I’m a recent transplant. Three months ago, we packed up our family’s life in Decatur, Georgia to try out a new chapter of life in St. Simons Island, Georgia. I left behind a place that was brimming with diversity, farmers’ markets, walkable neighborhoods, and a pulsing heart for sustainability. Or maybe it was just that this is how I view the Decatur that I left – I arrived a cradle Presbyterian, steeped in the stories of scripture but with more questions than I had answers. It was in the heart of downtown Decatur that my own heart was transformed. After hearing from many local environmental experts of the harsh and real consequences of humanity’s footprint on our world, I began a roller coaster of a journey that led me straight to an urban farm. 
As I worked with women refugees from Burundi, I learned that even the tiniest bit of land, when loved and watered, can feed hundreds. The refugee farmers first fed their families (which included their friends and neighbors and churches), and then sold the excess at local farmers’ markets. In direct contrast to the way I had eaten my whole life, unquestioning and apathetic about where my food came from, I now approached every meal with respect for the growers and a desire to honor God, neighbor, and earth. In many ways, the Communion Table had burst from the brick sanctuary and nestled itself in my heart. My dinner table was approached with sacred respect and a diligence for justice. With dirt under my fingernails and ant bites on my ankles, I was enamored with the miracle of life that springs from soil and from the way communities spring up around shoots of produce. Farming isn’t glamorous work; it is hard and it is hot. But I can’t think of a finer way to share afternoons with my toddler girls – weeding, watering, plucking cherry tomatoes straight from the vine sweet as candy. I marveled at the way my girls started to recognize the difference between carrot tops and cilantro. How they grew ever more interested in what was on their plates and where it came from.
Since I have been plucked from that fertile soil, I think I’ve gone into a bit of shock; in keeping with how it happens in nature. I find myself in different (much sandier) soil, trying to orient myself with a whole new culture that does not seem to cherish the local farmer in the same way Decatur does. Its grocery stores offer slivers of organic selections and the local farms are few and far between. I have felt myself droop and almost wither as I have left a place that honors and cherishes good, organic, local food. And does its best to support it and make it accessible.
Last Tuesday, I was invited on a field trip. After a boat ride over to the wild and wonderful Little St. Simons Island, I stood in the midst of one of the most vibrant organic gardens I’ve ever seen. I could feel the bright oranges, purples, and greens pouring into my eyes and seeping down into the grey dormant winter of my heart. All the doubts and fears that left parts of me drained and deflated were muted in comparison to the life all around me. It was an almost tropical vista with fruit trees galore. I breathed deeply and thanked God for the gift of greens and eggplant, rich-smelling soil, and for the gift of hope. I remembered within an instant of stepping foot into this garden how created I am. And it is that recognition of created-ness that I believe finds such resonance in the bounty and the beauty of Creation.I thank God for that little glimpse of lushness; for that little glimpse of promise. It will take patience for my roots to take hold in a new place, for me to find my way in a different landscape. But where there is dirt, there is a way to grow. World hunger remains the most tragic of puzzles to me. There is no reason in the world, the whole wide world that every hungry mouth should not be filled with real, healthy, sustaining food.
Our God is really all about providing manna for the masses. In my faith tradition, the gospel of Matthew depicts a story of Jesus, a crowd of thousands of hungry people in a desolate place, disciples of Jesus, five loaves of bread, and two fish. People refer to this story as the one where Jesus feeds five thousand. But really, it is the disciples who feed the crowds. The Messiah blesses and breaks the bread, but it is the disciples who distribute it to the hungry.
Christians should be familiar with garden stories from Genesis to Revelation. How paradise is green and lush, how wandering in the desert hungry is the landscape typical of transition, newness, temptation, and the muted (if not completely silent) voice of God. As long as there are those living in literal food deserts, while church properties sport lush, green spaces – I think there will be a place to further investigate our faith and how we are to live in this world, as Christ’s body, blessed, broken and given for the sake of sustenance and hope.
People of faith who worship a Creator are called to care about where our food comes from, how people are treated in its production, and to care that wholesome food makes it to those who hunger. Cheese puffs and soda do not count. Processed food that makes large corporations rich and our bodies devoid of nutrients is not the manna God gives and so it is not the manna we should distribute to the world. All we need is a little patch of soil to start changing the story. And supporting our local farmers who sweat and toil over and love on God’s good earth is a healthy start towards a new earth, where all are fed and are full.
Shared from gipl.org.
