This post was written by Sara Phenix, a Humanities Center faculty fellow.
The scriptures are a veritable catalog of botanical wonders, starting, of course, with the Garden of Eden and its myriad plant species. We know from the Book of Moses that Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the vegetal paradise initiated them into the fallen world of “thorns” and “thistles” (4:24). In the Old Testament, Elijah receives heavenly sustenance in the form of water and cake after he seeks shelter under a juniper tree (1 Kings 19:4). The Book of Mormon explains key gospel principles in arboreal terms: Jacob cites Zenos’s olive tree allegory to prophesy the scattering and gathering of Israel (Jacob 5); God reveals truths about agency and redemption to Lehi and Nephi in the vision of the Tree of Life (1 Nephi 8, 11). The New Testament situates the culminating act of Jesus’s atoning sacrifice in the Garden of Gethsemane—a place where olive trees were the only witnesses of Christ’s unfathomable suffering.
These scriptural plants nurture, shelter, prosper, and sometimes wither. Their fruits are polyvalent: they alternately signify the initiation into mortality and the bestowal of celestial immortality. This signifying power is harnessed in the apple-themed stained-glass windows of the Payson temple. The motif is a nod to the apple orchards that dot the surrounding valley. And like the scriptural plants previously rehearsed, the apple trees are spiritually significant. The buds visible at the ground floor of the building develop as the temple climbs in elevation, finally bursting into full bloom in the stained-glass ceiling installation in the celestial room. This spectacular blossoming reminds temple patrons that they also can become spiritually fruitful.
I found myself considering the signifying possibilities of these stained-glass windows this past summer as I sat in the Payson celestial room after an endowment session. I also thought about the newly implemented updates to the ceremony and, more generally, the role of continuing revelation in the church. I wondered if there was anyone there who, despite their sincere worship in the temple that day, nonetheless felt a sense of loss when certain aspects of the endowment ordinance changed. We naturally feel protective of what is meaningful to us—but do we appreciate that intransigent attachment to procedure (rather than principle) can impede our spiritual growth? How do we invest in current modes of worship while maintaining an openness to further light and knowledge? How do we distinguish what is eternal from what is historically contingent? How do we develop deep roots in gospel soil yet not become so entrenched in preconceived notions that we become brittle and dogmatic? In other words, how do we not lose the forest of eternity for the trees—apple or otherwise?
This is an essential negotiation in our faith tradition, especially considering that one of the theological pillars of the restored gospel is ongoing revelation. These same questions of rootedness and pliancy surface in the work of Jean de la Fontaine (1621–95). A pillar of classical French literature, La Fontaine was one of the most widely read poets and fabulists of his time. His fable “Le Chêne et le roseau” (“The Oak and the Reed”) is a cautionary tale that illustrates the dangers of dogmatism. The fable begins with the oak’s condescending overture to the reed: it vaunts its substantial build and significant strength and observes that it remains impervious to the same breezes cause the reed to bend. The oak concludes by suggesting that the reed is a victim of a cosmic injustice: “La nature envers vous me semble bien injuste” (“Nature seems to me quite unjust to you”).
Though the reed acknowledges the oak’s superiority in size and structure, it takes exception to the notion of injustice; the reed suggests its capacity to bend is a sign of strength—not weakness. The concluding verses validate the reed’s claim:
Comme il disait ces mots,
Du bout de l’horizon accourt avec furie
Le plus terrible des enfants
Que le Nord eût portés jusque-là dans ses flancs.
L’Arbre tient bon ; le Roseau plie.
Le vent redouble ses efforts,
Et fait si bien qu’il déracine
Celui de qui la tête au Ciel était voisine
Et dont les pieds touchaient à l’Empire des Morts.
English translation by Eli Siegel
—As the reed said these words,
From the edge of the horizon furiously comes to them
The most terrible of the progeny
Which the North has till then contained within it.
The tree holds up well; the reed bends.
The wind doubles its trying;
And does so well that it uproots
That, the head of which was neighbor to the sky,
And the feet of which touched the empire of the dead.
The oak is in every sense superior to the reed: its roots are deeper, its frame is stronger, and its branches pierce the sky. However, in the face of gale-force winds, the reed can bend and suffer no lasting damage. The oak, on the other hand, and despite its grandiloquent pretentions, is uprooted because it is too rigid to resist the powerful force that eventually topples it.
When we consider botanical symbols of faith, the oak might seem to offer us a superior analogy; oaks are tall, strong, and impressive. But the humbler reed, though much less imposing than the oak, exemplifies resilience in the form of flexibility. Elder Uchtdorf expressed the same idea in his 2012 talk, “Acting on the Truths of the Gospel of Jesus Christ,” though in slightly different terms:
Brothers and sisters, as good as our previous experience may be, if we stop asking questions, stop thinking, stop pondering, we can thwart the revelations of the Spirit. Remember, it was the questions young Joseph asked that opened the door for the restoration of all things. We can block the growth and knowledge our Heavenly Father intends for us. How often has the Holy Spirit tried to tell us something we needed to know but couldn’t get past the massive iron gate of what we thought we already knew?
Uchtdorf’s words resonate with the lessons of La Fontaine’s fable: dogmatism’s fossilizing effects are anathema to growth and survival—spiritual or otherwise. In other words, a disposition toward openness and flexibility is necessary for all growth. Uchtdorf gestures to the idea that, just as we are ever-evolving spiritual beings, the church is a dynamic institution: changes in policy, procedure, leadership, and even temple ceremonies are a feature of ongoing inspiration. These adjustments are paradigm shifting and can even be painful, but we would all do well to cultivate the ability to abandon old ways in favor of better ways. As for me, I will continue to seek understanding at the fertile juncture of flora, faith, and French literature.
