Gardening as a practice of “sacred rebellion.”
A (mid)weekly blessing from the back yard, humble joys and acts of resistance.
My dear fellow pilgrim,
Thank you for being here at this cloistered space where dancing monks and weary pilgrims mingle, where we ponder the wisdom of great teachers and look to find the sacred in all things.
Some of you just stumbled upon this space in the last days - welcome and willkommen - I am glad you are here.
Today’s (mid)weekly blessing continues what might become a series on the spirituality of gardening which we started last week with a blessing inspired by Hildegard’s “viriditas.” Gardening is a simple and free remedy that nature offers us in these strenuous times. It reconnects us to both the earthly and the Divine, awakening both, the sensual and the spiritual.
In this reflection today, I invite you to ponder how the simple act of gardening can teach us the spirit of “sacred rebellion,” helping us to stay grounded, connected and to create a better world, ending as always with a blessing.
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“In the beginning all created things were green…”
— Hildegard of Bingen1
Let me start with a confession:
I bought some joy.
I went to the big box garden store and got flowers. Blooming colors. Simple joys. I know, I know, people in the gray upper Midwest should have more patience, watch the greening unfold slowly and give the color some more time. But after Easter I said, enough is enough, I need to see new life, my soul is thirsting for color.
And so I got the colors and planted them in the front and back yard, to delight my eye, and apparently also the squirrels’ appetites.
In her latest post
wonders, while wandering the streets of Boston, about the “sacred rebellion” which happened there in 1776. She asks if the sacredness of the rebellion depends on the eyes of the beholder.This got me thinking.
How else can we know if a rebellion is indeed sacred? How can we discern the spirits?
The monastics tell us that whether an act is sacred depends on our attitude, the way in which we do things.
It is we who are called to sanctify the ordinary.
This way the most mundane act can be sanctified. It becomes a vehicle to do God’s work in the world.
This monastic wisdom can be found mirrored in the existential dialectics of the Danish spiritual writer Søren Kierkegaard, who famously distinguished between two ways of knowing, one which tells us the what, the other tells us the how. Faith, he says, is the how. How we relate to what we know. The what, plain knowledge alone, ends up as doctrine, turns what should be a living union into a set of rules, risks becoming empty ideology or even a rigid theocracy.
So what does this all have to do with gardening?
Inspired by
’s question I decided to look at gardening from the perspective of the sacred, or how gardening itself might school us in “sacred rebellion.”
Gardening as Awakening
The first thing that comes to mind to some one living in the upper Midwest probably is not as obvious to our poor fellow travelers living in tropical climates and vertical sunshine.
Gardening calls our spirit to a great awakening like after a long slumber:
Look, the Divine is still with us, it breathes and greens in us as it does in all living things. It connects us with our sacred task to be part of this liturgy of creation, to play our part in this grand symphony.
We are called to be co-creators, not by force but by loving care.
While we bend deep and get our hands dirty, our soul is reminded of its Divine origin.
And people, can you think of a greater rebellion against things of the world than to be reminded of our Divine origin? And to see it in each and every one of us, even the least of us, even the worst of us? We are not called to build on earthly kingdoms! Our kingdom is not of this world. And yet we are in the world.
Divine greening dwells in the unborn and the born child (I never understood the American divide on this one), Divine greening calls to us when ever and wherever life is treated without dignity, in our disappeared neighbors, in each child dying under the rubble or separated from parents.
Can it be that when we tend to the young greens growing in our garden we tend the same time to our soul and to the soul of the whole world?
Gardening invites us into a grounded practice of working with the things before us, in a spirit of nurturing, with the tools and time we have.
Planting a garden without knowing if I will be there for the harvest is sacred rebellion.
Planting hope when the world seems hopeless is sacred rebellion.
Smelling the magnolia blossom in remembrance of all who lack the freedom to do just this is sacred rebellion.
Tending to the seed which falls into the ground to yield fruit one day is sacred rebellion.
What is your “sacred rebellion?”
“Whoever saves a single life is considered by scripture to have saved the whole world.
— Talmud (Sanhedrin 37a)
This week I found myself in an odd rescue operation. I have been in the big box store to look for Spring bloomers which no local nursery had. There I found shelves filled with left over tulips which people apparently buy for Easter like they buy poinsettias for Christmas. When the season is over they go in the landfill.
When I saw the pots thrown on the sale shelf with broken stems and lost heads, contorting towards the light, barely holding on, my heart cracked open.
I did not only see cheap left over tulips grasping for air, I saw all life grasping for air.
I saw the image for ever burnt into my brain of the men wrongfully imprisoned wilting on the shelves just as the tulips do.
So I collected the broken pieces and brought them home. I planted them in the front yard to the delight of our neighbors and also the squirrels and rabbits who live in our garden. I cut flowers and gave them away.
I brought cut flowers inside and saved the bulbs for fall to replant.
And I told every one that instant joy was on sale for 88 cents the bundle at the hardware store.
Most often, dear friend, we cannot save the whole world. But we can save the life in-front of us, as small and unworthy it might seem.
Gardening as Sacred Task
Last week, we learned that, for the medieval abbess Hildegard of Bingen, gardening is not just a work for those who have enough leisure time, but both a physical and spiritual practice, a school of Spiritual Formation if you will.
Gardening reminds us to work with creation and to take part in this “cosmic partnership.” It reminds us to approach all of creation as a garden.
Or as Chuck wrote in his comment:
We are to SEE the greening in our family and friends and work with it. See the greening in our neighbors and work with it. See the greening in our town or city, in our culture or organization, in our own small life. And work with it.
It is a call to action. First, to seeing, in humility and truth, the greening around and within us. And second to work WITH it, welcoming, directing, encouraging, even weeding.
Gardening as spiritual practice calls us back to be tending stewards to this world instead of war lords.
Here is a foreshadowing of three acts of resistance I learned from the garden, a perspective I will deepen in our weekend essay: Hope and joy, claiming our home, and connecting to the sacred in life.
#1 Hope and Joy
When we garden with living things, when we cradle the greening in our hands, find a place for it, fertilize and water it, we experience deep joy and connection. Joy, as
has it, is a serious act of resistance. Never allow the rulers of this world to poison your soul.#2 Claiming Home
When we garden with the soil beneath us, we claim our home and our place in the world. We mix our god-given energy with the soil and the urgency of the greening plant life. We practice what the monastics call “stabilitas.” We do not flee but claim our place in this world. And we sympathize with all whose sense of home has become fragile and vulnerable.
#3 Reconnecting with the sacred
When we garden with the sun, the rain, and the seasons, we are connected to the universe as it turns, and to its creative energy. And it is all greening, waxing and waning, decaying and sprouting, weeding, planting, and harvesting, always moving, always sacred.
And so here comes my humble blessing, dear friend, calling you and me into the radical freedom to be at home it this world while reaching beyond it.
A blessing of “sacred rebellion”
When did you last catch a rain drop with your tongue,
dear one?
When did you last run laughing through blooming meadows
like a child before the dinner bell rings?
When has your soul last tasted
the freshness
of the living water
like rain on your lips?
May each breath
remind you of the Divine in us
each water drop
of the water which flows through us
each leaf tumbling to the ground
of the sacred rhythm of all being.
May you find peace in awareness that you are part
of this wondrous creation
and that each morning
is a dawn towards the living light.
AF
Peace and love to you, Almut (aka The Weary Pilgrim)
PS: If you leave a like or note in the comments section we know you have been here :-)
In case you missed it
Upcoming Program
In person Spring Retreat With Hildegard of Bingen
May 9 @ 5:00 pm - May 11 @ 3:00 pm ($200)
On this Mother’s Day weekend (not only for birth mothers), we will ponder with Hildegard on Divine mothering and the greening of the soul, exploring its resonance across life’s seasons and how it nourishes our soul. We will read, reflect, journal and rest while joining the daily rhythm of the monastery.
Facilitator: Dr. Almut Furchert
Location: Saint Benedicts’s Monastery, MN
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A letter for dancing monks and weary pilgrims at the intersection of psychology, philosophy, and spirituality. Contemplations on being human to deepen your path, nourish your heart, and build wisdom within. A resting place along the way—a space for reflection, courage, and hope.
About The Weary Pilgrim
Almut is a German-American scholar and practitioner of existential wisdom teachings. A psychologist turned philosopher turned writer, she also walks as a traveler, photographer, retreat leader, and mother of a kindergartener. Her work engages with voices like Kierkegaard, Buber, Frankl, Yalom, Edith Stein, Bonhoeffer, and Hildegard of Bingen. A Benedictine Oblate, she lives with her family in a small college town in the American Midwest.
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When I walked out the back door into our garden yesterday, cup of coffee in hand, I saw a startled squirrel leap from the ground near some tulips planted at the feet of St. Francis. Two bounds and he was atop the fence in alert posture. In his mouth was a startlingly red tulip petal.
As he scampered off, I checked on the tulips. Sure enough, one flower was missing a petal. I did not begrudge it. He left many more behind for us.
I am grateful for both the tulips and the squirrel. And for the philosopher/psychologist/gardener who cares for them.
Amen to gardening as sacred rebellion!