-^-for posterity-^-

sitting beside salford mennonite church, there used to be a plot of land that was the community's to use. at the end of winter, you could sign your name for, if i remember correctly, a 40 foot space where you could grow anything you wished. i don't know if it is still available for everyone's use, but the patch of land sat pristinely overlooking the surrounding hills. it felt like you were at the highest point in eastern pennsylvania.

i used to grow things because i loved to watch them all sprout through the earth, bud and bear fruit. i used to work with a shovel and spend hours in the evening turning the ground over. i used to spend hours hunched over that patch of blood brown dirt. i used to sweat and feel at peace.

one day i was working. beside me there was a man from my church, a wonderfully intelligent man that i had known since childhood, tilling the ground. he stopped and i stopped. when this man spoke, it's in one's best interest to listen. he simply said, 'you know jon, working the earth is a sacrament.' as soon as the words left his mouth and the sweat fell from his forehead, he went to work again and left me with that phrase. that phrase has mulled around in my mind for almost two years.

today we decided to plant a small garden, to work the earth, to take part in a sacrament.

i stood in the unforgiving sun and repented. the sweat that poured over my entire body was my sacrifice. the burning in my shoulders and my back were my penance. we worked the earth for hours. the earth was hard and had been polluted by humans long ago. it was not pure.

the population pressure of this country is so great that there is virtually no earth to till. however, surrounding the international guest house, there is a small patch that runs alongside a giant concrete wall topped with barbed wire. the patch of land is not ideal, a row of small palm trees obscure the sun, but it is the best we have. also, because of such a dense population and a lengthy history, every patch of land has been worked over and over and over again. each piece of land bears the scars of humans. our patch of land was no exception.

we partook on an excavation dig while we were loosening the earth. we found giant stones, ancient bricks and styrofoam. we found shoes, two pairs from little girls. we found bottles and tins that had broken and rusted. we found plastic bags and plastic sheeting. the land had not been sanctified in a long while.

after we repented, we were forgiven. the land was, however slowly, free from human impurities. we placed our flowers in the ground, watered them and smiled. our reward was simple: a tiny sliver of pureness, an ounce of truth, a glimpse of perfection, blooming flowers in freshly tilled earth, blooming flowers in front of a barb-wire-covered wall. our sacrament was complete and we showered and felt fresh.