Erazim Kohak once wrote, “a metaphor is a mask that molds
the wearer’s face.” Indeed, metaphors matter. They shape our thoughts and,
working in our subconscious, help us to decipher the myriad of experiences we
encounter daily that defy the description provided by natural language alone. A
metaphor can convey in a single word what might otherwise take paragraphs to
explain. Such is the metaphor of the gardener. Even as you read this word an
image floods into your mind. You can’t help it, you picture something.
As citizens of the Ancient Near East the writers of Holy Scripture
were particularly fond of metaphors. Found frequently in poetic and prophetic passages
God is depicted as a father, a mother, a hen, a fire, a wind, a king, and, most
relevant to this discussion, a gardener. When I imagine God as a gardener it is
difficult not to envision him as a somewhat effeminate figure kneeling before a
flower or two, pruning petals with a full brimmed hat and gloved hands. He is
always old, and gentle looking. There might even be an apron in there
somewhere. And that is the way metaphors
work. They bring to mind prototypes or models that allow our minds to conceive
of new dimensions in our reality. When I hear of God as a gardener my mind intuitively
runs to images of gardeners I have seen in the past in film, literature or art.
And herein lies the risk of metaphors. So much is left to the interpreter.
People often see this most clearly when they begin to think that when God calls
himself a father he means to imply that he is just like their father and end up having a horribly wrong idea of who God is.
The model they bring to mind makes all the difference.
And so it is that this metaphor was at the forefront of my
mind this week when I spent some time building a garden for my wife. Not a
dainty little plot for marigolds, but a garden; a garden that will host beefsteak
tomatoes, Chinese eggplant, and butternut squash. Not a tiny mulched piece of
earth in the corner of our yard, but a fenced-in fortress that promises to fend
off any potential scurvy for our three growing, young men; a survival garden of
sorts.
This week as I spent time as a gardener, God’s use of the metaphor
for himself began to come into focus with greater clarity. Each day I woke
before the sun rose and dressed quietly in a still house. I put on the same
pair of filthy jeans and dirt-stained hoodie and entered a yard speckled with
frost. For almost 10 hours a day I hauled timbers, set fence posts, pounded
spikes and unrolled yards of steel fencing.
My task was to take an unusable piece of ground and force it
to bear fruit. In order to do so I had to pierce the soil to set corner posts.
When roots cut across my intended path, I took an axe to them. When my shovel
hit a stone I sunk to my knees and plunged my hands into the cold soil to fish them
out. I pounded a hefty sledge, I smashed two of my fingers, my hoe sliced back
and forth across the soil and I cursed…often audibly.
At the end of every day my back was unbearably sore, my
forearms were numb and my body filled the shower with mud and sweat just before
my head hit the pillow feeling as if I could close my eyes for days. Such was the work necessary to bring about the
kind of transformation that would enable my yard to produce food instead of
weeds.
When God calls himself a Gardener he is not encouraging us
to think about joining him for a walk along a manicured path or to merely sit
on a bench in the morning sun. He is, in no uncertain terms, assuring us of his
desire to till the soil of our life. With dirty hands and weathered tools he
plans to cultivate our thorn-ridden, overgrown, weed invested souls into
fertile land that can produce the finest fruit the world has seen. He wants to
make the abandoned lot of my heart, and yours, into a space that beckons others
with its beauty and bewilders them with astonishing transformation. But in
order to do so, many things need to die along the way.
Roots needs to be torn out of the ground, stones need to be
plowed up from the hard soil, hills need to be leveled, and a great pile of
brush often needs to be burned.
Many people will look back on the past year of their life
with regret. There were roots they tripped on, stones too big to move, and soil
left barren for so long that nothing could survive in it. Maybe their own
attempts to transform the landscape have only left them feeling more exhausted and
bitter than ever; after so many days with the shovel, the yard still looks
nothing like they had hoped so they have given up on the project.
But I know a gardener who is looking for some work. I assure
you he is not interested in doing just a bit of pruning. There may be thick
roots that need to be pulled. Huge boulders might need to be lifted. Sunbaked
soil may need to be tilled. It might be tempting at times to fire him, but if
you patiently let him work, he promises that even the most barren land can
burst forth with life.
From one garden to another, Happy New Year.
