God Paints the Leaves

by Joseph Stoutzenberger

I picked up my four-year-old grandson Brendan from daycare one day, when autumn was in full bloom, and he remarked as we drove down a tree-lined street: “Grandpa, God paints the leaves, and God is very tall so that he can paint the leaves on the tippy-tops of the trees.” At first, I found his comments amusing. Then, giving it more thought, I realized that he was making a simple but profound theological statement. At the time, I was briefly tempted to use Brendan’s musings to lead in to giving him a scientific explanation about why leaves change color, but then I realized that I didn’t understand it either! Brendan was making a theological observation, emerging from his poetic imagination rather than science. Hopefully, religions don’t reject science, but their mode of expression and language is based on shared stories and poetry.

For instance, Buddhism is based on the story of a prince who lowers himself to live as a wandering beggar. That story is an insightful commentary on the human quest for truth. When I was in Turkey, I visited a mosque complex where the entrance was so low that it required bending down to enter onto the grounds. The Muslim guide explained that it reminded everyone, even royalty, that they were to bow down before God, as all Muslims do when they prostrate themselves in prayer. The Christian story is somewhat different. It is based on the notion that it is God who bows down, becoming little by entering into humanity’s fragility in the person of the infant Jesus, as Christians celebrate each Christmas.

Stories such as these make a statement about the human condition that scientists can’t explain, even though I imagine they stand in awe at the vastness of the universe and the intricacies of life on earth. Religions depend on a leap of faith, taking one step beyond science to acknowledge the mystery that we find ourselves in. The medieval Christian mystic Meister Eckhart was looking at the same reality that scientists see and said: “If the only prayer you ever said was thank you, that would be enough.” That’s the simple leap of faith religions suggest as a response to gazing at the stars at night and the sight of leaves breaking forth in autumnal splendor each fall. Prayer is called for, not just scientific explanations; and silent prayer is usually more fitting than words.

That same Brendan, now in college, traveled to Japan this summer and brought me back a painting he said reminded him of the two of us when he was a child. The painting is a simple depiction of a tall older man and a small boy, both with hands behind their back and both looking up at a bird in a tree. I presume they were merely observing, not analyzing the bird or the tree or their existence. They were simply present. The present moment is indeed a present, a gift from God. Poetry seeks to express in words that gift, as do religious stories. They move us to humble gratitude for the littleness that reveals a vastness behind each moment, more hinted at than rationally explained. Many psalms express in poetry the insight about God’s connection to the beauty around us: “I see your handiwork in the heavens, the moon and stars you set in place…Lord our God, the whole world tells the greatness of your name” (Psalm 8).

Jesus told stories about tiny mustard seeds that work their magic to become fruitful bushes, and overlooked street people being invited to a luscious banquet. He was appealing to our poetic imagination. Life without poetry, without a sense of the grand story underlying the mundane, is mere survival. As Meister Eckhart reminds us: “We must learn an inner solitude wherever or with whomsoever we may be. We must learn to penetrate things and find God there.” God’s story cannot be separated from the earth’s story and our story, and the earth story cannot be separated from God’s. God paints the leaves.