Easter Sunday, March 31, 2024
Deep in a vault, in a cave dug into a mountainside, on an island above the Arctic Circle, partway between Norway and the North Pole, there is a safety deposit box, of sorts, holding precious resources, considered vital for the future of humankind. It is the largest collection of agricultural biodiversity in the world. Millions of tiny brown specks. Seeds. This is the Global Seed Vault, with more than 930,000 varieties of food crops from all over the world, covering thirteen thousand years of agricultural history. Its remote location makes the Global Seed Vault safe from the wars and terrors that have ravaged other parts of the world. Some have dubbed it the “doomsday vault” imagining its reserve of seeds will be needed after an apocalyptic event or global catastrophe. The genetic diversity housed there is remarkable. There are 200,000 varieties of rice, and many other species that are no longer commonly grown. Maybe seeds housed in the vault could provide the DNA traits to solve some future challenge in a region of the world–perhaps adapt to higher temperatures, or resist new pests or diseases.
But it is for smaller, more localized destruction and threats that the Global Seed Vault was designed to protect against. In 2012 scientists in an agricultural research organization in Aleppo, Syria fled their headquarters because of war, forced to leave behind their gene bank, one of the most valuable in the world. When they reopened in Morocco and Lebanon they needed to withdraw seeds from the Global Seed Vault above the Arctic Circle. They planted those seeds, grew and harvested the crop, preserved the seeds and returned some, making a deposit back into the Global Seed Vault.
Marie Haga, Executive Director of Crop Trust, the organization that manages the Global Seed Vault asserts that diversity of seeds is “fundamentally important,” almost as important as water and air. “Seeds generally are the basis for everything,” she says. (see https://time.com/doomsday-vault/ article by Jennifer Duggan in Time Magazine.)
I have always been fascinated by seeds. Perhaps because I grew up on a farm immersed in the flow of the seasons from planting to harvest. Perhaps because my mother gave us kids a small plot of her large garden every spring, to try our hands at gardening. Seeds are so small, so ordinary, so unremarkable to look at. And yet they contain within them all the genetic information they need to become what they are designed to be. Somehow they sense when the light is increasing, when the soil is warming. They crack open, shed their outer coating, they know to send out a root in one direction and a sprout in another direction, toward the light. The sprout pushes up through the soil, opens leaves to the sun and begins photosynthesis. The plant grows and matures, produces blossoms, flowers, fruit and of course, seeds in greater abundance by far than the one seed from which it all began. It seems to me that seeds are the perfect metaphor for Easter Sunday, and for the resurrection.
It is no accident that the gospel writer, John, places the resurrection story in a garden, and that Mary mistakes Jesus for the gardener. A garden is a place of hope, new life and the promise of what is to come. A garden is a place where dying leads to new life, even nurtures it. Jesus is of course a gardener–a gardener of human souls–preparing the soil of our hearts, planting the seed of God’s word, nurturing our growth.
John opens his gospel by describing Jesus as the Word through whom all things were made, echoing Genesis 1 & 2, identifying Jesus with Creator God, maker of the first garden. And later in John’s gospel Jesus identifies as the seed when he says, “Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (John 12:24). And of course, one of Jesus’ most detailed parables is about a sower who went out to sow some seeds, some falling along the path, some in shallow, rocky soil, some among thorns and some on fertile soil. (Mark 4:3 ff). The Apostle Paul catches the power of the metaphor too, in his letter to the Corinthians, where he describes Jesus as the “first fruits of those who have died” (1 Cor 15:20).
If Jesus is a gardener–that’s how Mary Magdalene sees him, early in the morning, while it is still dark, in the garden, perhaps with the earliest bird songs calling for dawn–if Jesus is a gardener, then what are the seeds that he has been planting? And what is the harvest or fruit he is hoping for?
Throughout Lent we have been immersed in the last week of Jesus’ life. All along this path toward the cross we have heard the echo of his urgent, agonizing cry, “If you had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace!” (Luke 19:42). Over and over again we have watched him choose the way of Shalom, the way of forgiveness, the way of the cross. And over and over again we have seen him turn away from the way of the helmet and the spear. He chooses to act from the strength, courage and power of self-giving love. He refuses to live by threats and coercion, cruelty and violent force. And he calls us to make the same choice.
Throughout his ministry, and especially in the last week of his life he was a sower. He sowed seeds of mercy, justice, truth and peace. He stirred up the soil of peoples’ hearts and dropped in seeds hope and kindness, compassion and generosity. Watering it all with love hoping for a harvest of Shalom–wholeness, completeness.
Lest this all sound a bit too idyllic, let’s remember that gardening is hard work–sweaty, backbreaking, grimey work. There is drought, disease, pests and weeds to contend with. And so Jesus, the gardener also pulls weeds–weeds of fear, and hate, judgement and condemnation. He gives extra attention to the plants that are struggling. In his parable of the sower Jesus acknowledges that seeds don’t always take, or if they do they don’t always survive. Peacemaking work is not guaranteed, and it’s not always easy. He knows that better than anyone.
So perhaps, after what he has been through it is especially stunning that in today’s text we see him sowing seeds of peace once again. Notice the way Jesus reacts to the disciples when he appears to them. The first thing he says to them is “Peace be with you” (John 21:19). You can’t offer “Peace be with you” if you are holding a spear, or driving a tank or dropping a bomb.
Last Sunday, Don helped us imagine how the disciples might have felt at their Last Supper with Jesus when he said that one of them would betray him. They were shocked! Is it I, Lord?! Surely not I? How they might have leaned into each other’s ears, whispering about who they suspect, and what they will do to that one. Shocked, but also deep within knowing that it could be each of them.
And it was. Judas betrayed him for 30 pieces of silver. Peter broke faith with the teachings of Jesus that he had been hearing for three years and pulled out a sword to fight back. Later Peter denied that he knew Jesus, three times. And all of them fled and hid.
So now to experience the risen Jesus standing among them, must have been more than startling and terribly frightening. I am sure they felt shame for what they had done. How could they even face him after abandoning him just three days ago? Would he seek revenge?
I wonder if he saw fear and shame on their faces, and in their body language. He repeats the message a second time. And a third time later on for Thomas, holding out his wounded hands. “Peace be with you. As God has sent me, so I send you. And when he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained” (John 21:21-23). “Instead of seeking or exacting revenge Jesus says ‘Peace be with you’.” (Porterfield, 174). There is no trace of anger, resentment, retaliation or revenge. Rather he speaks a healing word to all of them, and then commissions them to continue the peacemaking work. (Porterfield, 174). They are called to sow peace as Jesus has taught them. Nurturing the small sprouts of peace. Watering the seedlings of peace. Isn’t this how the Kingdom of God grows? Like a mustard seed.
He believes in them. He trusts them. He blesses them. He sends them in his name. They are commissioned, sent out as messengers who bring the gospel of peace. Notice how their mission is described in this part of John’s gospel. It is a ministry of forgiveness. As he has forgiven them, so they are invited to be agents of forgiveness. Perhaps, as those who have been forgiven much they are especially equipped now to understand the significance of a ministry of forgiveness. For along with forgiveness comes the work of truth telling, healing, reconciliation and restoration.To be forgiven is to be given the tools, the opportunity to begin again. To start over. To be restored to right relationship. As Don explored with us on Good Friday, to have those behaviours where we lash out in fear, anger and resentment “passed over” in order to get to the heart of the issue, the real hurt of not being seen or heard or respected, the real pain of feeling abandoned or rejected, and open that hurt up to the healing mercy of God in order to get to a place of Shalom–wholeness, completeness.
A ministry of moving beyond hurts asks much of the disciples, and of us. It takes time. This is not easy work but it is what Jesus has modeled. After the resurrection of Jesus his followers find themselves as a small community of love in a hostile environment. In the early years of the movement there is always risk and always danger.
I want to introduce you to a concept that seems to fit very well here. It comes from the book Refugia Faith: Seeking Hidden Shelters, Ordinary Wonders, and the Healing of the Earth by Debra Rienstra. This is a book I learned about from Wendy Janzen through Burning Bush Forest Church.
What does refugia mean? The author explains it through a description of what happened after Mount Saint Helens erupted in 1980, blowing the top off the mountain. The eruption left debris and devastation for miles around, crushing, burning, killing, and coating everything in hot ash. People assumed that life could not return to this apocalyptic scene, or if it did, it would take generations. But only forty years later the mountain sides are covered with lush, green growth, streams are flowing and creatures scamper about. How is this possible when the devastation seemed so complete? What researchers have discovered is that the devastation passed over some small places hidden in the lee of rocks and trees. Refugia.
A refugia is a pocket of safety, a small hidden place, maybe next to a rock or under a rotting log, where a patch of life survives–where plants and creatures hide from destruction during a forest fire, or a volcanic eruption. They are “hidden shelters where life persists and out of which new life emerges. As Rienstra writes, “the earth teaches that extreme disturbance can be survived and can even bring renewal–and one way this happens is through refugia” (Rienstra, 4).
This concept of refugia seems to fit so well with Jesus and his small band of followers, and with the early church–these small communities of compassion and love in a hostile environment. The author of this book asks the question, “How can people of faith become people of refugia? How can we find and create refugia, not only in the biomes of the earth, but simultaneously in our human cultural systems and in our spirits?” (Rienstra, 4). She spends the rest of the book exploring that question.
I will highlight just a few of her suggestions:
Even though we are waiting for the fullness of God’s promises to be revealed, and even though pain and suffering and evil persist, we know that “God is always at work somehow and that God loves to work in small, humble, hidden places. The more I think about it, the more I realize that God loves refugia. The refugia model calls us to look for the seed of life where we are, concentrate on protecting and nurturing a few good things. Let what is good and beautiful grow and connect and spread. Trust God’s work.” (Rienstra, 5). Refugia are places of shelter–but only for a time. They are also “places to begin, places where the tender and harrowing work of reconstruction and renewal takes root…where we endure…where we prepare for new ways of living and growing” (Rienstra, 5). Rienstra describes “refugia faith” as a posture of “humble discernment and nurture. Where are refugia happening already, and how can we help? Where do refugia need to happen? How can we create them?” (Rienstra, 6).
We all have our small part to play–we can be those seeds, we can be those resilient mosses and plants that persist in a refugia. We can be the tiny creatures that survive. We can be refugia for those who are devastated and battered by difficult experiences. We can create refugia for those who have suffered loss, harm and destruction of what they once knew.
It reminds me of the writings of Wendall Berry, environmentalist, farmer, writer, and cultural critic. In his poem “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front,” he critiques our economic systems that encourage selfish greed, mindless accumulation and consumption. The antidote to that, he writes is this:
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it…
Ask the questions that have no answers…
And then he ends the poem with this line to sum it all up:
Practice resurrection. (Rienstra, 164).
That line caught my attention and stuck with me. What does it mean to practice resurrection? What does that look like? Perhaps resurrection is not so much something to witness and observe and cheer about, but more so something to do, something to participate in, and a way to live. The plants and creatures and natural systems of this planet practice resurrection all the time.
There is a Princeton Seminary grad who spent time on a farm, and wrote that “compost alone taught [me] more about death and resurrection than anything in [my] seminary theology courses…throw together a pile of scraps and rejects, eggshells and fruit rinds, tough stems and grass cuttings, and at first it just looks like rotting death. But death is never wasted in the microbial world. Decay brings life; in fact, decay is life. A good compost pile teams with microorganisms–more than a billion per teaspoon. Worms and bugs are also essential in this transformational work…Given time, moisture, the right temperature range, and enough churning to keep the oxygen supply, and a pile of death transforms to living soil, ready to serve as the foundation of the whole nutrient cycle” (Rienstra, 166).
This is one of the most common motifs found throughout the biblical story. After death comes life. After destruction and devastation comes something new. Out of hurt, loss, suffering and pain, new life, new hope is possible. We see this in the earliest verses of the bible when God brings life out of a formless void. We see it in the story of the Exodus and freedom after slavery. We see it in the story of being exiled from the land and then able to return. We see it in the destruction and rebuilding of the Temple. We see it of course, most clearly in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus.
As we have walked through Lent and Holy Week, using the book, Fight Like Jesus: How Jesus Waged Peace Throughout Holy Week, by Jason Porterfield, we have explored each day of the week, and what Jesus was doing that day. But what about Saturday? What was happening on Holy Saturday? The gospel writers say very little about Saturday–only how a guard was placed at Jesus’ tomb, and how the women followers of Jesus made preparations to anoint his body, but then they rested because it was the Sabbath, and how the disciples were hiding in a locked room. Resting and waiting, for what they did not know. Sitting through their own personal hells–reliving their traumatic experiences, tormented by their failures, troubled by their betrayals, hounded by their fears.
But somewhere, in the stillness in the darkness in the waiting there was something going on. What was Jesus doing? Early church tradition, murals, and mosaics throughout Christian history portray Jesus defeating evil, descending into Hell, (as it is written in the Apostle’s Creed), freeing imprisoned souls, destroying or shattering death (Porterfield, 168-9). Somehow, God was still at work, preparing for new life. Somehow in death, in the darkness of the tomb, Jesus was absorbing all of that pain and sorrow, holding all that fear, gathering the grief, forgiving all the failures, preparing, making space for new life to begin.
This Easter I am moved most by the images of seeds and bulbs and cocoons, and compost. They are small, nondescript, unremarkable, easily overlooked. Whatever is happening takes place in darkness, where we can’t see it. Much like in the tomb of Jesus.
I am acutely aware that for many people this Easter, it feels like there is little to celebrate, and much to mourn. Some of us are still sitting by the tomb, weeping in the dark. Some of us are still denying and hiding, crippled by our failures. Some of us are numb with grief, or frozen by our fear.
I appreciate how peace activist Valerie Kaur describes what it is that we are facing. “The future is dark,” she says, “But what if–what if this darkness is not the darkness of the tomb but the darkness of the womb?” What if the community of Shalom is not dead but a community waiting to be born? (Valarie Kaur, See No Stranger: A Memoir and Manifesto of Revolutionary Love, xiii). May it be so! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed!