the last green leaves of the year
Last green leaves on Hydrangea plant
What shall we let go in order to make space for the new?
In the bright, misty morning light the last green leaves on our Hydrangea plant drew my attention. I stopped and looked in appreciation of the physiological wonder of photosynthesis which these leaves have hosted for so long. Now, in December’s cold grip, those processes have shut down and the leaves will shortly join their neighbours in a brown, shrivelling descent to the ground. But that is not the whole story.
Back in February the stems of the plant were coming alive in a riot of new growth. Freshly unfurled leaves, bursting buds, all pointed to the Hydrangea’s curiously early vitality. Then came a succession of frosts followed by snow showers from the east, arriving cold and icy straight off the North Sea. Within a week all of that growth was dead. The plant looked woefully woody and lifeless. Sunshine and warmth only served to highlight the folly of its premature sprouting of such vulnerably delicate leaves.
Weeks passed. I thought we would need to dig it out. Then, almost imperceptibly at first, I thought I noticed a proliferation of the tiniest of buds. Had they been there all along, or were they new? I couldn’t tell. A couple of weeks later and the answer was clear: the Hydrangea wasn’t dead, it was bursting back into life. Springtime saw it flourish with a superabundance of lush, beautiful leaves, followed by a fabulous display of flowers throughout the summer.
I have been astonished and awed by this remarkable plant’s tenacious grip on life. And now, in Winter, all of that growth is all but gone. Soon all that will be left will be the woody architecture of hope and expectation, awaiting the life-giving advent of longer days and rising temperatures.
I am left wondering why the church doesn’t intentionally embrace this most natural annual cycle of flourishing and relinquishing? For all our talk of lectionary cycles and the pattern of the church year, for all our embrace of the reset of Advent, the old growth so obviously takes precedence and little seems to fall away to make space for the revitalising presence of new buds. It seems so obvious that nature and church diverge on this key point, but it doesn’t have to be like this.
What if every year, beginning with Advent and going through to the end of Lent, the church deliberately and joyfully engaged in a period of scrutiny, in and through the grace of God who makes all things new, asking itself which of its current practices and habits it was time to let go of or modify in order to make room for risk-taking new ventures in worship, discipleship, mission and evangelism? In this way natural leaf-fall would be mimicked as that which has given life for a season is relinquished in the expectation that flourishing growth will appear in its place.
To actively look for, nourish and promote such buds of hope would be a splendid task for the Easter season and beyond. Yes this would be a vulnerable time. Harsh cultural winds might freeze our efforts at the outset, but the risk is not only worth taking, it is imperative that we do take it, for that is the essence of our faith as expressed through our spiritual DNA. If often it feels as though we are looking at the last green leaves of the year for the institutional church, with no replacements in sight, we are making a category error of the most grievous kind.
God always gifts new life. God always births hope. As I write this God knows where in our communities the fresh buds can grow and the contexts in which leaves of new relationships will unfurl, if we let go and prepare ourselves to be reimagined anew by the rising sap of God’s love flowing through the woody stems of our church.
