Note: this reflection was written by our Associate Director, Tim Gossett, and shared during the closing of the Climate-informed Clergy Cohort. May it inspire you for whatever climate work you do.
I am not a particularly good gardener.
Many years, most of what I plant dies from neglect, from rabbits, from some combination of factors I can’t quite diagnose. The one exception has always been lemon basil. For reasons I’ve never fully understood, I can grow lemon basil abundantly—far more than I could ever use, sometimes more than I can give away. It’s become a kind of running joke with myself.
But this year, something shifted. I’ve only lost one plant to the rabbits, and honestly, that was clearly my fault. I hadn’t finished putting up the new fencing, and they found a gap. Everything else? Everything else is thriving. My tomatoes. My herbs. And here’s the thing I’m most proud of: my potato plants. Every single one of them is doing great, and I’ve never grown potatoes before. I even botched the planting instructions. I got them in late and wasn’t entirely sure what I was doing.
And yet, somehow, something’s working. Did they take because I made the garden beds a bit deeper this year? Because we’ve had more consistent rainfall? Because I accidentally gave them better spacing? I genuinely don’t know. I can’t point to one thing and say, that’s why it worked. Maybe it was all of it. Maybe it was something I’ll never be able to name.
Here’s what I’ve come to believe, though: I am not the only gardener in my garden.
The traditions that shape the work of clergy like you—Christian, Muslim, Indigenous, and many others—have long understood the sacred as present in the growing things of the world. The Holy is not indifferent to soil and seed. In Genesis, the first vocation given to human beings is to tend and keep the garden. In the Quran, humanity is named khalifa: steward, caretaker, the one entrusted with what has been made. In many Indigenous traditions, the land itself is understood as a living relative, held in relationship, not ownership. Across these traditions runs a common thread: there is a creative, generative presence that is always already at work, turning compost into fertility, coaxing life from dormant seeds, refusing to give up on what looks, to our eyes, like failure.
That presence is patient in ways I am not. It works on timescales I can barely comprehend. And it is not waiting for me to get everything right before it begins.
The work we do in our congregations around the climate crisis is not unlike that garden.
We struggle to recruit volunteers. We plant ideas at the wrong moment, or we wait too long, or we aren’t quite sure how to say something, so we say nothing at all. We miss follow-ups. We wonder if the sermon landed, if the study group actually changed anything, if the small steps our congregations are taking add up to anything that matters whatsoever.
And somehow, things grow anyway. Not always the things we planned. Not always on the timeline we hoped. But new ideas take root. People begin to realize they’re not alone in their grief, their worry, their hope. Projects find their footing. Relationships deepen in ways that will matter long after this cohort ends.
This is the nature of sacred work: we are collaborators, not sole proprietors. We prepare the ground. We plant. We water when we can. And then something larger than us—call it grace, call it the Spirit, call it the web of relationships that binds all living things—does what we cannot. Creation itself strains toward wholeness. And we are invited to join that long, patient movement.
Nine months ago, each of you stepped into something uncertain. You didn’t know exactly what this cohort would be. You brought your questions, your congregations, your imperfect calendars and overfull schedules, but you showed up anyway. You have been tending something. And look at what grew.
Next year, I hope to be a better gardener. More preparation. More learning. Regular weeding. Better fencing, for heaven’s sake. And I hope my harvest reflects that.
The same is true for this work. This cohort will continue; a new group will gather, and they will benefit from what you’ve built, what you’ve tried, what you’ve learned. The things you created will be in their hands. The questions you asked will open new questions in them. The courage it took you to preach that sermon, or start that conversation, or begin that project…well, that courage leaves a mark.
Creation justice is a long harvest. It outlasts any single season, any single gardener, any single cohort. But the Sacred Gardener is patient, and persistent, and has never stopped working in the soil of this world—including in you, and in the congregations you serve.
You don’t have to be a perfect gardener to grow something worth tending.
So as we close, I want to let you know that you’ll be receiving a gift in the mail soon: a packet of lemon basil seeds. Try growing some, whether indoors or outdoors. I recommend making lemon bail lemonade on a hot day. It’s delightful and refreshing. And if your harvest comes in abundance, remember to share the joy with others.