361 - The Quivering Leaf

The Quivering Leaf
Hugh T. Kerr

LOOKING out the window of my apartment, I see a little pond on which two white swans circle and glide, a dozen mallards splashing and squawking, and three trees on the edge of the water. One is a modest double-trunked white birch, slowly dying from the top down, with perhaps one more year of grace. The second tree is a paulowania, named for the Russian princess, Anna Paulovna, with up-thrusting branches and, in the spring, beautiful lavender blossoms. The third tree, my favorite, is a majestic sweet-gum, sometimes called a star maple because of its five-pronged palmated leaves resembling a star or the outstretched fingers of a hand.

This is not meant to be a lesson in dendrology, a subject more mysterious to me than such simple straight-forward matters as ontology, soteriology, and eschatology. But on several separate occasions in recent months, while being distracted from my proper work on my desk, I've noticed a single leaf of the sweet-gum tree quivering quietly all by itself. At such times, usually in the lull of the late afternoon, the leaf shimmers and shakes, twirls and twists, when all is still and there isn't a breath of air stirring. At first, I thought it must be a bird or a squirrel agitating the leaf, but, apparently, it has a life of its own. I began to wonder if the quivering leaf was trying to say something. Was it simply announcing the impending Fall season of the year and the promise of a final autumnal display of color? Or is a quivering leaf a symbol of something universally human and peculiarly pertinent for those of us involved in ministry?

I

My impression is that those who take on the responsibility of Christian ministry in whatever form or context easily identify with the figure of the solitary quivering leaf. If we seek biblical precedent, certainly the patriarchs (to say nothing of the matriarchs), Moses, the wisdom writers, the prophets, the person of Jesus, the disciples and apostles-all were in many ways quivering individualists. The same can be said for many of the well-known names in church history and theology.

Those of us who feel we are called to assume some leadership role in the church are usually involved with other people, either a few or a great many. We have some friendships and acquaintances and are in various forms of communication with others. But the minister or leader, as

362 - The Quivering Leaf

person, may often feel isolated and insulated, living a life of trembling solitariness while, at the same time, being engaged in all sorts of communal, group enterprises.

We're not talking about the ineffectual Timid Soul or the indecisive Milquetoast for whom we may feel more pity than sympathy. Robbie Burns' description of a mouse as a "Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, /What a panic's in thy breastie!" may well apply to many fluttering ministerial leaves, but that's another story.

There are at least three common characteristics of the quivering leaf as applied to the diligent if often isolated minister or religious teacher. The first is surely the sense of being a loner in the midst of much coming and going with others. In his on-going argument with the Almighty, and with little help from his friends, Job asks with a certain amount of sarcasm, "Wilt thou frighten a driven leaf?" (Job 13:25). The "despised and rejected" Suffering Servant, we are told, grew up "like a young plant" (Isa. 53:1-3). But the feeling of aloneness permeates the biblical accounts of the prophets and of Jesus himself. Is there something, we may wonder, about serving God for others that not only puts us in the position of awe-full responsibility but at the same time brings home to us our solitary status as a singleton individual?

The second characteristic of the quivering leaf as a symbol of ministry is the suggestion of fragility and vulnerability. In the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch that show the Christ figure in the midst of his tormentors, the face of Jesus is always benign as if he were somehow not really a part of the turmoil and violence all around. But the painter also shows us how insecure and exposed Jesus is in the presence of radical evil. It is a Christic paradigm many ministers, in a more modest way, can relate to and apply to themselves.

The third aspect of our quivering ministerial symbol is the sheer tenacity of the lonely, fragile leaf. Somehow it holds on. It will fall one day, as will we all, but for the time being it dances and swings and will

363 - The Quivering Leaf

not let go. "Hang in there," we say. One of my colleagues signs his letters and memos with the admonition "Swing gently." Jacob won't let the stranger go without a blessing. Ruth and Naomi make a compact to keep in touch no matter what. Job stubbornly persists. The psalmist rejoices while lamenting. Prophets grow weary but keep on going. Jesus, often misunderstood and ignored, must nevertheless "work the works" expected of him. The Ethiopian won't move his chariot until Philip opens the Scriptures to him. Paul complains about his "thorn in the flesh" but learns that grace must be sufficient.

II

Beyond these obvious implications of the quivering leaf image, there is another theological-liturgical association that needs attention. We are all, as it were, suspended between heaven and earth. In the presence of the "Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth" (whom we invoke in the Creed), the appropriate human posture is one of "wonder, love, and praise." The Bible often uses a vocabulary that would seem alien and quaint to us when it speaks of the splendor of God's "glory" and "the fear of the Lord" which suggests some sort of frightened obeisance. We are today wary of anything that implies unapproachable transcendence or human subservience. We would prefer to demythologize the trembling fright of those who witnessed "the fire, the cloud, and the thick darkness" at Sinai (Deut. 5:22) as well as the Pauline prescription to work out our own salvation "with fear and trembling" (Phil 2:12). But a theology or a worship service that does not find some contemporary equivalent for the biblical images can scarcely hope to speak to the human spirit. Perhaps that is why the old Spiritual, "Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?", continues to sing its way into our new hymnals. In the simplest language, the refrain rings true and provocative-"Sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble."

III

There is one more intriguing reference to be mentioned but not developed here. The Apocalypse, near the end of the seer's vision of the new heaven and the new earth, picking up associations with Genesis and Ezekiel, speaks of a "tree of life" whose leaves are "for the healing of the nations" (Rev. 22:2). But that is another story.

Having written this fugitive piece without major distraction, I look out my window once more on the familiar peaceful scene. The swans are eagerly taking some lettuce from a woman who insists that they engage in mutual conversation (they are "mute" swans). The ducks have taken off for another pond. The white birch looks sad and forlorn. The paulowania is being invaded by a flock of birds feeding on something and, no doubt, soon to be winging south. The sweet-gum, my favorite, still stands quietly silent. Is that a leaf quivering in the twilight, or is it just my imagination?