Tag: seeds

The Seeds of Others

by Rev. Lynne Hinton

Once we moved into a church parsonage in Washington State in late October where I took the position as Interim Pastor. The front and back yards, though small, had landscaped flower beds wrapping around the house and garage. No one told us what was planted in the beds. No one told us what to expect once winter ended. In the first few weeks of spring at least forty or fifty bulbs had broken through the thawed ground and by early May, this house we called home for a few more months, was surrounded by color, bathed in the hues of spring. We came to realize that we lived in a beauty imagined and created by the hearts and hands of others.

In that season of birth and new growth and in a place gardened by others, I was reminded of the power of planting seeds. I was reminded of the hope that emerges in the hearts of planters, how diligently farmers and gardeners rake and plow and dig and make way for life. Every year lovers of the earth go to nurseries and stores, purchase the seeds or bulbs that offer possibilities, and in faith, with care and hope, drop them into the earth in joyful anticipation. Most plant gardens for themselves but some folks, like the anonymous members of that church, hearty ones who love to landscape and care for church properties, plant their bulbs and seeds for others.

It is the same in spiritual gardens. We plant seeds of kindness, faith, hope, joy, love, peace, and patience in our own hearts, hoping to enjoy the bounty of our work and desire. We plant seeds within our souls, toiling with tools to grow spiritual gifts that we look forward to see come to fruition. We pray and study and meditate and practice for us to become patient, to become kind, to become people of peace and love. It is the harvest of our work for our own souls. But we also plant seeds in the hearts of others, in temporary places, in organizations, places of worship, in souls of those who may or may not ever know our names. We plant seeds without having to reap the bounty. We plant seeds without needing to watch the garden grow. We plant seeds letting the hope of what might come, the power of what may spring forth, the joy we expect for someone else, to be reason enough to keep planting.

I’m sure I could have asked members of the Trustees who planted those bulbs that grew in perfectly-spaced rows, filling the beds in the front and back yards of the parsonage and someone would have given me names; but I did not. Instead as they popped and bloomed I thought of the people in my life who planted seeds within my soul and never saw what grew. I think of grandmothers and teachers, the parents of my adolescent friends, the authors of books that shaped me, the countless words of wisdom from others that fell like seeds in my soul and have finally begun to bloom. I will think of planting my own seeds, being kind to strangers, writing words of hope, working for justice and peace, and learn how to be content with just the planting. It takes faith to grow a garden you don’t get to harvest. It takes faith to plant a seed. I know because I lived that season in the center of someone else’s hopes for spring.

If It Dies, It Produces Many Seeds

by Rev. Victoria Ubben

Scripture: Jesus said, “Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.” (John 12:24)

Two things become unmistakably clear from John’s Gospel lesson. One is that transformation is difficult. And transformation is glorious. So, the question is “What needs to be transformed (or die) in you during this season of Lent so that something new can be born?”

Just about three years ago, I represented our United Church of Christ on an agricultural mission trip to visit three indigenous communities in Guatemala. Six years prior to this, Growing Hope Globally had worked with several mission partners to teach women to farm in their communities (as many of the men had migrated, leaving women and children behind in these three villages). With an absence of men, plus obvious effects of climate change in the region, people were malnourished and starving. The purpose of our trip was to follow-up on the progress (and success) of these new farming techniques.

A brief (and simplified) history: The Guatemalan Civil War ran from 1960 to 1996. It was fought between the government of Guatemala and the rural poor (many of whom are ethnic Maya indigenous people and ladino peasants). After the Guatemalan conflict, when the natives came out of the jungle where they had been hiding, they began to look for their lost friends and loved ones. Of course, most of them were nowhere to be found. 

One man we met, Cristobel, told us (through a translator) that when he was only seven years old, almost his entire village had been massacred on one dark night. Cristobel, and his five-year old sister, Catarina, hid silently under the lice-infested straw in order to survive until the coast was clear. Since that time, he has made it his mission to search on the mountainside for unmarked mass graves. He found them and unearthed the decomposing bodies. Years later, he set up a memorial for the 87 people in his small village who had been killed in just one night.

Someone like Cristobel said, “They tried to kill us and bury us; they did not know that we were seeds.” Now Cristobel’s community has risen from the earth. They are no longer malnourished and now they have what we call “food sovereignty”…which means that these people are not dependent on anyone else for their food. They can focus on local resources and local markets. The campesinos (peasant farmers) have risen… children have risen out from under the lice-infested straw…the spirits (I suppose) of 87 bodies also have risen from a mass grave.

If we die…like a seed…we produce more of what this world needs.

  • So, what if we loved our neighbors as ourselves? Then we would not be as segregated in our communities as we are.
  • What if we lived out God’s word and did not spend time trying to defend it? Then more people would be drawn to Christ.
  • What if we were simply faithful Christians being the light that sits upon the hill? Then others would see our good works and glorify God.
  • What if we really believed that all people are created with unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? Then we will not see some as aliens and threats, but as brothers and sisters in Christ.

What if …

They tried to kill us and bury us; but they did not know that we were seeds? Then, like Jesus, we will rise up out of the grave and sprout into new life!

Closing Prayer:

Dear God, shine your light of conviction and truth upon our hearts. We offer our feelings to you that are heavy and burdensome, and those feelings that are yet hopeful of your good work among us. We surrender all to you, trusting that you are producing good fruit within each of us. Amen.

  • To learn more about the mission of Growing Hope Globally, check out: growinghopeglobally.org
  • Some of these ideas in this blog post are drawn loosely from An American Lent – Repentance Project, 2019.

photo credits: Alex Morse and Max Finberg

Hope of Seeds

by Abigail Conley

My church is kicking off a stewardship campaign this week. We chose the theme, “From seeds to fruit.” Today, I finished up posters with images of those steps. Mostly, though, I’ve been thinking about seeds.

I grew up on a farm, with a father who worked at a farm supply store. I remember being in the back of the store with giant bins of seeds. I’m pretty sure most people, when they think of seeds, think of the kind you plant. They think of seeds that create corn, beans and pumpkins. They think of seeds that are distinct. They think of seeds that can often be eaten or planted.

When I think of seeds, though, I think of the tiny ones that are sown. Sowing seeds sounds so eloquent, biblical even. In reality, it’s far more chaotic. Seeds that are sown are tiny, and more or less strewn into rows, or maybe seedbeds, or small pots. They’re never carefully placed like seeds of larger varieties. The tiny seeds that would be sown were the ones that filled up the bins in the back of the farm store of my childhood. I never got my fill of running my hands through them. My dad knew what each one was, of course. Many of them were grass seeds. I remember the way they flowed through my hands, softer, silkier than any fabric could ever be.

Believing those tiny seeds could produce anything was an act of faith. The seeds were so tiny, no one was even worried about the ones that spilled onto the ground when they were bagged for a customer. Of course, I recall Jesus’ words, “…faith the size of a mustard seed…”

Those of us who live apart from the rhythm of sowing or planting, waiting, and harvesting, miss out a little. We miss out on the beauty of a small plant peeking out of the ground. We miss out on the worry of too much or too little water. We miss out on the goodness of going out and picking our food to eat that very night. We miss out on that rhythm that offers a deep hope in the order of the world. It is a rhythm nearly as old as humanity, after all.

So I think about seeds, seeds that point to that rhythm, and let my body grow calm and my mind cease its worry. The anxieties of life run deep for me, as they do for most of us. There are many things to be done in my own life—and after all, if not me, who? I wait for an election days away, wondering if the outcome drastically alters my life. As they should, my friends remind me of the things I shouldn’t let slip from my view because they are the things of God. They are voting early in suffragette white. They drive by the places where people of color were killed, forgotten by most only days later. They call me to vigils for those things and others, like domestic violence, one of those things that is supposed to draw our awareness this month.

I know they struggle to remember those things, too, among jobs, and marriages, children to take care of, and babies on the way.  

And I remember seeds.

I trust in the promise that they hold: our future is full of hope. Some days, that hope is evident, like a bit of green breaking the dirt for the first time. Some days, that hope is realized, like the bite of an apple when the first hint of cool is in the air.

And some days, that hope is buried beneath the earth, waiting. Just waiting. The rhythm of life long established will take over at any time, as holy as God’s ordering of the world in the first days of creation.

So today, I think about seeds.