The soil produces grain—first the stalk, then the head (Mark 4:26)
I once knew a young Malaysian man who described himself as a “Bumiputera”, which he explained means “a son of the soil” and was an expression of his national and cultural identity as a Malaysian. It is not an uncontroversial term as like any other means of defining an ethnic group it both creates a sense of identity and exclusion, so Chinese and Indian people who live in Malaysia may feel it implies they are the sons and daughters of a foreign soil. However, the term interested me and has stuck with me, do we grow out of the soil of our native land? Are we a product of the place where we grew up, especially of the landscape? In modern industrial cities there is not a lot of soil to grow out of, so is this only true of traditional societies? Do the postmodern sons and daughters of multinational corporate concrete have an identity - other than the dollar?
I grew up in a village in rural Leicestershire, and spent much of my youth roaming about the fields with my mate who was a farmer’s son. If anyone was a son of the soil he was, even when he was at school it was always under his finger nails and before his mind’s eye. Leicestershire is pastoral, that is to say it is very beautiful in a mild way. Leicestershire rolls, but it does not get up high enough for moorland, Leicestershire has rivers, but they are mostly gentle and small, Leicestershire has quiet out of the way places, but no wilderness. Would it be unfair to say that Leicestershire can be endearing but not awe inspiring? That there is very little of what Edmund Burke described as the “sublime” in the landscape? And does this mean that I grew up moderate in this temperate landscape?
As a child I loved the landscape around me as I loved my friend, but I never felt it defined my identity like it did his. I grew up in a village, but felt I was a visitor there. I certainly did not feel I was a part of the local city which seemed to be nothing to me other than by turns curious and unappealing. I didn’t even feel English or British, I grew up in a church that taught I was a citizen of heaven first and a citizen of my country second.
That was my soil.
I was taught I should obey the law and play my part in society for the glory of God, but that the law of God superseded the law of man as the heavens over-arched all the structures built by proud but fallible humanity. I was a ready to stand before the thrones of earth and proclaim justice as the prophets of old because I knew one day I would stand before the throne of the eternal God. There was plenty in the landscape of my childish imagination of what Edmund Burke described as the “sublime”, I was ready to withstand the stormy mountain top, ford the raging river, to inhabit the wilderness, and when I saw landscapes like that of North Wales that reflected my unruly imagination I was thrilled because I felt like I had come home.
In my fiftieth year I might reflect if I have lived enough of my life in the landscape of the imagination of my childhood, or perhaps have I let the mildness of my native county temper my words and actions too much?
At best have I been a gentle prophet?
The soil of the Kingdom of Heaven is love, in Ephesians 3 Paul writes that he prays we should be “rooted and grounded in love” so that we may “grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ” and “know this love that surpasses knowledge.” The identity that grows out of such soil is a humanity that opens its arms to all, as Jesus stretched out his arms on the cross.
I pray with Paul that I may I be a son of this soil.
Pictured – North East Leicestershire.
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