02/23/2025
I’m a gardener.
I think that defines everything about what I love to do. I like to get my hands dirty. I like to take what has been neglected, where there has been no sense of vision, or order, structure, or utility, and turn it into something that is both beautiful and productive.
I find my joy, in being a pastor, from exactly the same process. I get excited when things are messy, ugly, and dirty. These situations don’t intimidate me in the least. But my passion is not to create lifeless monoliths. It’s not my goal to stamp my name on the space as my own. I want to see life blossom and participate with others in celebrating the life of the garden. Accolades for the gardener: I appreciate a kind word like anyone else, but they are a momentary distraction. I want to be a part of something greater than myself, invisible (or at least inconsequential) to the many people who are blessed by the beauty and the produce from this garden. Only an occasional nod of knowing approval that comes from other gardeners. This thing didn’t just happen by itself.
My goal, with every life that I touch, is to garden. I have to carefully distinguish the difference between weeds that choke and companion plants that support. I inspect for pests and disease, but gently, so as not to damage fragile blossoms or break stems that may be weaker than they appear. I prune where branches stretch in toward itself in counter-productive and unhealthy ways. Often I snip a shoot by mistake. I grieve that loss for just a moment, but recognize that my mistakes are also part of the beauty that will make this one peculiar life unique. I inspect the soil. Is it too dry or too wet? Are there conditions in this spot (the wrong drainage, too much or too little sun, inadequate space to really grow) that suggest this life would be better planted somewhere else? This, to me, is the ministry of the pastor to his church: with each individual life a uniquely growing part of the whole garden, producing fruit that will benefit the entire community.
But pastoring isn’t nearly so simplistic or romantic (though, I hope that the previous thoughts never lend the idea of gardening as simplicity). There are really good gardeners. There are average gardeners. And there are gardeners who are wishful thinkers that prefer not to get their hands dirty. There are gardeners who prefer to spend more time in the garden shop than in the field. They would rather replace the damaged, weary, and wilting than to nurture them. That’s not me. Every plant that must be removed because it no longer adds value to the space, to my heart, is my failure. I have wasted everything that was put into it. And when I must dig it up, I lose much more than just the plant itself. There is an entire ecosystem that was tailored just to support the life of this plant that I have uprooted. But there are times that I, as the gardener, must attend to activities that do not feed my garden. There are fences to mend. There are leaks to patch. There is compost that must be rotated. But those things don’t have my heart. Often, though, the amount of time I have to invest in these duties (that I would prefer to neglect) may lead me to forget that I’m a gardener. Then I turn my attention again and see, with heartful anticipation, exactly what I must do to care for each plant.
I love the mystery of gardening. A plant doesn’t respond to my care with precision, like a piece of wood or a ball of clay. It is not dependent on my skill to have life, only to be supported by my efforts for it to achieve its own better fruitfulness. The plant should be rightfully praised and enjoyed for its fruitfulness, not the gardener. I smile when people praise the sweetness of the fruit. That’s when I experience my greatest sense of joy in accomplishment: not what I have done but what I have helped someone else to do. I love searching for the fresh new growth. I love watching the fruit ripen. I love sharing the harvest, often with greedy young helpers who have never considered the work and love that goes into preparing for such bounty. I love wintering: seeing what goes to sleep with the confidence that it will waken again to demand a whole new regimen of care. I love the springtime: being overwhelmed with so much to do and not knowing where to start.
I am a pastor. I always have been. But being a pastor is more than just gardening the lives of individuals of the church. Maybe it shouldn’t be any more than that. But my church, the world that my church inhabits, and my ability to lead are all imperfect. Just as my garden often struggles through years of confusion, turmoil, even neglect. It doesn’t make me any less a gardener. Sometimes being a pastor demands that I have to be more than a pastor if I am going to grow into being a better one. But the difficulty of the task and the distractions that pull me away from it always remind me of who I am. They cause me to long for my passion with greater intensity. They, the distractions and interruptions from who I am, prevent me from growing complacent or selfish in my love of gardening, pastoring. They demand that I remember, not forget, that I am a gardener.
