leaves of crabgrass

“There is not one little blade of grass, there is no color in this world, that is not intended to make men rejoice.” ~ John Calvin 

I hate crabgrass.  I came back from vacation last week to find two of my flower beds completely consumed by it.  I spent a few hours ripping it out with Abby (my wife), only to find that it has already started to come back in a few places this week.  As Abby noted after hour one of pulling crabgrass, "I'm becoming increasingly sure that crabgrass was a result of the Fall."  Though she may have said it with a slight tinge of humor, as I thought about it, I found the idea profound.  Even crabgrass is meant to be a reminder of Christ in a fallen world, helping me rejoice (literally find joy again) as it reminds me of two things:

1)  The futility of labor.  The curse of man after the Fall was not that we had to work, but that human work would be futile.  Hence the second law of thermodynamics (sort of); no matter what I create or work for, it begins to fall apart the minute I am finished.  No matter how often I pull the crabgrass, more weeds will ultimately grow (probably even the same crabgrass, because those roots are a pain in the ass to pull.  And an even bigger pain in my hands. and back. anyways...)  Futile work reminds me that life is about more than what I've done or do, and in doing so gives an exciting view on work that frees me to rejoice in it (more on this next post).  But futility by itself could also just be depressing, except that it points me to ...

2)  God's ultimate redemption of creation.  Not his re-creation, ditching it all and starting over again, but his redemption of existing creation.  For example, God didn't make cities, he made a garden, but the kingdom of the second coming is described as a city - the redemption and perfection of a human construct.  And crabgrass is a microcosm of this miracle; even as I redeem the garden each week in part, He will redeem it fully.  Moreover, just as I redeem the garden repeatedly, so he continues to redeem me even as I continue to mess up, and will eventually redeem me fully too.  Thus, every glimpse of perfection, every hint of beauty serves as a type and reminder for God's redemption of imperfect creation - and therefore should make us rejoice.

I think Walt Whitman's work on Leaves of Grass is a great illustration of these ideas.  The title itself is meant to be ironic; publishers in that day often called minor works "grass," yet he meant it to be his magnum opus.  This a great illustration on the futility of our work, but it gets even better.  He was continually republishing the work, a total of eight times, as he continued to rework it and make it better, not finding it complete - or redeemed - until his deathbed.  His account of it makes a great description for the work of redemption in our lives:

"Leaves of Grass at last complete—after 33 y'rs of hackling at it, all times & moods of my life, fair weather & foul, all parts of the land, and peace & war, young & old."    

Walt Whitman in a letter to a friend in 1891 (quoted in David Reynolds Walt Whitman's America, p586)

blowin' in the wind

"If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God who gives generously ... But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind." (James 1:5-6)

"Anxiety.  Instead of connecting with God, our spirits fly around like severed power lines, destroying everything they touch."  (Miller, A Praying Life, p70) Coming off a very restful vacation, I'm wondering why life can't always be this relaxed?  Why, as Dylan suggests, is life laced with so many worries - wars, slavery, ignorance, complicity - that leave us feeling wind-tossed?  Why does it seem that I more often encounter James's storm-tossed seas than still waters?  As I reflect, I think the biggest difference is that I refuse to engage with the realities of life while on vacation; I take a break from planning and control.  And therefore I'm not anxious.

I think James is addressing this anxiety here in the word "doubt."  I've often heard this passage interpreted as a critique of intellectual uncertainty, but I find it hard to believe that questioning is bad; Jesus consistently criticized the religious people who "knew it all" and rewarded those who were honestly seeking.

Rather, James is addressing our response to chaos.  I love the image of a wave-tossed ship; the metaphor extends to describe my response to chaos.  When I see storms coming, I act like a salty 18th-century captain and lash myself to the ship's mast, so that I can continue to steer; I try to retain as much control as possible.  The result? Although I feel more secure, the reality is that I am still tossed around with the ship; I'm still "blowin in the wind."  Far better to find land, something that will not move with the storm, the "rock of our salvation."  It's hard to abandon ship, but those who seek to save their ship will lose it, and those who abandon it for Christ will save it ... or something like that.  How?

"We cling to our Father in the face of chaos by continually praying.  Because we know we don't have control, we cry out for grace." (Paul Miller, A Praying Life, p. 70)