Returning to the Soil
On the First Sunday of Lent, we return to the garden in the Book of Genesis to reconsider the story not as a tale of blame, but as a story about boundaries, freedom, and what it means to be human. From dust to wilderness, we are invited to see that our lives are always practicing something—trust or grasping, surrender or control—and that our choices shape the spiritual soil around us. Lent invites us to a season of intentional, communal practice, where God continues to breathe life into dust.
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Transcript
Over the past year, a phrase keeps returning to us:
Our lives are our practice.
Not just what we believe.
Not just what we say.
But what we do, day after day—
what we forgive, what we hold,
how we speak, how we love—
our lives are our practice.
On Wednesday, with ashes pressed into our skin, we were reminded: from dust we came, to dust we will return.
But between those two moments, something is being formed, lived. What is my life practicing? Who is my life shaping?
This morning, Lent 1 takes us back to the soil itself, the beginning, the garden. And I’ll begin with a confession:
I’m preaching on this text because whenever I face it,
I feel a little bit of resistance.
It’s wrapped in centuries of interpretation and baggage…
“the Fall” (a word that never actually appears in the story).
“Here it is. Human failure. The fault of a woman. Original sin. Start here.”
But what if we start somewhere else?
In the garden, everything is gift.
Vegetation heavy with fruit.
Water flowing through bends in the land.
Creatures swimming, flying, creeping.
And in the middle of abundance—one boundary. One tree.
Not thousands of rules. Not scarcity. Just limit.
And then one question:
“Did God really say…?”
Humans, surprisingly, have always practiced boundary-testing. It begins in childhood…continues…and never quite leaves us.
With a reaching hand, the question always remains: Why not?
Why place the tree there at all?
Why give freedom if it can be misused?
Why create desire if loss hurts?
But without freedom, what is love?
Without limits, what is trust?
The garden story is about practice.
What will humanity practice when faced with a boundary?
Will humanity trust? Will humanity practice grasping?
Genesis tells us the honest truth, as unflattering as it is:
Given the opportunity. We will reach.
Not because we’re horrible monsters.
But because we’re human.
The story is chock full of sense-imagery.
The fruit is seen. It is touched. It is tasted. Eyes were opened, nakedness was felt. But Lent certainly isn’t about despising the body.
Maybe it’s about retraining our senses.
What are we practicing with our eyes? Our ears?
What are we shaping with our imaginations?
[1] In Lent we talk about giving up chocolate or alcohol.
[2] On Ash Wednesday there’s a lot of talk of the heart…
rending the heart, creating contrite hearts, heart and treasure.
[*] What if we, instead, notice how quickly we reach—
for distraction, for outrage, for superiority, for false comforts?
Our lives are our practice.
Like I mentioned, for centuries, this story has been reduced to blame. Blame the woman. Blame desire, curiosity.
But the story is about all of us. And no one remains in Eden forever. Innocence gives way to knowledge.
We are capable of tenderness and harm.
We discover our choices shape the environment around us.
We are always standing before a tree…
always deciding what kind of person we are becoming.
When the story shifts, when life in the garden changes,
God tells the humans, the earth-creatures, shaped from soil,
that they will return to the ground.
Because we are creatures. Not gods.
We are interdependent. Not self-sustaining.
We are finite. Not in control.
And Lent returns us to that earthy truth.
The soil of our lives becomes the soil in which others’ faith grows. The church year unfolds in this way — spiraling, turning, returning — inviting us to face again what it means to be human.
One theologian suggests that this story asks us to reckon with our limits, and with the consequences of what we choose (or refuse) to do in the world. We get this in today’s Gospel lesson which takes us from garden to wilderness:
Jesus standing before boundaries. Bread. Power. Protection.
And the same ancient question echoes: Why not?
But where the first humans grasped, we see Jesus practice
trust over control, faithfulness over self-interest.
And that practice changes the environment around him.
Which is Lent’s invitation: intentional practice.
Practice saying yes to what deepens you and your connection with others. Practice saying no to what diminishes.
Practice noticing when your hand reaches.
Practice returning.
Earth, soil holds growth and decay.
Dead leaves become nourishment.
Broken things become compost.
(Stuart mentioned the palms of last year’s Palm Sunday becoming ashes for the next year’s Ash Wednesday.)
What falls apart becomes what feeds the next season.
We leave the garden. We return to dust.
But we have some work to do.
Because someone is learning how to trust God by watching how you trust God.
What is my life practicing?
Who is my life shaping?
Because, friends, it’s true—
Our lives are our practice.
The God who formed us from the ground
still moves toward us when we reach too far.
Still breathes life into dust.
Amen.