Planting Poison Ivy
Third Sunday After the Epiphany
This reflection is cross-posted at The Way We Practice where Ragan offers a weekly lectionary reflection.
Yesterday, the snow was heavy on the ground, and the city had that quiet of a day at rest—few cars on the streets, the clouds hanging low and gray. I went for a walk, my boots laced up, trodding through the dry powder to a forest park. I was going to see what birds were around, hoping that maybe the winter storm had pushed something unusual into the neighborhood. No luck there, but many of the winter residents were active—feeding on the available stock of berries in the trees. In one particular tree, half a dozen Yellow-rumped Warblers were moving in the branches, calling as they fed on the white berries hanging above. I looked up to see what they were eating and I saw a large tangled vine—my old nemesis—poison ivy.
Since I was a child, I have been highly allergic to poison ivy and all its relatives. When I touch it, or even get too close, I break out in a bubbling rash and on more than one occasion I’ve had to get steroids to keep my eyes from swelling shut. This, of course, didn’t keep me from spending lots of time in the woods. Given that, I almost always had some itchy rash through the summer.
As an adult, I have often dreamed of the eradication of poison ivy. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a landscape free of such a weedy, problematic plant? Why, then, do I have a poison ivy vine in a corner of my backyard? The answer: I’ve repented.
That repentance came after reading Douglas Tallamy’s book Nature’s Best Hope. It is a manifesto for turning our home landscapes into outposts of what he calls “Home Grown National Park,” a network of small habitats that make a big difference for the wildlife that are being squeezed by development and the broader ecological crisis. In the book, Tallamy explains that poison ivy is the source of highly nutritious berries that help small birds like chickadees survive the winter. How could I say no to such a plant? By changing my mind about poison ivy, I was ushered into a new way of living. Now, instead of seeing a tree full of poison ivy vines as a menace, I give thanks for the food it is providing for the birds I love.
Our scriptures for this Sunday are about repentance. From Jonah to Mark, we see a call to enter a new way of life and thus a new vision for the world around us. Repentance is a word with a good deal of baggage. It calls to mind some dour street preacher, calling to us from a street corner about our sins. But the word in Greek is metanoia, which means literally a change of mind. I like the way the Common English Bible translates the term in our reading from Mark: “Change your hearts and lives…” (1:15). Repentance is about learning a new way of inhabiting the world, and with it, an entrance into a different kind of reality—the kingdom of God.
Going back to Tallamy, we can see a good example of how this dynamic plays out. What he is calling for is a repentance from a certain way of shaping our home landscapes. Most of us, if we’re just going with the flow of everyday neighborhood life, will have a lawn of grass, a couple of larger trees, and maybe some shrubs (if your in America, they likely come form Europe or Asia) planted in a row in front of the house. These are the habits and aesthetics into which we’re thrown just by living in this place. What Tallamy is calling for instead is a way of landscaping that offers life and hospitality for the wide range of creatures. This call is an invitation to turn from our old ways and join a different reality.
This is what the scriptures call for repentance is also doing. The wickedness of Ninevah wasn’t a result of some calculated way of living on the part of its inhabitants. Instead, as in so many cases, it was an evil done through simply living the way everyone else did. Most people’s lives were just moving with the normal flow of how things go. It took the prophet Jonah to make them realize that this was not a way that would lead to life. He called on them to change, to repent, and remarkably they did.
Such repentance leads us into a different reality. Jesus calls it the kingdom of God. Here we do not just get thrown into a flow of life, but instead we learn to move with the rhythms of a more profound reality. Like a landscaper that leaves behind the lawn and seeks instead to plant a wide variety of native, wildlife supporting plants, we move into the way of abundance for which our world was intended.
In addition to the kingdom’s presence and the call to repentance, Jesus, in his short, strange sermon also wants us to know that this new way of life is available to us now and that is good news. You don’t have to wait until heaven meets earth or all history reaches its culmination. Abundant life is available now, here, right where you can grab it.
When I first read Tallamy, I found it one of the most hopeful books on the ecological crisis. Why? Because he was saying, in effect, ecological abundance and restoration are available to you, right where you are, in your own yard. It was a profound realization to see that I didn’t have to go buy a thousand acres to make a real contribution to the lives of birds, insects, and other creatures. All I had to do was learn to see my yard in a different way and begin cultivating it toward a different purpose. So I let the poison ivy grow in the corner, and I planted oaks and elderberries, native grasses and sedges. I let some wild plants grow and removed some invasive, non-native plants. It was a small beginning and still in progress, but through it all I am moving my yard into that greater ecological reality that has been hosting abundant life here, in this place, long before any colonists arrived.
The kingdom of God is like that. We just have to change our vision and begin to grow a different reality, right where we are. It was here long before us, and if we let it, it will go wild with new life.
