The Flowers of the Forest

Luke 7:11-17; 1 Kings 17:8-24

1 Kings 17:8-24

⁸ Then the word of the Lord came to Elijah, saying, ⁹ “Go now to Zarephath, which belongs to Sidon, and live there; for I have commanded a widow there to feed you.” ¹⁰ So he set out and went to Zarephath. When he came to the gate of the town, a widow was there gathering sticks; he called to her and said, “Bring me a little water in a vessel, so that I may drink.” ¹¹ As she was going to bring it, he called to her and said, “Bring me a morsel of bread in your hand.” ¹² But she said, “As the Lord your God lives, I have nothing baked, only a handful of meal in a jar, and a little oil in a jug; I am now gathering a couple of sticks, so that I may go home and prepare it for myself and my son, that we may eat it, and die.” ¹³ Elijah said to her, “Do not be afraid; go and do as you have said; but first make me a little cake of it and bring it to me, and afterwards make something for yourself and your son. ¹⁴ For thus says the Lord the God of Israel: The jar of meal will not be emptied and the jug of oil will not fail until the day that the Lord sends rain on the earth.” ¹⁵ She went and did as Elijah said, so that she as well as he and her household ate for many days. ¹⁶ The jar of meal was not emptied, neither did the jug of oil fail, according to the word of the Lord that he spoke by Elijah.

¹⁷ After this the son of the woman, the mistress of the house, became ill; his illness was so severe that there was no breath left in him. ¹⁸ She then said to Elijah, “What have you against me, O man of God? You have come to me to bring my sin to remembrance, and to cause the death of my son!” ¹⁹ But he said to her, “Give me your son.” He took him from her bosom, carried him up into the upper chamber where he was lodging, and laid him on his own bed. ²⁰ He cried out to the Lord , “O Lord my God, have you brought calamity even upon the widow with whom I am staying, by killing her son?” ²¹ Then he stretched himself upon the child three times, and cried out to the Lord , “O Lord my God, let this child’s life come into him again.” ²² The Lord listened to the voice of Elijah; the life of the child came into him again, and he revived. ²³ Elijah took the child, brought him down from the upper chamber into the house, and gave him to his mother; then Elijah said, “See, your son is alive.” ²⁴ So the woman said to Elijah, “Now I know that you are a man of God, and that the word of the Lord in your mouth is truth.”

Luke 7:11-17

¹¹ Soon afterwards Jesus went to a town called Nain, and his disciples and a large crowd went with him. ¹² As he approached the gate of the town, a man who had died was being carried out. He was his mother’s only son, and she was a widow; and with her was a large crowd from the town. ¹³ When the Lord saw her, he had compassion for her and said to her, “Do not weep.” ¹⁴ Then he came forward and touched the bier, and the bearers stood still. And he said, “Young man, I say to you, rise!” ¹⁵ The dead man sat up and began to speak, and Jesus gave him to his mother. ¹⁶ Fear seized all of them; and they glorified God, saying, “A great prophet has risen among us!” and “God has looked favorably on his people!” ¹⁷ This word about him spread throughout Judea and all the surrounding country.

The Sermon

Have you ever seen a flower arrangement that’s past its glory?

Maybe I’m alone in this, but I find there’s something almost offensive about a flower arrangement that’s gone past its prime.

It’s not supposed to look like that. It’s supposed to be lush and fertile and bounteous and vivacious and colorful… Not like something that ran out of water, or time, or the will to be beautiful.

It’s not so much that it inspires some fierce reaction in me when the arrangement is withering away. It’s more like it’s so completely uninspiring.

It reminds me of too much in the world that’s already uninspiring—it reminds me too much of things that are choked by weeds, left to brown, and crumble, and wither away, unwatered in the unforgiving sun of an inhospitable desert.

Things like civility, peace, hope, concord—that’s a great word that’s fallen out of common usage; it’s from roots meaning “together” and “heart”—harmony.

When I was in second grade, I became ill with what we thought was some kind of flu. My saintly mother looked after me and took care of me, but the stomach ache would not go away. Try eating, try not eating; try just sipping some cold water, try sipping some hot tea; still had the stomach ache. Mom and Dad had an idea, and then a trip to the doctor’s office confirmed it: my appendix needed to come out immediately.

The nature of that sickness has an interesting history. The only man who was lost on Lewis & Clark’s epic expedition across this rugged continent died of a ruptured appendix; he would have died of the same thing if he’d been in the finest hospital in New York.

These days, an appendectomy is an outpatient procedure. It’s easy! I wouldn’t be surprised if someday it’s just a drive-through; they just reach out and swab and pull it out and it’s just like going through the automated car wash.

But way back in those ancient times of about 1974, it meant a long stay in the hospital, and mine was complicated a little by the fact that it was actually in the wrong place—I mean, the abdomen, not my head or leg or something. But they went in for the simple surgery, and it turned out it wasn’t where it was supposed to be, and I’ve since heard of other people of Slavic descent who have had the same condition.

So it was a long stay in the hospital—two weeks, which my second grade teacher later referred to as the most pleasantly calm and quiet two weeks of the year, for some reason.

But I didn’t mind the long stay. Mom and Dad took turns staying overnight, or staying late and arriving early; and I watched a sunrise out the window with my Dad for an hour which is still a clear and sacred memory for us both.

My brothers gave me a get-well card that had a German officer on the front screaming, “You VILL get VELL!” And then you opened it up and it said, “Und you vill do it QVICKLY!!”

And toys, I got tons of toys. I was somehow able to be in a room with two beds but just me in there, so bed 2 became the repository for a collection of pretty much my favorite toys in the world.

But one of my favorite, favorite things I got in the whole wonderful ordeal was a bright yellow flower, in a vase, that had two black dots for eyes and a black pipe cleaner for a smile. It was just the neatest thing, with densely packed, bright yellow petals. It practically glowed.

Eventually, of course, I got out of the hospital, and everything was fine.

But I still remember my distaste—not so much disappointment, but my irritation, that from that wonderful flower with the smiley-face, those little yellow petals started to fall off after a few days.

It wasn’t heartbreaking or sad; it was just wrong. What is this—can we get our money back? Did you save the receipt? This flower is defective: the petals are all coming off. One day a few came off, and then the next day a bunch more came off, and then more and more.

And now it looked ridiculous with those black ornaments on it, two dots and a pipe cleaner. “What are you smiling about?” It looked like a gap-toothed little flower-skeleton.

And I’m just struck that sometimes, for all of us at some point in our lives, it seems like the petals are falling off.

We’re meant to have dreams, and we like to be able to rely on certain things—friendships, job security, relationships…

But sometimes, the flower in the vase starts to look wilted, and brown, and dry.

I used to like it when you’d see Reagan going to lunch with his buddy Tip O’Neill, the pre-eminent Republican and the highest ranking Democrat, and they were friends. You don’t see much of that any more, not while they’re in office.

But you don’t have to go to Washington to see dry, crusty petals where once there was the flower of forbearance; and it isn’t just in politics, either. There is a coarseness out there, a meanness, an impatience with one another, that can be terribly disheartening.

So many fallen blossoms, drooping leaves—

dying relationships, where once there was a friendship, an interest, a tolerance;

dying initiatives to make city water cleaner and keep the air breathable; to help people in bleak, silent places, here at home and in faraway countries;

dying hopes for the eradication of disease, poverty, ignorance, want.

And sometimes it looks like all that’s left is a phony smiley-face stuck onto the skeleton of what used to be radiant, hopeful, encouraging.

There is an old, Scottish ballad called “The Flowers of the Forest,” mourning the ten thousand who were slain in the Battle of Flodden Field in 1513:

“I’ve seen the forest, adorned the foremost,
Wi’ flowers o’ the fairest baith pleasant and gay,
Sae bonnie was their blooming, their scent the air perfuming,
But now they are withered away.”

As Jesus approached the gate of the town, a funeral procession was coming by, at the center of which was a widow, mourning the loss of her only son.

So many flowers...

And in compassion—another great word that means “suffering with”—the Son of God said to her, “Do not weep.” And he came forward and touched the bier, and the bearers stood still. And he said, “Young man, I say to you, rise!”

The dead man sat up, and began to speak, and Jesus gave him to his mother.

Who is this man, who returns the petals to a flower, whose will is to give eternal life and whose word guarantees it?

Who is this man who would willingly lay down his own life so that you and I would have access to this incredible moment for all time?

And if this man is who we say he is, do we ever have a right to lose hope for anything?

Do we ever have a reason to abandon the flowers of the forest, just because we think it may be too late, we think there may be no more flowers, we think that there can't possibly be enough water to restore that which is parched and dry and wilted?

If this man is the son of God—and he is—then nothing is impossible, and there is no drought, there is no wilting, there is no death, that can separate us from God’s love, ever; and everywhere we look, we will see signs of hope, a light that shines in the darkness which the darkness cannot overcome, not even the darkness of death;

and we can forever say, with the prophet Isaiah, “the grass withers and the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever.”

Keith Grogg

Carolina Beach Presbyterian Church

Carolina Beach, NC

June 10, 2007