The grass withers, the flower fades,
    but the word of our God will stand forever.
Isaiah 40:8

At Holy Mess & Mystery Monastery, two novices each week are responsible for making sure there are fresh flowers in all the vases in the church: in the large ceramic one immediately in front of the main altar and in the three smaller clear glass vases in each of the prayer alcoves—two that jut out from the nave and one from the narthex.

Knowing this, one afternoon in his conference with the novices, Brother Weeps asked the young monks, “Why do you think fake flowers are not allowed in the worship space and in the church? Why are fake flowers flos non grata in the church?”

A novice chuckled. Others smiled.

Brother Weeps paused for a moment, looking around the room. “Let me ask it another way: Why are fake flowers fake?”

There was another brief pocket of silence. Brother Weeps was always asking these kinds of questions. The novices were still learning which ones to take seriously. Eventually, they would learn—all of them.

“Because they are artificial,” a ruddy-faced novice in the back said.
“Because they’re plastic,” said another, his words layered over the words of the previous brother.
“Okay,” said Brother Weeps. “Anyone else?”
“They’re all stiff. They don’t move,” said a third monk.
Brother weeps nodded.
“Because they are inanimate,” a fourth novice added. “They’re not alive,” he said.

“Yes. Of course. Which is to say they are—?”
The same novice replied hesitantly, “Dead?”

“No,” said Brother Weeps, surprising the novices. He scanned the room. “So there’s the paradox, right? The fake flowers are fake because they are not alive. But they’re not dead either. Right?”
The young monks agreed.

“What is fake about fake flowers, is that they are not real. Right? And the reason they don’t belong in the worship space is that they don’t die. Can’t die. And that’s a lie. It’s a specific lie that’s not only an ineffective and unedifying symbol but also a contradiction of our very gathering because we’re like real flowers. When we gather to worship, it’s always with the awareness that we are going to die. And it’s that awareness that accentuates life and living and helps direct our hearts to what matters most. Yeah?”

The novices nodded.

“Each flower is utterly unique. Created as an unrepeatable miracle meant to flourish. Together we are like a festival of flowers. And each flower only has a brief extended moment to do what it is here to do: give thanks and praise and glory to God.

Only what can die is truly alive. And only what has died can be reborn.”

© Dan Miller, 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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