Getting into the weeds

A killing frost cannot come soon enough to finish off my weeds. They have had their run of the tomato patch, the mint bed, and just about any other nook or cranny of the garden this growing season. They have twined around the roses and invaded the shrubs. They proliferated in the most unlikely places, like my driveway bed of gravel. I surrender.

I used to think weeds were what we decided they were, you know, the dandelion springing up in the middle of a suburban lawn that in another time and place is an edible, nutritious green. But we call weeds weeds for a reason. For instance, many of them reproduce by something called apomixis, or asexually via their seeds. In other words, they don’t need pollination to produce an identical plant. That fluff of dandelion is quite literally waiting to blow, to colonize the whole place, while a rose is a rose: It requires cutting and grafting—in essence, the work of a gardener—to produce identical offspring.

It was an ideal summer for weeds in my yard, with heavy rains followed by long dry spells. From my desk I watched them spread. I took breaks to weed one bed, then another, and never ever seemed to win. Worse, kudzu, that “vine that almost ate the South,” has been creeping through our woods, lapping at the edges of my lawn and flower beds. Kudzu has a beautiful, dainty flower, did you know? Kind of like the sweet cowlick topping the head of a very naughty boy.

Jesus deployed weeds, thorns, and thistles to good effect. If the parable of the sower isn’t clear, then there’s the parable of the weeds. And if they aren’t clear enough, they are the only two parables in the Gospels Jesus actually explains point by point. In a modern-day culture where a lot of weeds keep springing up, overwhelming me sometimes the way I imagine kudzu might one morning overtake my house, I’m glad for His meaning made plain.

The sower is so confident of the harvest, He will allow weeds to grow among the real crop until the time when all may be reaped together.

First, there is a sower. And He sows expecting a good—actually a bountiful—harvest. He is so confident of the harvest, He will allow weeds to grow among the real crop (Matthew 13:30) until the time when all may be reaped together.

Next, the harvest is dependent on the right conditions. We know weeds grow best where the ground is clayey, unnourished and unturned. My tomatoes went untended and grew scraggly, falling over, and that’s when the weeds attacked. A good harvest requires attention. Neglect—or, when good men do nothing—makes good ground for a crop of weeds. Note that the enemy sowed weeds while the sower’s men were sleeping (Matthew 13:25).

And last, perhaps obvious but often overlooked: that enemy. He’s the one planting the weeds, though it often appears they sowed themselves.

From my vantage point, the weeds of distraction are having a banner year, and so are the weeds of moral indignation in support of immoral acts. And the reason we may feel we’re choking when we observe a world of terrorism, refugee crises, climate change fear, and family dissolution is that we are. And we’re being allowed to continue in that state for now.

I am especially convicted by my neglect of weeds from the interview in this issue with Ryan Anderson (see “What’s next for marriage?”), author of the new book Truth Overruled: The Future of Marriage and Religious Freedom. When it comes to talking about marriage and sex, Anderson points out, “Many Christians have gone silent.” If we aren’t speaking up in the places where we live using the words of truth and the conduct of good marriages and hospitable homes, the world will get the message others are sending about our alleged bigotry.

A final cold snap is coming to take care of my weed problem. For now, I’m humbled by the reality of wheat and tares growing together while the sower and the enemy do battle above and beyond us.

Email mbelz@wng.org