted by Susan. She's one of the members of their staff . . . and thereby also a member of the experimental, alternative "church" that convenes at this coffee house. "Advocatus!" she fairly shouted, "How nice to see you! C'mon over here and have a seat. I'll let Snark know you're here. Can I get you anything to drink while you wait for him?"
"Well, a cup of cappucino with extra foam would go down exceptionally well, Susan."
"Coming right up!" she said, touching my shoulder lightly with good-humored affection.
(It being Lent, I suppose I should confess to you that I looked rather intently and, how should I say it, "longingly" at Susan's swinging hips as she walked toward the adjoining kitchen . . . all-too-soon disappearing from my view. There. I said it. Now, don't you dare laugh at this old man. I'm just trying to keep my soul intact and my focus where it needs to be. It's just that Susan used to walk the streets until some of the staff at Elsewhere began protecting her from the predations of her pimp. After running him out of town, she eventually became a member of the church there. I don't know if she figures she's "going on to perfection" . . . Snark's a United Methodist and that's one of their beliefs . . . but if she does, I guess that'll mean she'll walk with a less enticing gait. I don't know whether that would make her more . . . or less . . . perfect. I just pray that she does. It would be a holy help to an old man like me.)
It wasn't long before Snark came down from the residence above the coffee house where he and his lovely wife Margaret live. "Hey there, old friend!" exclaimed Snark as he pulled up a chair at my table. "It's been awhile . . . since before Christmas I think. What brings you here today?"
"I was over at Jackson's Florist putting in our church's order for Easter Lilies. I had some spare time and thought I'd drop in. So I guess it was both the lilies and you that brought me here. I hope your manhood isn't insulted by my mentioning you and lilies in the same sentence, Snark," I wisecracked with a grin.
Responding, Snark began to sing: "'He's the Lily of the Valley, the Bright and Morning Star!' Not at all, Advocatus . . . that puts me in some rather good company, in fact!"
Susan came over to the table, gave me the cappucino and, after a brief exchange of pleasantries, retreated toward the kitchen. Fortunately for me, as she walked away my attention was diverted by what Snark was saying.
"So, I gather you all are still using lilies at your Easter service, Advocatus. Well, it's traditional . . . and you've a healthy regard for tradition . . . ." he began, his voice trailing away, inviting me to take the bait . . . which, God help me, I did.
"Indeed I do, Snark. The white of Easter lilies signifies the purity of Jesus and their gold centers his kingship. Other traditions associate their white purity with the Virgin Mary. Ancient art shows the Angel of the Annunciation stretching out such lilies to Mary when he tells her she'll bear God's son. Yep. I like them and so does the congregation. How about your people here at Elsewhere. Will you all be having Easter lilies on these coffee tables come Easter morning?"
"Nope. We'll have a pot or two or three of dandelions on each of the tables."
"Dandelions! Why on earth will you have those . . . those weeds when you could have lilies?"
"Well, we've all given it a lot of thought, and the community has decided on dandelions. In our own way, we're just being traditional in making that decision. You know, Advocatus, I get my appreciation for tradition from you!"
"Snark, that's an outrage! You're the most iconoclastic preacher I ever met; the importance of tradition seems lost on you. For goodness sake, please don't associate me with your avant garde foolishness!"
"Easy there, Advocatus. 'Tradition' comes from words meaning 'to give over . . . to surrender . . . to hand down.' Lilies on the altar at Easter is a tradition . . . it's been handed down to us from those who came before. And there's nothing wrong with that! It's just that traditions can become so entrenched that we wind up nearly worshipping them.
"Remember the time when some of Jesus' adversaries challenged him, saying, 'Why don't your followers wash their hands before meals in the prescribed, ritualistic way?' Jesus retorted right back: 'And why do you negate the Word of God for the sake of your tradition?' I consider myself a 'traditionalist' in the same way that Jesus was, Advocatus. For example, he had John baptise him for the sake of honoring tradition . . . but he wouldn't just follow a tradition blindly. The Elsewhere community has decided that Easter lilies are a tradition that actually gets in the way of Easter. So we'll use dandelions instead."
"Well, okay, Snark," I replied. "I certainly see your point about not being a slave to tradition . . . but why your objection to the lilies . . . and, for goodness sake, why dandelions?"
"Glad I'm making some sense for you! Consider, Advocatus: Easter lilies are rather fussy plants. They don't grow well just anywhere. They're natives of Japan and nearly all of our commercial Easter lilies are grown along a narrow strip of coastal land on the California-Oregon border. They just don't do as well anywhere else. They require rich, well-drained soil and just the right temperatures. The lilies your florist sells you have taken three years of careful tending and transplanting to attain a quality suitable for your purpose. Furthermore, their blooms, while wonderfully showy, don't last very long."
"As always, Snark, you're a veritable fountain of semi-useless knowledge. But you've done some homework . . . I'll grant you that. But why dandelions, Snark? I've tried to eliminate them from the lawn of the rectory but without success. Poisoning them and digging them up seem to work but for only a very brief time. They're such an unsightly nuisance!"
"Ahh, yes: the unsightly nuisance called dandelions! We think they're a great symbol of the resurrection precisely because you can't eliminate them! It's true that poison will kill them . . . but new ones will just blow in from somewhere else and before you know it, they'll be back. It's nearly impossible to dig them up. Their roots typically are 8" to 15" deep . . . but some have been found to be 15 feet in length! They'll do most anything to find water and nutrients. They'll grow in the cracks of asphalt pavement, in the crevices of rocks and boulders, and in soil that few other plants can tolerate. The botanical references often refer to these as "disturbed habitats." What a wonderful phrase for a wonderful flower that blooms in the most unlikely of environments!
"Dandelions are native to Europe, but they've spread around the world, from the Arctic to the tropics. Their puffball seed heads contain about 160 seeds, each with its own little parachute attached. When the wind blows, they leave the puffball and float wherever the wind takes them . . . and they usually bloom wherever they land. Wouldn't it be wonderful, Advocatus, if we were like the dandelion seeds . . . ready to catch the wind of the Spirit . . . surrendering to it . . . being borne by it to some place . . . confident of our ability to thrive? I long for that sort of courageous faith.
"So, at Easter, we'll have pots of these "summer mums" on each table, Advocatus. They'll be a reminder to us of the robust nature of God's grace . . . of the durability of God's capacity to turn things upside down and to surprise us . . . of resurrection, if you will. Dandelions are a symbol of the tenacity of the hope God has for us all. They're a symbol of the triumph of abundant life over death. The fact that so many regard them as noxious weeds makes dandelions all the better as a symbol, for Easter is about the triumph of the 'despised and rejected' . . . rejected people, rejected agendas, rejected aspirations. Easter gives them hope.
"So, Come Easter, we'll sing Sidney Carter's wonderful hymn, Lord of the Dance. And we'll really belt out the verse that says:
'They cut me down and I leapt up high
I am the life that will never, never die
I'll live in you if you'll live in me
I am the Lord of the dance, said he.'
"Dandelions are the quintessential flower of the resurrection, Advocatus. A few weeks after Easter, when the dandelions have put up their puffball seed heads, we'll put the seed heads in baggies and visit places that need a little color. When we go down to the City Kitchen to take our turn at feeding the homeless, we'll sing that hymn as we let the wind blow some of the seeds in the adjoining park. We'll even release their seeds upon request. How about a week or two after Easter, Advocatus? We'd be happy to come to the lawn of your church. It might brighten things up a bit!"
"Don't you dare, Snark! I'd never hear the end of it! As usual, you take something with a small germ of truth to it and go utterly 'round the bend with your fantastical schemes! Show at least a little decorum, Snark . . . for the sake of the church's reputation if not for your own."
"Advocatus, Advocatus," Snark continued with a wide grin. "It is for the church's sake that we 'go 'round the bend' as you put it! Part of the trouble with the church, Advocatus, is that it often acts as though it doesn't believe in its own message. As a result, its traditions lull people into a lily-scented slumber . . . and they miss out on the outrageousness of Easter!
"Sure, we're an unconventional lot here at Elsewhere. But you know, Advocatus, so is Easter! And this is an especially good year for your congregation to join with us in being a bit outside the box. This year, the day after Easter is April Fool's Day. What would you say to our two congregations meeting at the park outside City Hall, singing together Lord of the Dance and planting some dandelions?"
