Dear Saints in Santa Fe, and other far-off places—

Greetings in the name of Jesus Christ!

May we plant a thousand seeds.

This is Wednesday, I am on my way from Ann Arbor to Cleveland Clinic for my annual checkup and I make a last second decision to exit the Ohio Turnpike and head towards Wooster, the home of my earliest memories and my college years.

I drive by fields upon fields of emerging crops.  I remember that my mom, who grew up on a farm not far from here, could tell me about every crop in every field.  I survey the fields on either side and assume some are soy and the others corn, just as mom would say.  What else is there anymore?

I drive through old towns that haven’t changed since I was a boy, which gives me some since of grounding but is also alarming, more alarming as the number of flags, both political and partisan, increase the farther I drive.  I try to convince myself they are being flown in honor and celebration of Juneteenth, today as I write, but I am resigned to believe this is naïve and wishful thinking.  The more I drive the less I feel attached to the state I have always thought of as home.

I was born a few hours southeast of here in Marietta on the Ohio River.  The Ohio River.  The line separating north from south, freedom from those enslaved, with all the stories of enslaved folk heading north to cross the river and be met and welcomed by those running the underground railroad.  Presbyterians were involved, pastors too.  My dad served three churches in Ohio, and all had abolitionist roots.  They are my roots as well.

It’s probably why I am so sad and startled that Ohio, my Ohio, the Ohio that symbolized freedom from slavery is not showing that side of itself, that noble history, to me today.

So, I feel a need now to plant seeds.

Plant seeds of diversity and inclusion for coming generations.  I thought we had already planted those fields and were enjoying the green growth that took down walls and lifted all people.  I thought we had already planted fields that were bringing people together and celebrating our differences.  I thought I had seen fields that helped my imagination soar of what life together would look like in the very near future.  I am not seeing those fields here, nor have I seen one person of color since I left Ann Arbor.

Plant seeds of generosity and seeds of faith and hope.  When I say faith, it’s not some hazy word wrapped tightly around prayer and a few old hymns but a stubborn insistence that hope is alive and well, that it is strong enough to withstand storms and elections and will hold us when we feel we can’t much longer.  It’s not a head thing, nor even a heart thing, but a God thing, a sacred reservoir that doesn’t rely on us for its existence (thank goodness).

It’s also a Jesus thing.  Nestled in the fourth chapter of the gospel of Mark is a short but mighty parable about mustard seeds.  If you had any doubt that God is still cultivating the world Jesus sets us straight with an astounding affirmation.  A mustard seed is the smallest of seeds, barely seen when you hold it in the palm of your hand, but it grows in wild, not-to-be tamed, life-altering ways that can’t be controlled or stopped.  God’s Spirit is like that.  And so is God’s world.

On Sunday, I will be passing out mustard seeds for each of you.  Be thinking now on what needs to grow in this world.  Then we will cultivate them all, all our wild and wondrous and crazy ideas about what this world might look like.

I’m pretty sure I did not see mustard plants growing in the fields today, but I sure can’t wait to see what these seeds will look like when God gets a hold of them.

Grace and peace,

Harry