I feel at odds in church, among men
discussing religion. God won’t come,
won’t sit with me on those hard pews
to hear the pious sentiments of the pulpit.
There is too much of man, there.
Oh, they’re important, the churches.
The keep us straight, remind us of mercy,
bind us in fellowship; separate us, too,
from the mites and the whiteflies and the grubs,
but also the melons and the rain and the sunshine.
God comes when I am in the garden, pulling
weeds from the bolting lettuce, on my knees,
fingers combing the dirt for roots,
tossing grasses, green and strong, to die
in the wheelbarrow and be carted to the compost,
soil for the next generation. Generation and
re-generation. God comes when the only voice
is in my head, when it’s just me and the weeds
and the bolting lettuce, fingers searching the soft soil
for roots, bound, sinewy, flesh.
God comes then; I needn’t search
for that which I cannot avoid, the
inescapable fingers of the weed puller.
June, 1994
I wrote this poem over twenty-five years ago, and I still feel basically the same way. I suppose one could argue that shows my lack of spiritual growth over the years.
That may be true.
But over the years as I’ve built more gardens and grown, ate, and shared more vegetables with friends, colleagues, and local charities, I’ve felt more and more connected to something larger and more lasting than the world we live in most of the time, a world dominated by the day’s current events.
In the last few years, raising animals here at the farm has deepened my sense of connection to a whole other world. Attending their birth, helping them find and attach to their dam’s teat, feeding them, raising them, watching over them as they grow, trimming their hooves, administering their shots, calling the vet when we’ve done all we can to help a sick one, sometimes burying them, and occasionally taking one or two to slaughter. All of this has helped me connect more closely to a world that utterly disregards the week’s latest social scandal or political outrage.
None of this is meant to disparage people who do have strong religious beliefs or who find solace and strength in whatever church they attend. “Good for them,” I say. If someone’s church helps them find peace and connection to like-minded souls, encourages kindness, and engenders patience, generosity, greater acceptance, and good planetary stewardship, then that person has a worthy spiritual home.
It just never worked for me. I tried for several years. I went to church, got involved with numerous activities, played gospel music, met a lot of wonderful people (and some jerks, but churches are made up of people, after all, and people can be jerks no matter where they are), and I even got baptized near the end.
It just didn’t take. As much as I enjoyed the music, liked the people, and admired much of the mission, church was never my spiritual home. Perhaps, I am the seed that lands on rocky soil and never sprouts.
Or perhaps my seed sprouted in the garden. I sometimes like to imagine myself as a strong, well-tassled stalk of corn or perhaps a long, leafy heirloom tomato, one of the indeterminate varieties. More likely, though, I am a weed growing up in the bean row, living in the cool shade, searching for sunlight, eventually to be plucked from the soil and tossed in the compost.
Their are worse fates, at least to my mind.
September, 2021