Behold, the humble dandelion

(Fr. dent de lion, liontooth)

When it comes to gardening, one of the few things I am quite diligent about is trying to uproot dandelions when they appear, before they go to seed. They may be loved by bees, butterflies, birds and caterpillars, but I am not a fan. I am just aware of how quickly they spread and how easy it is for them to take over a lawn. Somewhat to my surprise, the Royal Horticultural Society has some good things to say about dandelions, saying that they have ‘ornamental value,’ and are ‘a cheerful addition to flower-rich lawns.’ I have to say that I don’t find them particularly pretty, though they can be beautiful once they turn into clocks. But that’s when I try and remove the heads without letting any of the seeds get away: each clock contains over 100 seeds, which can be carried up to half a kilometre away by the wind – each one a potential new dandelion. It is said that Napoleon gave one of his officers a lesson in the dangers of negative speech by telling him to blow away the seeds of a dandelion and then to go and get them back again. When the officer said that he couldn’t do that, Napoleon pointed out that words are like dandelion seeds that have blown away: once uttered, they can never be recalled.
 
When I was a small boy, I remember my sister telling me that dandelion heads are called ‘clocks’ because you are supposed to be able to tell the time by the number of attempts it takes to blow all the seeds away. Last week, we were on a Grand Tour of the North, visiting family, and one of my grandchildren talked of making a wish when you blow the seeds away, and this led to a conversation about wishing and praying, and the difference between them. I am aware of how it is all too easy for my prayers to degenerate to the level of pointing my wishes vaguely in God’s direction, and I know that’s a travesty of how prayer should be. At our prayer meeting on Wednesday, we thought a bit about how Julian of Norwich said that prayer was not about twisting God’s arm into doing what we want: once we recognise that he is constantly, steadfastly loving, we begin to understand that prayer is more about aligning ourselves with his will and partnering with him in prayer to bring about his purposes. ‘Not my will, but yours be done. Amen.’
 
Back to dandelions, another pesky thing about them it that the taproot can grow up to a foot below the surface, and if you don’t dig it all out, then it can regenerate itself from the fragments that are left. Reflecting on this reminded me of Hebrews 12:15, which calls us to make sure that ‘no one fails to obtain the grace of God; that no "root of bitterness" springs up and causes trouble, and by it many become defiled.’ The ‘root of bitterness’ comes from Deuteronomy 29:18-19, which warns of the dangers of someone becoming so complacent that they think it doesn’t matter if they turn away from the Lord to serve the gods of the surrounding nations. Neglecting our own relationship with God in this way has a negative impact, not just on ourselves, but also on those around them. If I let the dandelions grow in my garden, next door will get some of the seeds from my clocks: if I let sin grow unchecked in my own life, it can and will spread to others. None of us lives as hermetically sealed units: how we live impacts on those around us. That means that we all have a responsibility to keep each other on track, to watch over each other as we walk together and seek to ensure that none of us misses out on God’s grace.
 
Hebrews 12:15 is also a call to perseverance, and here perhaps there is room for a more positive view of the dandelion: its root gives it this resilient capacity to thrive in challenging conditions, pushing through concrete and coming back year after year. This causes some people to see the dandelion as a powerful symbol of strength, determination, and the ability to overcome adversity. So maybe it’s not so bad, after all.
 
Then, lastly, seeing the empty stalks of dandelions after the seeds have blown away calls to mind Psalm 103:15-17, which refers to the brevity and fragility of life – we flourish like flowers in the field and are gone when the wind blows over us, but the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him.
Open your eyes to behold the humble dandelion! What do you see with your eyes? What do you understand with the eyes of your heart?
Tim Carter