That Flaming Flower
I took two
years of high school Spanish, did some online courses to review, and lived over
a dozen years in a community with a fifty percent Hispanic population. Still, fluency in the language evades
me. I can do a pretty good job ordering
in a Mexican restaurant, if the server speaks English.
I do recall
some stories from my classes. Like the
story of the South American country having trouble introducing traffic lights
because the people refused to obey a machine. (Apparently, many of those
drivers moved to Ohio.)
I remember
reading how in one country a gentleman allows a woman to walk on the street
side of the sidewalk. The custom
developed differently here so the woman might not be splashed with mud thrown
up by passing vehicles. Those men in the
Spanish speaking country walked next to the houses because servants often threw
the contents of chamber pots out the windows—without first looking.
It was in a
Spanish class I first heard the story of the Poinsettia.
In sixteenth-century
Mexico, according to the story, a little girl named Pepita was too poor to
present a gift at the church during its celebration of Christmas. An angel appeared her and told her to pick
some weeds and present them. As she carried the weeds to the front of the
church she was weeping with shame. Her
tears fell on some of the weeds’ broad green leaves. Those leaves suddenly turned bright
crimson. Pepita’s weeds became the most
beautiful flowers at the altar.
America’s first
minister to Mexico, Joel Roberts Poinsett, brought the flowers and the legend
back to the US in 1825. Consequently,
here we know the plant (used as medicine by the Aztecs) as the Poinsettia. In Mexico they are known as Flor de Noche Buena
(the Christmas Eve Flower). Many plants
are cultivated in Egypt, where they are known as “bent de consul” or “the
consul’s daughter,” referring to Poinsett.
I guess no one thought of Flor de Pepita.
Although known
to Americans for nearly a century, the Poinsettias’ popularity dates from the
early twentieth century. An additional
boost came from the marketing strategy of Paul Ecke, Jr. He sent free plants to TV stations across the
nation so they could be displayed on air from Thanksgiving to Christmas. He even appeared on The Tonight Show and Bob Hope Christmas specials to publicize the
plants. At one time, the Ecke family’s business produced seventy percent of the
Poinsettias sold in the US. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poinsettia)
Of course,
Poinsettias are associated with Christmas in America. They appear in stores around Thanksgiving and
shoppers buy them as gifts, centerpieces, and to add a little color to their
homes during the bleak winter.
Artificial Poinsettias are used for door wreaths and other decorations. Christmas wrap and cards often use
Poinsettias.
You might
imagine no one having any negative feelings about this colorful plant,
especially in light of the touching legend associated with it. You would be wrong.
Let’s go back a
few decades, before some of you were born.
Go back with me
to 1980, the year I accepted my first pastorate, in the tiny village of Dawn,
Texas. I had preached at this little
church as a favor to a friend and, to my surprise, machinations went into
motion and almost before I knew what was happening I had been called as the
pastor.
My family and I
moved into the parsonage in the early spring and I began fumbling my way as the
pastor of a church filled with farmers and ranchers. Having grown up in the greater St. Louis
area, I had a lot to learn about a new culture. Factory workers I understood but farmers were
another matter. Fortunately, my mentor
(a pastor who had started his career in a similar village) had given me a good
piece of advice. “Don’t make any major changes during your first year.” I resolved
to follow that counsel. He also told me never to talk to reporters; I never
have—principally because reporters have never talked to me.
One Sunday a
few weeks before my first Christmas in Dawn, Roger and Beryl, an older couple, approached
me following the service. Beryl said,
“We’ll be bringing the Poinsettia next week.” I must have looked a little
puzzled because she added, “We give one every year in memory of our
daughter.” Their daughter, a young wife
and mother in her late twenties, had died suddenly about a decade before. Every
Christmas since her death they had given the church a large Poinsettia. I could see no reason why the tradition
shouldn’t continue so I told them that would be fine.
A few weeks
before my second Christmas at the church two women approached me. “Pastor Jim,” they said, “several of us would
like to give Poinsettias in memory of family we’ve lost.” Again, I could see no
reason why they shouldn’t so I said that would be great. The next Sunday a note appeared in the
bulletin inviting any family wanting to participate to bring a Poinsettia to
the church the first Sunday in December.
Roger and Beryl
confronted me after the benediction. Beryl,
the church organist, may have cut the postlude short.
“This isn’t
right,” Roger fumed, “our Poinsettia will be lost among all the others.”
“No, I don’t
think so,” I said. “Your Poinsettia is
always so large, it will stand out.”
“Doesn’t
matter,” Roger said, “we’re not giving one this year or ever again.”
And so they
stopped giving their Poinsettia, refusing to grant others a right they had
claimed as their own.
Beryl continued
to play the organ and I believe she eventually got over her
disappointment. Roger nurtured his
bitterness. The incident fueled his
continual complaining about fellow church members, complaints directed
especially at the deacons whose wives had approached me about allowing others
to give Poinsettias. I visited the Dawn
church several years after coming to Ohio.
Roger cornered me and without asking about my family or me began a
tirade against one of those deacons. A
little bolder than I had been while living in Dawn, I walked away saying,
“Roger, you need to take that up with your pastor.”
So, you will
understand if my first response upon seeing a flaming Poinsettia isn’t
unalloyed aesthetic delight.
In time I
realized Roger’s behavior was part of his character. If it hadn’t been the Poinsettia issue,
something else would have triggered his animus.
He was allergic to onions; he once told me those who brought dishes
containing onions to church suppers were trying to kill him. His self-centeredness was matched by an
inflated view of himself. He believed he
was smarter than anyone else. Wiser than
anyone else. More spiritual than anyone
else. And, when ill, he was sicker than
anyone else. So, of course, his grief
ran deeper than that of anyone else.
Many, if not
most, people who lose a close loved one become more compassionate toward others
who have experienced loss. Not
Roger. Allowing others to add a flower
to the memorial took the spotlight off him.
He couldn’t have that.
Looking back, I
realize Beryl must have sometimes shunted her own pain aside so nothing would
detract from Roger’s expression of grief.
But I digress;
let’s get back to those Poinsettias. I’ve
never mounted an anti-Poinsettia campaign; you’re the first I’ve mentioned my
feelings to. I’ve never failed to see
their beauty but when I look at them it isn’t long before I recall Roger’s anger.
I recall anxiously realizing I had alienated an important church member, recall
wondering if others would ask how I could be so insensitive to the feelings of
a “charter member.” In time, I knew I
had overblown the significance of Roger’s anger—something a fledgling pastor
might easily do.
More important,
my feelings about the plants—feelings becoming more positive each year—remind me
to be careful about assumptions. What
thrills us may chill another. You may
look forward to caroling at the nursing home.
Someone else may skip the trip but be ashamed to tell you they do so
because it brings back memories of a parent languishing in such a
facility. We shouldn’t judge.
My experience
didn’t cripple my ministry at Dawn. I
stayed there for another decade. Every
Christmas the chancel blazed with Poinsettias.
Some families gave a plant every year; some, just the Christmas
following the loss of a loved one. Some of
the Poinsettias were lush plants purchased at a florist; some were purchased at
the local Food King. Some families never
participated; all had the opportunity.
Roger and Beryl kept their promise (threat) and never again gave a Poinsettia,
though I suspect Beryl sometimes wished she had the courage to defy Roger.
Christmas—that
time for singing of peace and goodwill—can be a time of great tension. Maybe it’s significant Poinsettias do not
tolerate temperatures below 45°F; they are just a bit fragile,
like some people’s feelings this season.
Then, too, if you are going to trim dead and dying leaves off a Poinsettia,
you should wear gloves because the sap can irritate skin. Just like some people are really irritating
this time of year.
I try to keep in mind those farmer-deacons who were the
objects of Roger’s vitriol. They never
answered in kind, always remained cordial, never attempted to undermine his
status in the church, and always reminded me “that’s just the way he is and
there’s nothing you can do about it.”
If someone is bugging you, irritating you, driving you bonkers
this season, I wish I could give you better advice than those deacons gave
me. But this is not the script for a
Hallmark movie: chances are you won’t be joining your family, your friends, and
your crazy-maker around the fireplace, everyone smiling and filled with
goodwill. Strangely, acknowledging there
is nothing you can do about someone’s attitude and behavior frees you to focus
on keeping yourself emotionally and spiritually healthy. And frees you to focus
on those who get what the Season is all about.
By the way, December 12th is National Poinsettia
Day. I get it.
