compost

Growing Season — Week Fourteen

Romans 8:28; 2 Timothy 1:8–12

There is a place in almost every serious garden that nobody puts on the garden tour.

You show people the tomatoes.

You show them the flowers.

You point out the cucumbers climbing the trellis.

You might proudly show them the first pepper of the season or that zucchini that somehow went from six inches to the size of a baseball bat overnight.

But there is one part of the garden we usually don't show off.

The compost pile.

It isn't particularly attractive.

There are dead leaves in there. Grass clippings. Coffee grounds. Vegetable peelings. Plants that didn't make it. Flowers that were beautiful a few weeks ago but have now wilted and turned brown.

There might even be some things in there that smell a little questionable.

Nobody walks past a compost pile and says, "Now that is beautiful."

But a gardener knows better.

A gardener looks at that pile differently.

Because the gardener knows that what looks like the end of something is actually becoming the beginning of something else.

Those dead leaves aren't simply dead leaves anymore.

Those vegetable scraps aren't simply garbage.

Those faded flowers aren't useless.

Something is happening in that pile.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Mostly unseen.

The gardener knows:

This is becoming soil.

And eventually that dark, rich soil will be worked back into the garden.

And tomatoes will grow from it.

Flowers will bloom from it.

Beans will climb from it.

Seeds will sprout in it.

Life will come from something that once looked like nothing more than a pile of things that were finished.

And after spending this summer talking about God's Growing Season in our lives, I think perhaps we need to talk about the compost pile.

Because every life has one.

There are things in our lives we would gladly show somebody.

The accomplishments.

The celebrations.

The family pictures.

The moments when everything worked.

The prayers that were answered exactly the way we hoped.

Those are the flowers.

But then there are the other things.

The things we wouldn't put on display.

Mistakes.

Regrets.

Failures.

Relationships that didn't turn out the way we expected.

Jobs that ended.

Opportunities we missed.

Words we wish we could take back.

Years that didn't go according to plan.

People we loved and lost.

Prayers that seemed to go unanswered.

Those things tend to get thrown onto the compost pile of our lives.

And sometimes we look at that pile and think:

"What a waste."

But this morning I want to suggest something.

God sees the pile differently.

"In All Things"

Romans 8:28 is probably one of the best-known verses in the Bible:

"We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose."

We love that verse.

But we have to be careful with it.

Because Romans 8:28 does not say that everything that happens is good.

There are things that happen in this life that are simply painful.

There are things that are unjust.

There are things that are tragic.

There are things that break God's heart as surely as they break ours.

If someone is grieving the death of somebody they love, Romans 8:28 should never become our way of saying, "Well, it was all for the best."

No.

Grief hurts because love mattered.

If someone receives frightening news from a doctor, we don't tell them, "This is good."

If a marriage breaks apart, if a child struggles, if someone loses a job, if violence destroys a family, if someone suffers because of another person's cruelty—we don't call evil good.

Paul doesn't either.

Paul doesn't say:

Everything is good.

He says:

God is at work in all things.

There is an enormous difference.

The promise isn't that everything that enters our lives comes from God's hand.

The promise is that nothing that enters our lives is beyond God's redeeming hand.

That's compost.

The gardener doesn't stand over a pile of dead leaves and pretend they are roses.

They aren't roses.

They're dead leaves.

But the gardener knows the story isn't finished.

God never asks us to pretend that something didn't hurt.

God never asks us to rename tragedy as blessing.

God never asks us to smile our way through grief.

Instead, God says:

"Give it to me."

Give me the disappointment.

Give me the failure.

Give me the grief.

Give me the regret.

Give me the part of your story you wish had never happened.

And watch what I can do with it.

The Gardener Doesn't Throw Everything Away

Think about an experienced gardener cleaning up after the growing season.

Someone who doesn't understand gardening might come along and say:

"Why are you keeping all of that?"

Dead plants.

Leaves.

Stalks.

Grass.

Kitchen scraps.

"Just throw it away."

But the gardener says:

"No. I can use that."

I wonder how many times we've looked at parts of our lives and said:

"Throw it away."

That year?

Throw it away.

That mistake?

Throw it away.

That failure?

Throw it away.

That painful experience?

I'd rather forget it ever happened.

And God says:

"I can use that."

Not because God wanted it to happen.

Not because it didn't hurt.

But because redemption is what God does.

God takes what appears finished and begins again.

Look at Joseph.

His brothers betray him and sell him into slavery.

Then he is falsely accused.

Then imprisoned.

Then forgotten.

There must have been moments when Joseph wondered whether his entire life had become a collection of things gone wrong.

But years later, looking back, Joseph tells his brothers:

"You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good."

Notice that Joseph never calls what his brothers did good.

It was evil.

But their evil wasn't powerful enough to have the final word.

God had the final word.

That's Romans 8:28.

Moses spent forty years in the wilderness before God called him to lead Israel through the wilderness.

Do you suppose anything he learned during those forty years became useful later?

Peter denied Jesus three times.

Imagine the shame.

Imagine hearing the rooster.

Imagine realizing what you had just done.

Peter could have decided, "That's it. I'm finished."

But Jesus didn't throw Peter away.

Jesus restored him.

And the man who knew what failure felt like became a man who could preach grace.

Sometimes the very places where we have been broken become the places from which we can offer healing to somebody else.

A Little Composting Lesson

There is something fascinating about compost.

If you simply throw a pile of scraps together, it doesn't instantly become good soil.

It takes time.

Moisture.

Air.

And heat.

A healthy compost pile actually heats up on the inside.

Transformation is happening.

You may not see much from the outside, but inside the pile, things are breaking down and changing.

Eventually, what went into the pile is almost unrecognizable.

Leaves become soil.

Grass becomes soil.

Vegetable scraps become soil.

What was once separate becomes something entirely new.

And maybe that's where some of us are right now.

We're in the middle of it.

And the middle isn't very attractive.

We're asking:

"God, what are You doing?"

"Why hasn't this changed?"

"Why am I still waiting?"

"Why does this still hurt?"

We want God to show us the finished garden.

And God may be saying:

"I'm still making soil."

There are seasons when God does some of His deepest work where nobody can see it.

We tend to measure God's activity by visible results.

Did the problem disappear?

Did the prayer get answered?

Did the door open?

Did everything work out?

But God may be doing something deeper.

God may be growing patience.

God may be deepening compassion.

God may be loosening our grip on something we thought we couldn't live without.

God may be teaching us to listen.

God may be teaching us to forgive.

God may be teaching us that we are stronger than we thought because Christ is stronger in us than we knew.

Sometimes the greatest work of God happens underground.

Before there is fruit, there are roots.

Before there is a harvest, there is soil.

Before there is resurrection, there is a tomb.

Paul in the Compost Pile

That's why I wanted us to hear Paul's words to Timothy this morning.

Paul writes:

"Do not be ashamed, then, of the testimony about our Lord or of me his prisoner, but join with me in suffering for the gospel, relying on the power of God."

Think about where Paul is when he writes those words.

He isn't sitting on a porch enjoying retirement and reflecting upon a successful ministry career.

He's a prisoner.

His freedom is gone.

His future is uncertain.

His suffering is real.

By ordinary measurements, this doesn't look like success.

Imagine someone visiting Paul and saying:

"Paul, what happened?"

"You traveled all over preaching."

"You planted churches."

"You told people about Jesus."

"And this is where it got you?"

"A prison cell?"

What a waste.

Except here we are, nearly two thousand years later, reading the words he wrote.

The prison became a pulpit.

The chains became part of the testimony.

The place that looked like the end of Paul's usefulness became a place from which God would speak to generations of Christians.

Paul says:

"I know the one in whom I have put my trust."

I love that.

Paul doesn't say:

"I know exactly how this is going to turn out."

He doesn't.

He doesn't say:

"I understand why God allowed me to be here."

He doesn't.

He doesn't say:

"I have figured out God's five-step plan for getting me out of this situation."

No.

He says:

"I know whom I have believed."

There are times when faith isn't knowing why.

Faith is knowing Who.

I don't know why this happened.

But I know Who is with me.

I don't know how this will end.

But I know Who holds me.

I don't know what tomorrow looks like.

But I know the Gardener.

And I know what the Gardener can do with compost.

The Things We Learn Only There

There are some things we learn in the sunshine.

And there are some things we seem to learn only in the compost pile.

We learn compassion there.

Someone walks into your life carrying a grief you recognize because you've carried it too.

And suddenly you don't need a perfect sentence.

You simply sit beside them.

Because you know.

Someone says, "I'm scared."

And you can say, "I understand."

Someone says, "I don't know if I'm going to make it through this."

And you can say, "I once wondered the same thing. Let me walk with you."

That's compost becoming soil.

The pain hasn't become good.

But God has brought goodness from it.

Maybe you went through a season when money was painfully tight.

Years later, when somebody else is struggling, you're the one who notices.

Maybe you've experienced loneliness.

Now you're the person who notices who is sitting alone.

Maybe you've made mistakes.

Now you're slower to judge somebody else's.

Maybe you've grieved.

Now you understand that sometimes the best ministry isn't fixing anything. It's simply showing up.

Maybe you've wondered whether God had forgotten you.

And now, when someone else wonders the same thing, you can sit beside them and say:

"He hasn't."

That doesn't make what happened good.

It means God refused to waste it.

Don't Dig It Up Too Soon

Gardeners also know that compost requires patience.

You can't keep digging through it every day asking:

"Is it ready yet?"

Some things need time.

And I think we sometimes want God to redeem our pain on our timetable.

We want to understand it immediately.

We want to see the lesson.

We want the neat conclusion.

We want to be able to say, "Oh! Now I understand why that happened."

But some things may never receive that kind of explanation.

There are questions I suspect we will carry all the way into eternity.

And perhaps faith doesn't mean receiving an answer to every question.

Perhaps faith means discovering that even when we don't have the answer, we still have God.

That's Paul's testimony:

"I know whom I have believed."

Not "I know everything."

"I know Him."

And sometimes that has to be enough.

What Are You Carrying to the Compost Pile?

So let me ask you a question this morning.

What's in your compost pile?

You don't have to say it aloud.

But you probably know.

Maybe it's something recent.

Maybe it's thirty years old.

Maybe everyone else has forgotten about it, but you haven't.

A regret.

A loss.

A failure.

A wound.

Something someone did to you.

Something you did.

Something you prayed for that never happened.

A door that closed.

A dream that died.

Maybe you've spent years trying to hide it.

Maybe today God isn't asking you to understand it.

Maybe God is simply asking you to stop holding it so tightly.

"Give it to Me."

"Lord, I don't know what You can possibly do with this."

And God says:

"Give it to Me."

"Lord, it's ugly."

"Give it to Me."

"Lord, it still hurts."

"Give it to Me."

"Lord, I wish it had never happened."

"I know. Give it to Me."

Because there is no part of your story that is beyond the redeeming grace of Jesus Christ.

The Cross

And if you need proof, look at the cross.

Good Friday looked like the ultimate waste.

Jesus had healed people.

Fed people.

Welcomed outsiders.

Forgiven sinners.

Proclaimed the Kingdom of God.

And now?

A cross.

The disciples ran.

Hope collapsed.

Jesus died.

A stone was rolled across a tomb.

If Romans 8:28 had been read on Friday afternoon, it might have sounded impossible.

How could God possibly bring good from this?

Then came Sunday.

The stone rolled away.

Death didn't get the last word.

The tomb didn't get the last word.

Sin didn't get the last word.

Rome didn't get the last word.

God did.

And resurrection tells us something about every compost pile in our lives:

Never confuse what something looks like today with what God may yet make of it.

Friday isn't the whole story.

The tomb isn't the whole story.

The pile isn't the whole story.

God is still working.

The Richest Soil

Some of the richest people I know spiritually are not people who have had easy lives.

They are people who have discovered that God is faithful in hard ones.

There's a depth to them.

A tenderness.

A patience.

They don't need everything to be perfect before they can believe God is good.

They've seen enough seasons to know.

The sun comes.

The rain comes.

The pruning comes.

The weeds come.

The flowers bloom.

The flowers fade.

And still God remains.

Perhaps that's what spiritual maturity looks like.

Not a garden where nothing ever dies.

But a gardener who has learned that even what dies can be entrusted to God.

We began this Growing Season talking about seeds.

We've talked about rain.

Pruning.

Wildflowers.

Butterflies.

Dragonflies.

Fruit.

Harvest.

The Gardener.

And now compost.

Because if we're going to talk honestly about growing, we have to acknowledge that growth includes things dying.

It includes letting go.

It includes seasons we didn't choose.

And yet the message running underneath this entire summer has remained the same:

God is still growing something.

Even here.

Especially here.

Conclusion — Trust the Gardener

So when you look back across your life, don't only look for the flowers.

Look at the compost too.

Look at the places where God carried you.

Look at the things you thought you would never survive.

Look at the prayers that changed you even when they didn't change the situation.

Look at the failures from which you learned grace.

Look at the grief that taught you how deeply you could love.

Look at the closed doors that eventually sent you somewhere you never expected to go.

And perhaps you will begin to see traces of Romans 8:28.

Not:

"Everything was good."

But:

"God was there."

God was working.

God was redeeming.

God was making soil.

And maybe you're not looking backward this morning.

Maybe you're right in the middle of the pile.

If that's you, I don't want to give you a cheap answer.

I won't tell you that everything happens for a reason.

I won't tell you that you shouldn't hurt.

I won't tell you that someday you'll be glad this happened.

I will simply remind you of Paul's words:

"I know the one in whom I have put my trust."

Trust the Gardener.

You may not see what He is doing yet.

Trust the Gardener.

You may still have questions.

Trust the Gardener.

You may still be grieving.

Trust the Gardener.

Because the God who brought resurrection out of a tomb is not frightened by the broken pieces of your story.

Give Him what you have.

The beautiful things.

The broken things.

The victories.

The failures.

The laughter.

The tears.

The things you understand.

And the things you may never understand.

Put all of it into the hands of the Gardener.

Because in God's garden,

grace can grow from failure.

compassion can grow from suffering.

wisdom can grow from mistakes.

hope can grow from grief.

new life can grow from what appeared to be dead.

And sometimes...

the richest soil in the garden

comes from the pile we once wanted to throw away.

Nothing surrendered to God is wasted.

The Gardener is still at work.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.