The Channing Connection:
Children's Religious Education
April 2008
Greetings from the Director of Religious Education
It is interesting to be human beings with finite lives as the world renews itself. At the same moment the earth is coming to life, I notice the faint threading of gray hairs, set on their never-ending course from the center of my head toward my ears.
However, my eyes are momentarily taken by a beautiful garden outside the window. Yellow and red tulips align to form a chorus of color, continually swaying toward golden rays of sunlight. At last, one tightly folded bud catches the sun and seems to be lit from the inside. It glows bright yellow as I watch, mesmerized. How would it feel to be that flower?
In just a few minutes, the yellow bud has become a huge, golden blossom. Faint, red streaks spread out from its center. What a miracle! Not wanting to miss even a few minutes, I turn away from my own concerns and go outside to watch. Sunlight encourages the velvety petals, which glow in turn. This is an ancient dance of love, a slow seduction that has happened millions of times before, but is no less potent this time.
Over the next few days, the tulip continues to open its petals. Eventually they bend backward, revealing just the stamen. About the third day, however, the sun presses down upon the blossom in a different way. Now it seems merciless, rather than tender. As the petals continue to spread, darken, and fall, I realize quite suddenly that the flower has gone too far. Now beyond beautiful, its desire to show its heart to the sun has been too much for it to bear.
Finally, all I could see was a dried-up stalk with a brownish bulb at the top. Because it was no longer lovely, nobody looked at it anymore. One could feel its starkness, the inevitable end of its decision to cast itself headlong into the warmth it felt that first spring morning – the heat that must have been calling to it throughout the long winter months.
One final day I sat with the tulip, to try to understand what it knew. And as I waited, the breeze reached over and caressed its shriveled remains, blowing it gently from side to side. In my imagination, it seemed to me that I could even hear the flower laughing, enjoying itself. But how could this be? It wasn’t beautiful anymore, especially in the newly unforgiving light. Its brief life as a decoration had ended.
Then I realized that it didn’t matter. The love affair continued. The sun and the flower were still taken with each other, and theirs was a romance that would never end. Love made the old, tired stalk push up its aging heart, while the sun continued to reach right back down toward it, encouraging and caring for it throughout the seasons of its life. The sun had cherished the flower when it was bold and yellow, but it treasured the stalk, too. What had made the flower beautiful was the openness of its heart, and that was unchanging.
And then, with a rush, it hit me. I am the flower. We all are. Watch our hair turn gray and our eyes grow dim. We may let go of our lavish petals in favor of the comfortable attire of old age, but don’t be fooled. What matters is not what can be seen, but how the light moves within.
Christy Guenther, Director of Religious Education