Atheists and Gardens

A friend of mine poses the question, "Can you be a gardener and an atheist at the same time?" This question arose out of, both, her obvious enjoyment of gardening and her sense of connectedness to a Creator God.

As I pondered her question, the thought occurred to me that, "Yes, you can be a gardener and an atheist at the same time." Here's why: An atheist believes there is no God. Yet, what atheist's don't understand is that God doesn't deny their existence. That is called, 'free will'. The atheist has free will not to believe in God and God has free will to know and love the atheist anyway . . . which must just burn the atheist's butt on a regular basis!

God didn't send Jesus to save the faithful, the healthy don't need the physician. God sent Jesus (and those who subsequently follow Him and bear His name) to live in faithfulness in the midst of a world that doesn't know or love God. The atheist plants his/her garden, the rains water it, it grows and produces abundantly, and the atheist thinks, "I am god. Look what I've done." God sees the planting, observes the labors of one of God's children, sends the rain in due time, the plants thrive, the garden is harvested, and, even as there is no acknowledgment of God's part in all this, God smiles when God's children are fed, regardless of what the children believe or think. God knows who is God and can only act as God. God is not dependent upon our recognition or approval that God is God, even when we deny God in the garden. Oddly enough, isn't that where Judas betrayed Jesus and Jesus' disciples denied Him as they ran away? In the Garden of Gethsemane?

We are who we are and we believe what we believe, even when in the garden, but, God is always God . . . . and it rains on the just and unjust alike precisely because God is God. Atheist's may garden and atheist's may deny the existence of God . . . but thank God that God never denies either us or our gardens! For if we were cared for by God only on the basis of our faith, how hungry would our world be?

The real shame of the atheist gardener? They will never see or understand true Love that claims them fully, always, even in the garden of their discontent . . . . which doesn't make those who have faith in God 'better', it just makes God's choice to be steadfast in love more dynamic and profound. The atheist's loss, the believer's gain, God's ongoing grace . . . all revealed in a question about a garden.

Have a blessed day in the garden of God's goodness to you!

Standing in the Garden

I find myself standing in the garden more these days, not particularly doing anything constructive, though once in a while I do threaten a weed or two with the blade of my hoe . . . mostly I just stand there and admire God's handiwork and watch the birds flit about in the trees. I don't answer the phone, I don't text, I don't check FB, and I do not wonder what else I should be doing. The garden has turned into my technology 'dead-zone' and consequently has become my safe harbor.

More and more, 'days off' at the farm have become farther and fewer between. It's no-one else's fault, I own my work ethic, yet I am beginning also to own my spirit's need for peace, my body's need for rest, and my heart's need to savor the journey. This time between Advent and Pentecost is always something of a maddening period for Pastors, especially for folks like myself who have been raised to believe that idle hands are the devil's workshop, which is only further complicated by being something of an 'A' type personality. There is always more to do, one more person to call, one more committee assignment to finish, one more service to write, one more person to visit, one more meeting to attend . . . and one more day becomes history, lost to the white noise of 'accomplishment'. While in service to God I sacrifice the joy God intends for me to know in life for the satisfaction of believing I can bring the Kingdom in on my own. A sad and not very faithful commentary for a Pastor to write about themselves, but there it is, God help me.

So, this evening I'm going to stand in the garden for a while. I may even move our patio table and chairs near it so I can sit there for a while with a glass of iced tea with lemon, no sugar thank you. If you happen to drive by and want to sit and visit, feel free, but let's just talk about the goodness of God's creation (Lord only knows we can't fix the State of Illinois!) and, there in those moments, treasure what most God wants for all people in laughter, grace, understanding, connectedness and peace.

As the garden heals from the recent hail storm, so it also is becoming a balm to my weathered soul. The vegetables yet to be harvested are already nourishing my deepest longings. I pray you have a garden to stand in, too.

Rabbits in the Garden

Two rabbits come into my garden to eat every evening - which is making me feel a little like Mr. McGregor chasing Peter Rabbit.

The other evening I looked out our bedroom window and there they were: one in the midst of the cabbage plants, the other nibbling on the tender young pepper plants. Putting on my flip-flops, I rushed out the front door, ran along the newly seed lawn, sped along the side of the house, and then sprinted full-out to the garden, clapping my hands and yelling, 'Hey! Hey!' The rabbit in the cabbage plants calmly watched my approach, not bothering to stop chewing until I was about five feet away. Then, quickly turned around, only to slowly hop out the garden as though saying, 'Man, what a drag, Mr. McGregor! We're not eating that much!' The other one, which was working on my pepper plants, pealed out with a far greater sense of urgency - nearly matching my sense of frustration.

Maybe it was the fact that, at 10:30 at night a balding, somewhat overweight man in running shorts and an old tattered *M*A*S*H* tee shirt was running at them acting like a lunatic, maybe it was a sense of impending doom, maybe there was the realization of not wanting to be there when the ambulance with the nice little men with the oversized coat with long wrap-around arms showed up to pick me up, I'm not sure . . . but, whatever the reason, they both sprinted across the road and I was just left there steaming. I was Elmer Fudd - and Bugs Bunny had just left me in the dust hollering, "You wrascally wrabbits!!"

Returning to our bedroom, Nancy urged me not to use my pellet gun to dispatch them next time (probably envisioning me shooting at the rabbits from our bedroom window) and encouraged me to seek a more peaceable solution. "Darn it!, I thought, "This Christianity thing really gets in the way when really all that I want to do let out some of the frustration . . . . through the barrel of a gun!" Thank God for Nancy - and God help Nancy, for she's the one who speaks reason to me when all I hear in my minds are ways to 'get even'. "You wrascally wrabbits!!"

But then, isn't that basically how wars start? Isn't that how feelings get hurt? Isn't that how dissension is sown? Someone perceives a wrong being done them, acts upon it without hint of thought or grace and, what once was an innocent enough transgression, has now become a nuclear event. 'I'll show you' is lived out on the road, across the oceans, in the midst of national governments, even, potentially, from the window of a bedroom. And, who is really served by such behaviors?

I cannot imagine what my neighbors must think of me, though really I'm not too sure I really care . . . after all, it was my garden that the rabbits were in, but I'm fairly certain it wasn't a Christian evangelical message they got that night. On the other hand, it is people like me who are the very reason Jesus came to earth: that the rest of the world know that not all God's people act like me. Thank God!

Sometimes a little righteous indignation can go a long way and not every rabbit must die for my garden to live, yet . . . would God miss just these one or two rabbits? Would God miss me if others thought the same of me? It's something to ponder while I stand guard on the borders . . . of my garden, that is. Have a great day!

Thoughts from an Early Garden

The potatoes are nearly all out of the ground and most are a few inches tall. I have planted four rows (two varieties) of sweet corn, five rows (two varieties) of green beans, eight cabbage plants, eight cauliflower plants, twelve (three varieties) tomato plants, twelve (three varieties) pepper plants, four cucumber plants, four zucchini plants, and five mounds of acorn squash seeds. Additionally, I have two more varieties of tomato plants and two more varieties of pepper plants which are too small to plant outside yet, but are waiting in the wings to be planted in the next two to three weeks. Am I pushing the gardening season?

"I'm not sure," is my calm response as I sit munching on freshly pulled red radishes while trying to decide how much lettuce to cut for supper, "but I'm fairly certain that I have never put a garden out this early before." Sometimes conventional wisdom doesn't fit contemporary circumstances. Sometimes you just have to risk doing things differently. Sometimes you go and do when others urge to sit and wait. What is never risked is never gained. What is never tried will never be known. Sometimes you are the head of the nail . . . and sometimes you are the point.

Wondering how to get the attention and devotion of the very creation God breathed into being, just as God was about to try again to pierce through their hardness of heart, God wondered, "Am I pushing my love for them too hard?" . . . and in Bethlehem a Child was born to Mary . . . and in the Jordan John baptized a Savior . . . and by the Sea of Galilee, like once upon a mountain, a Teacher spoke to the thousands . . . and through the East Gate the Christ rode into Jerusalem upon a foal . . . and in an upper room a Friend said, "My Body", "My Blood" . . . and on trial the Paschal Lamb said nothing at all . . . and on the cross the anticipated Messiah said, "Father, forgive them" . . . and from a tomb known for containing death, there comes shouts of joy, "He is risen!"

"I'm not sure," is God's calm response, "but I'm fairly certain that my people have never seen it done this way before." Sometimes conventional wisdom doesn't fit contemporary circumstances. Sometimes you just have to risk doing things differently. Sometimes you go and do when others urge to sit and wait. What is never risked is never gained. What is never tried will never be known.

Sometimes you are the head of the nail . . . and sometimes you are the point.

On this Holy Week journey with Jesus, ponder deeply God's love for you. What is happening, what is being undertaken, what is being risked may not make sense at all in the current climate yet, then again, sometimes new things have a way of changing our hearts. Sometimes the nail saves.

Amazing, the things you can learn from the garden.

Incredible

I planted potatoes yesterday: Fifty pounds of Kennebec potatoes, carefully sliced to maximize the 'eyes' planted, placed about fifteen inches apart, in fifteen rows in the garden at the farm. The soil worked, well . . . 'like a garden', light and fluffy, easy to rototill, easy to use the potato plow in. It was about four hours of the nicest time I have spent on the farm this Spring, with 80 degree... weather, an occasional cloud, and the sound of frogs absolutely filling the air down by the pond, not so very far away. Incredible.

What is incredible, too, is that I felt guilty about taking four hours away from work. I am the one who preaches constantly about the need for 'Sabbath' yet, if it's good enough for God to take it, if it's good enough for God to include it in the Ten Commandments, if it's good enough for Jesus to observe it, then why do I view taking Sabbath as a guilty pleasure? Is my DNA screwed up? Or have I suddenly found myself worshipping at the wrong altar in the midst of the Lenten journey, sacrificing my soul on the altar of 'way too busy' so that I might achieve the nirvana of 'successful at getting everything done'? Hmmmmm.

While planting the potatoes, I stopped and picked up some soil in my hand and just smelled it. Again, incredible.Some people wax eloquent concerning smelling the roses, I defy you to find a more pure and wonderful fragrance than freshly opened soil in the Springtime. A thousand images of growing up on the farm flooded my memory as I inhaled the intoxicating aroma of that garden soil, but in that moment none stronger than savoring a Sunday afternoon in the Spring just relaxing and enjoying the day, relishing the scent of God at work in new life all around us. Sabbath. Incredible.

I pray for you 'Incredible' today. I pray for you 'Sabbath'. For, and I am speaking to myself here, in the moment we are too busy or feel too guilty to take time to take in the wonders of God, to observe Sabbath, we are missing the very reason we have been created . . . and that in itself is sin. Savor the 'Incredible' today.

Of Daffodils and Disappointments

We are so disappointed. When we moved to Lebanon in August of 1993 we were delighted in the following Spring to discover a circle of daffodils around the light pole along the front walk . . . but only one bloom. "Odd", we thought, "but we'll give them a chance and thin and fertilize them." Each year since, the ring of daffodil plants proudly circles the light post and each year the same singular plant blooms. Late last Summer, Nancy and I really worked over that bed of daffodils, loosening up the soil, separating bulbs, and fertilizing the area, all in the hopes of inspiring something new to happen. This Spring . . . a circle of plants and one bloom. We are so disappointed.

I have heard it said the definition of insanity is, "Doing the same thing over and over again, each time expecting different results." So, maybe Nancy and I have been living proof of the insanity with which we live every day, I'm not sure yet, neither am I sure what our next steps will be.

I am not enough of a horticulturalist to know if there is any chance that the other daffodils will ever bloom, regardless of how much we work with them, separate them or fertilize them. Still, I look at the daffodils and wonder about the one and think about Jesus and the ten lepers: He healed ten, but only one returned to give thanks. Only one really bloomed. The other nine were healed, yet missed the opportunity to blossom in their new life. Notably, Jesus did not remove the healing of the other nine, but commended the one who came back. Jesus celebrated the beauty of the one who burst forth in raucous color.

Were Nancy and I to dig up the circle of daffodils plants in order to re-plant new bulbs which would bloom, it would be likely that the one which has been blooming all these years would be lost along with the others. So, what are the implications of that decision? Is the one who faithfully returns each year in full and vibrant bloom, the one which has been giving thanks for the opportunity to reflect the sunlight of God's care, to be considered collateral damage for the sake of making the whole of the daffodil bed more productive? Yet, if we do not make a change, there they will be for eternity . . . a whole congregation of daffodils circling the 'T' shaped light post looking pretty in the Sunday breezes, while only one ever blooms.

It's kind of like the church, isn't it? Which pierces my soul when I ponder on the fact that my fervent prayer is that God remembers me even, maybe especially, when I do not bloom regularly or well. What to do about the daffodils . . . I'm not sure. But, for today and all of the other days in which that one daffodil blooms, I'm going to savor the color, the wonder, the majesty of that one which blooms each year. I'm going to remember it and love it for the gift it has become in my heart. For, truth be told, that is exactly what I pray God does with me.

Love Never Ends

“Love never ends.”
I Corinthians 13:8a NRSV

Picking tomatoes in the garden yesterday, this scripture kept swirling around in my thoughts. Love never ends. . . .kind of like tomatoes when in season, except that tomato season ends. Zucchini season ends. Cucumber season ends. Pepper season ends. Sweet corn season ends. Potato season ends. Love never ends.
Unlike the produce gardeners are renown for dropping into the lap, onto the porch, or in the car of the unsuspecting recipient, love is not given to another because we have an abundance from which to be freed. Rather, love can only be given in proportion to the recipient’s willingness to receive. If completely, then completely; if not at all, then not at all. I can love someone with all my heart, soul and mind, yet if they do not wish to receive my love, I cannot slip it into their lap, drop it on their porch, or slide it into their car. It is the anomaly God created in us as God created us in God’s image: God gives us free will. You might be able to leave a bag of vegetables at my front door and retreat into the night without my having consented to receive them, but you cannot leave love at the door without waiting for an answer.
Love never ends. It is an apt description of God: God chooses to love and to be known in love. Love never ends. So the question is not about God’s choice regarding God’s relationship with you: Love never ends. The question is whether or not you will choose to receive God’s love . . . and at what level.
The presence of Jesus in our world is God’s statement of how far God will go that we know the fullest extent of God’s love for all of humankind: I will come and stand at your door and wait for your welcome embrace, says God. Some receive and welcome such intimacy, some slam the door in the face of such boldness, and others nail it to a cross that they not have to face such offers ever again. Incredible! Yet, regardless of how any of us react, Love never ends. Don’t believe it? Look at the empty tomb.
God has just enough love for you, just as you are. I don’t love any of our children because of what they might do for me or how they make me feel in any given moment. I love our children because they are of me. I love my wife because she is of me. I love my friends because they are of me. I cannot no more deny them than I can deny myself, a concept which did not originate in me, but in the One in whom I am capable of love. Love never ends.
Picking the last of the cherry tomatoes and stopping to brush it off a bit, then pop it into my mouth, I savor the delicious sweetness and juiciness of God’s love for me. That I not hunger, God’s love provides. That I not know thirst, God’s love provides. That I not know only bitterness, God’s love provides sweetness. That I not know want, God’s love provides plenty. Love never ends . . . and I fully receive that gift in the moment I extend it to another, standing with them as they choose to receive or not, as God stands with us.
There is a big difference between handing someone a sack of tomatoes and saying, ‘Here’s some of my leftovers,’ and slicing a juicy tomato and handing a half to another and saying, ‘Let’s share this together’. Taking time and sharing space may not be our long suits, but it is what God does with us. Love never ends.
Just some love from the garden which I would share with you.
Your servant in Christ,
Pastor Don

The Squirrels Ate My Sweet Corn

Nancy and I came home last night only to discover, by way of a corn husk lying in the driveway, that the squirrels in our neighborhood had raided our sweet corn patch. Nearly every ear in the patch was partially opened and the kernels of corn eaten as far as it could be easily accessed. I was distraught and angry. "How could they? They waited until the very day the sweet corn was ready to be harvested and then raided the patch before it could be enjoyed by the ones who planted and tended it. How could they?" If I had a gun in my hands in that moment I think I might have started squirrel season a bit early this year. Nancy was a bit more philosophical about the whole thing and suggested to me that the sound of a shotgun going off in town might disturb the neighbors and probably wouldn't be satisfying enough to justify the end result - and reminded me that the squirrels were only doing what squirrels do . . . . to which I thought, 'Well, if I disposed of the squirrels wouldn't I only be doing what people do with pests?'

The initial shock departed and reality set in as, at 8:30 in the evening, we began to harvest what remained of the sweet corn crop. We put everything into paper sacks and brought it into the kitchen for processing, finishing our work around 10:00 p.m. It wasn't exactly the way we imagined our weekend ending, but then again, it wasn't exactly the way we imagined enjoying the fruits of our labors either. Still, the process gave me more than a few moments to ponder what had transpired in light of our relationship with God . . . and I think I will have to give the squirrels a break.

Isn't God's grace much like the sweet corn in our garden? We haven't labored over it. We haven't planted it and tended to it. We haven't sweated over the pounding it has taken from the many storms of life. We haven't brought it to the sweetness of its maturity. Yet, just when it is the most ready and we are the most hungry, there we are, standing at the end of the row with our fork and knife in hand, the butter bib tied around our neck, and our mouths salivating, ready to be first in line to get 'what we want and deserve.' What must God think of us? How tempted is God to be angry with us for our deceptive and less than honorable ways of getting what we want without ever having to make any of the sacrifices necessary? How easy would it be for God to 'lock and load' when we show up begging for the delectable nature of God's grace? And, how full of mercy and wisdom is God in receiving us anyway and understanding our weaknesses and foibles?

When I think upon Jesus as the sweet corn of God's planting among us, when I think upon my deepest need for His forgiveness and care, and when I think about the many ways I have yearned to receive of that for which I did not labor, I am incredibly humbled and repentant of my ways. I may not agree with what the squirrels did to our sweet corn patch, but I am glad they made me think upon my own dependency upon God's abundant nature. Maybe I just need to find a way to put the squirrels to work in the garden so that what they eat will seem more 'earned' than 'stolen', but if I do that, what will God require of me?!

It's something to ponder upon as I pick pieces of sweet corn out from between my own teeth.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

A Few More Peppers

I just finished planting eight new pepper plants in our garden. Nancy looked at me like I was nuts when she arrived home the other day and saw them sitting on the sidewalk next to the garden but, as only a 'Papa' might be able to explain, I reminded 'Nana' that our granddaughters would be with us today and I wanted Cailin to help me in the garden. These are to be her contribution to the family dinner table, planted where the lettuce crop once stood. Together, we planted tomorrows delicacies and together we will tend them through the summer. I'm not sure what Cailin will learn from all of this, but I am looking forward to teaching her the fine art of working hand in hand with God in creation,while leading her towards the exquisite joy that dirty hands and a sweaty brow bring to the things one picks in the garden and places on the table.

Such are the holy moments of family and the sacred joys of a faith family. Each generation takes their place with the young ones among them and passes on the intricacies of intimate conversations with God, whether in the garden, in a field, in an office, or on the road between here and there. Ours is the privilege of shaping the moment with the wonders of our own experiences, with the possibilities that are limited only by our imagination, and ours is the responsibility of inviting, even encouraging a personal commitment to the endeavor, that what happens is more than a 'buying into a particular way of thinking' but, rather, is an evoking of a response born of a communal spirit finding a home in the One who is the dirt under the fingernails as well as in the Food upon the Table. It is an awesome notion, indeed, that God is capable of using an old Papa like me, a garden shovel, a pepper plant, and the fragrant soil of God's own creation to teach a young girl about love, shared labors, struggles, and joys, all of which are a part of life's flowing stream.

The question has never been, "Will Cailin and other children like her really want to learn what we have to teach?" History has shown us time and time again, the desire to experience and understand that which is bigger than ourselves and our limited place on earth is forever in the heart of humanity. The real question is, "If we don't teach our children, who will?" Because, you can bet on it, someone will meet their need and answer their questions . . . and if, in the questioning, in that moment of wonderment, we who are closest to our children do not speak up and articulate in word and action the love of God in Jesus Christ, then what they receive and decide to believe is as much what we have taught them in our silence as it is what has been told them by those who only see them as a pawns for their amusement and power.

So, pepper plants, rototillers, garden rakes, and garden shovels, mixed with a fair amount of fertilizer, hard work and a little bit of sweat, are the things which make for a teachable moment, a shared experience, and the baptismal love that washes the soul and feeds an emerging life. If in the course of my lifetime our granddaughter remembers nothing else about me than her old Papa helping her to plant some pepper plants on a June afternoon in the garden behind our home, I will know that she will hold close the knowledge that she is always loved, that the best labors are those which are shared, and the most wonderful of moments are the ones filled with laughter, love and dirty hands nurturing new life for all to share at the Table where God's family is fed.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Opening the Soil

I spent an hour or so opening the soil of the garden to air. Strange as it may seem, the plants were having a hard time getting started because the soil was so compacted. Four inches of rain last week, followed by another inch and seven tenths, conspired to pound the surface of the garden so hard that to walk on it yesterday was like walking on a sidewalk. Solid.

No wonder the plants were of a lime green hue and 'scraggly-looking', and no wonder the leaves were starting to take on that 'curled' look: The roots couldn't breathe. The area where the garden is now located has been, since 1970 when the parsonage was built, a difficult place to grow grass because so much of the soil was 'fill' soil, lacking humus and nutrients. There is no tilth in the soil and anything attempting to find life in that area, first has to fight the compacting nature of the soil itself in order to establish a root system.

So, I spent an hour or so spading the paths between the rows, not 'turning over' the soil, just stepping the spade down as far as it would go, then pulling it straight back up. Every couple of inches, from side to side in the pathways, the blade of the spade made an incision into the water packed soil, opening the environment of the root systems to breathe and allowing the moisture to continue its movement downward. By this morning the plants were already a dark green and the leaves had begun to open up to the sunshine. It is amazing what happens to life when compacted soil is opened up, which is really not so much unlike our own lives.

Often beaten down by the expectations of our commercialized world, told that the way we look and the clothes we wear aren't up-to-date, that the cars we drive reflect the type of person we will become, that the measure of 'success' is always a goal beyond our reach unless we have just the right cell phone carrier to carry our message to those unreachable places, that our relationships will never thrive unless we are 6' 3" tall and weigh just under 175 and have the physique of a model and the personality of a cardboard box, that no matter how high we strive to go the government stands ready to assist - if we will only pay just a little bit more in taxes to help those who have no goals at all, that personal responsibility is always someone else's issue, and that no one will watch out for number one unless you are the one to make you number one . . . is it a wonder that so many struggle to survive, much less thrive? Everyday living becomes a challenge and, what otherwise should be a simple straightforward process, becomes an exercise in futility: God's law of grace and mercy seemingly overtaken by Murphy's law of inevitability (whatever can go wrong, will, and it will happen to you).

Yet, it is precisely into that moment, exactly into that most compacted place in our lives, that God steps into our struggle in Jesus. Moment after moment, day after day, life by life, Jesus opens the most tightly compressed spaces of our living to the wind of the Spirit that new life might enter. The root of our existence is exposed to the creative breath of God and life seeps in as death's door is thrown open.

Odd, how a few moments spent in the garden with a spade allows for a new vision of God, but then, isn't that God's spade at work in the tight places of my life as well? I think so, and for God's care and time I am grateful.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don