Maybe the Church Is More Like a Garden

I have been thinking about gardens lately.

Maybe because summer is beginning to let go.

The tomatoes are finally ripening. Flowers that were spectacular a few weeks ago are beginning to fade. The light is changing. Here and there, if you look closely, a leaf is beginning to turn.

Creation is always becoming.

Nothing stays exactly as it was.

And somehow, that doesn't make creation less beautiful.

It makes it alive.

Which has me wondering about the church.

Maybe the church was never meant to be a painting.
Maybe it was always meant to be more like a garden.
Something we inherit, yes.
But also something we tend.

A painting is finished.

We hang it on the wall. We admire it. We protect it. We try to preserve it exactly as it is.

But a garden?

A garden is gloriously unfinished.

Things grow.

Things die.

Things surprise us.

Something you planted carefully refuses to grow, while something you didn't plant at all appears between two rocks and absolutely thrives.

There are seasons of abundance and seasons when the garden looks like nothing much is happening.

And then there is zucchini.

There is always too much zucchini.

A garden asks something different of us than a painting does.

It asks us to pay attention.

What is growing here?

What needs tending?

What needs more room?

What has finished its season?

What might emerge if we gave it a little light?

I wonder what would happen if these became questions we asked about our churches.

Because churches are alive too.

They grow and rest.

They change and adapt.

They lose things and discover things.

They send down roots and put out new shoots.

They have seasons of extraordinary abundance and seasons when it seems like absolutely nothing is happening.

And sometimes they need to let something go so there is room for something else to grow.

That doesn't mean we stop honouring what came before.

Quite the opposite.

Good gardens depend upon old soil.

Fallen leaves become nourishment.

What has been becomes part of what will be.

The people who came before us left something extraordinary in our care.

They built buildings.

Created communities.

Prayed and sang.

Made meals.

Baptized babies.

Buried people they loved.

Fought for things that mattered.

Probably fought with each other occasionally too.

They tended the garden.

And now, for this little stretch of history, we get to tend it.

At Parkdale, we've been experimenting with what that might mean.

Some of it looks remarkably ordinary.

This summer, tables and chairs began appearing in our lobby.

We had a coffee cart built.

We've been looking differently at our building and asking how spaces designed primarily for passing through might become places for staying.

We've also started paying closer attention to the hundreds of people who already come through our doors every week.

None of this is revolutionary.

It's furniture.

It's coffee.

But I'm becoming increasingly convinced that transformation often begins with remarkably ordinary things.

A chair says:

You can stay.

A table says:

There is room.

A cup of coffee says:

We don't need a reason to talk.

None of those things creates community.

We can't manufacture belonging any more than we can command a seed to grow.

We can only create the conditions.

Prepare the soil.

Make room.

Offer water.

Give something light.

Pay attention.

And wait to see what grows.

This is not always easy for churches.

We like plans.

We like programs.

We like knowing what something is going to become before we begin.

Gardens are considerably less cooperative.

So, apparently, is the Holy Spirit.

Maybe part of faith is learning to live with that uncertainty.

To tend what is ours to tend.

To notice where life is appearing.

To protect what is fragile.

To make room for what is emerging.

And occasionally to get out of the way.

I don't know exactly what will grow from the things we are experimenting with at Parkdale.

I don't think I'm supposed to.

Right now, perhaps our job is simply to tend the garden.

Put out some chairs.

Make the coffee.

Open the doors.

Listen.

Notice.

Remain curious.

Because maybe the church was never meant to be a painting.

Maybe it was always meant to be a garden.

Alive.

Changing.

A little unpredictable.

Rooted deeply in what came before and still sending out new shoots.

Something we inherit, yes.

But also something we tend.

And right now, I am wonderfully curious about what might grow next.