Our Stories: We Are The Garden
By Laura Taylor
I recently planted a garden on my front porch, where I am confronted by it daily. Made up of flowers, brassicas and herbs, it began with dirt and darkness, compost and weeds, now boasting fresh spinach and sprouting tulip bulbs. Did you know we only know 10% of what happens within soil on a microscopic level? Within the rhizosphere, 90% of the microbiome activity that leads to the regulation of organic matter decomposition, nutrient cycling and plant growth is totally unknown - yet we rely on it to provide for us food, shelter and the world in which we dwell. In the same way, part of being human is to live with the mystery of God. Now I apologise in advance, for I am prone to sprinting with a metaphor, but as I have read (and planted) I have been struck by the parallels between the physical garden and its use as a parable for exploring the concept of humanity.
In part, this is because the Scriptures we see clear interaction between the garden and what it means to be human. It is a garden in which Christ is buried, and then raised. In John, the resurrected Christ is mistaken by Mary for the gardener. Where the old gardener Adam was the parent of sin, the new gardener Christ is the restorer of life. Christ’s teachings are rife with metaphors of pruning, harvesting and letting the land lie fallow. When tending to my own garden, I am confronted by the seasonal themes discussed in Ecclesiastes; a time to plant, to pluck, to die. Left too long basil will go to seed, its leaves must be plucked to renew. Spinach and bok choy thrive in winter, but come November will wither and die, giving way to summer tomatoes and beans. This is of importance for to be weak, to have finitude, is a key part of what it is to be human. Hand in hand with this, is the experience of suffering.
It could be determined that part of the human experience in the world in its current, degenerative state, is to experience suffering in some form, as even Christ did. The Christocentric paradox of the crucifixion and strength exposed by weakness shows us a suffering God, that in turn calls us to turn our face towards those who suffer, and see the reflected face of Christ. Weakness and suffering play a central role in humanity, which is beautifully reflected in the garden. It interweaves things objectively perceived as suffering or broken - decaying leaves, orange peel, sheep excrement - and not only participates in an exchange with them, but these supposedly messy facets provide fuel for the entire ecosystem. They create the soil, provide nutrients, promote growth. They are intrinsically and integrally a part of the generation of new life and renewal. As messy, broken humans, it is our call to create spaces of healing, where as Henri Nouwen suggests, hostility is converted to hospitality and strangers can become guests, revealing the promise they are carrying with them. To take part in the redemption of the world and ourselves and be a people with an apocalyptic imagination. As humans faced with suffering, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer states “the Christian must bear the burden of a brother. He must suffer and endure the brother. It is only when he is a burden that another person is really a brother and not merely an object to be manipulated”.
This encompasses another facet of humanity, our innate diversity. Humanness traverses race, sexuality, gender, ability; we experience humanity every day in ourselves and in our relationships with people around us amongst our differences. The implications of this for our ministry and mission as Central Vineyard are immense, for if we are to view the ecclesial body both in a corporate and christological context, we must perpetuate radical interdependence.
Again, I was struck to learn about how the garden reflects interdependence via its engine, the soil. Within topsoil is an entire ecosystem entitled mycorrhiza. The role of mycorrhiza is to communicate what the plant needs via its rhizosphere, detecting what nutrients the plant is lacking, communicating this via the root systems and getting it sent to from other plants and fungi. Even though a spinach plant may look solitary, it is intertwined and interconnected by something greater. It is the same for the ecclesial church. We belong to one body, not only when we choose to, but in our whole existence. We utilise each member, no part greater than another for we know that we belong not to the people or place, but by the one who orchestrated its being, our ever-loving God. Humanity participating in a relationality that truly images a God who is himself a relational being.
In the process of our renewal and ontological transformation, in our response to suffering, in our mission as the ecclesial church, in living as a diverse people with eschatological hope, we as humans are drawn ever more closely into divinity itself. Our story began in a garden; thus beginning a process of pruning, planting, and dying to make space for the future-unveiling on heaven on earth, where God’s completely divine presence will ultimately one day return to dwell with us and be united with earth, as we saw in Eden.
Photography by Beka Hope
