Fearless in the Fallow
When the fields are dry, and the winter is long
Blessed are the meek, the hungry, the poor.
When my soul is downcast, and my voice has no song
For mercy, for comfort, I wait on the Lord.
—Sandra McCracken
When my parents’ house burned down in 2020 (the perfect year for a house fire, come to think of it), their entire property became a charred and barren wasteland overnight. The fire was so devastating that nothing remained apart from some twisted metal pieces belonging to no-longer-identifiable household appliances. To add a dash of decency to the place, my Mother cheerfully forced bouquets of artificial flowers into the soil of large planters which once overflowed with greenery. Although the effect (from a distance) was admirable, those flowers were incomparable to the brilliant fuchsia geraniums which now bloom throughout the summer months. These effortlessly abundant blooms are the result of years of strategic landscaping and carefully coaxing the once-fallow soil back to life.
The choice between forcing the artificial flowers of effort and busyness into the soil of our lives or letting the land lie fallow in hopes of cultivating a truer, deeper abundance of life lies before us now, at the beginning of Advent.
At the end of a difficult and busy year, I am tempted to make a final push to end December with a flurry of effort and accomplished goals. And yet, my truest self senses an invitation to step back for a bit, yielding to the quiet dark of Advent to let the soil of my soul breathe. I confess this invitation terrifies me, because who am I if I am not working on ‘the next big thing?’ This question only serves to highlight my soul’s desperate need to re-locate itself in the ecosphere of God’s reality—not mine.
In Advent, we are invited to fast from the dual temptation of endlessly producing and consuming—holding back our appetites in order that we might more fully enjoy the exuberant feasting of Christmas. It takes courage to refrain from plunging artificial flowers into the fallow ground of our lives, but it is only in lying empty and open, patient and still, that the seed of Christ can be planted to blossom into an exuberance of joy within the coming year.
Wherever you find yourself at the close of this year, I offer the following questions as a hopeful source of cultivating interior spaciousness:
What if ending the year strong looks like daring to embrace our weakness as a source of strength?
What if the needs and vulnerabilities we most despise are the lifeline that keep us tethered to the womb of our mothering and fathering God?
Advent gives us the courage to suspect that things are not as they appear: the virgin bears her secret, a savior child; the old men and women dream dreams and prophesy wondrous things. The hidden root of Jesse will blossom forth into a tree whose fruit will heal the nations. In quietness and trust our strength lies; in fallow fields, a future harvest.
When I am tempted to push ahead in my own effort and willpower, a verse from Isaiah gives me pause:
In repentance and rest is your salvation,
in quietness and trust is your strength,
yet you would have none of it.
Lord, I would have of it—much of it. I repent from my addiction to busyness. Help me to drop my many-layered shield of distraction and take up your rest. Grant me the quiet trust I need to lie fallow, to receive the gentle rain of your truth upon the barren soil of my life.
As I finish writing, my sister sends me a text with the following quote by poet Mark Nepo:
To wait beyond what we think we can bear is how things within turn sweet.
This Advent, may the quiet “yes” of Mary teach us to lie fallow with patient, expectant trust. May the waiting courage of Simeon and Anna accompany us as we wait beyond what we think we can bear. And when sweetness comes, may we bless it as the very fruit of fallowness.
Amen.
Going Deeper: Listen to “In Feast or in Fallow” by Sandra McCracken
In the harvest feast or the fallow ground
My certain hope is in Jesus found
My lot, my cup, my portion sure
Whatever comes, we shall endure