Gardener

It is no surprise to discover that two-thirds of American phlanthropy actually goes to institutions (whether museums, orchstras or churches) that primarily serve the rich--essentially, the wealthy underwriting their own cultural esperienes with the benefit of a tax deduction--or that the futililty of American urban life has given rise to misogynist, nihilistic forms of music that simply underwrites broken horizons of masculinity and femininity with the alleged credibility of "the street." It is also no surprise that most money is made on Wall Street providing financial services to people who already have extraordinary amounts of money, that most advertisements target a thin (literally and figuratively) slice of prosperous young people, and that much of the rich world's research into new medicines target the disorders that disproportionately affect the rich world. Nor is it a surprise that in the name of economic and political empowerment, dictators like Pol Pot and Robe

Just about every year that we've lived here, I have been able to cut a bunch of pussy willow branches to bring as a bouquet to my wife--and every year she's thrilled with them. Those pictured here are past their prime for cutting, but beautiful in their golden fuzziness. For the rest of the year they will be absolutely ordinary, eliciting no wolf-whistles or ooh-lah-lahs, but right now they are lovely. Every year I cut them back so they do not block the sun from my vegetable garden, but they don't seem to mind. They come right back the next year. And these apricot blossoms, are so pregnant with blossoms I expect they will burst into blossom tomorrow if it stays warm. This apricot tree is about 10 years old and in ten years we have had about 4 apricots. Apricots need to cross pollinate, and our other apricot tree either dies every other year, necessitating our purchase of a new one, or blossoms later than this one. But we live in the hope of a lush crop some day. Maybe this

Here's a poem I wish I had written but in fact it is by Anne Porter: Another Sarah When winter was half over God sent three angels to the apple tree Who said to her "Be glad, you little rack of sticks, Because you have been chosen. In May you will becme A wave of living sweetness A nation of white petals A dynasty of apples."

In a sort of "aside" in his sermon yesterday (Easter Sunday) our pastor said, "What an appropriate mis-idendification Mary made, thinking Jesus was the gardener." For in the most comprehensive sense, he is the gardener --the gardener of the lives of all believers, of course, but also, as Kuyper suggests, the gardener of every square inch of creation, of the stars and the animals and the radish seeds just planted in my garden, gardener of rulers and politicians and voters, gardener of artists and poets and bloggers, gardener of architecture and technology and obscure academic journals--and he desires (I think) to nurture and nourish it all. Of course, all of creation is groaning under the weight of sin and that includes its caretakers; so much of what we see in the creation is bent or blighted or worm-eaten. But because Christ is risen, we have the promise and the witness of a new creation that gives us hope as we move out on this Monday morning into the gardens