Chapter 14
“Instead, they will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor.” Isaiah 61:3 (NIV)
Spring creeps in like a whisper—days grow longer, light lingers on soil that’s just beginning to thaw. Gardeners rejoice, but with the flowers come the thorns. Not just the literal kind, though those are plenty. We’re talking about the invasive, uninvited, stubborn sort—plants like the False Mimosa, imported from Australia, now thriving across Switzerland’s Ticino region. With its bright yellow clusters, it’s beautiful—until it takes over.
The Bible’s thorns and thistles have always had double meaning. They first appear in Genesis as symbols of the curse: “Cursed is the ground because of you… It will produce thorns and thistles” (Gen. 3:17–18). A symbol of sin, suffering, the burden of toil. But spend time in the garden, and you’ll realize: these aren’t just metaphors. They’re a spiritual discipline in themselves.
Author Virginia Stem Owens once mused that weeding was her way of sharing space with Adam. “We inhabit the same spiritual space,” she wrote. Anyone who’s knelt in the dirt, fingers aching from tearing Bermuda grass out of strawberries, knows this truth intimately. Christ’s parables about the wheat and the tares come alive with every tug and pull.
Saint Augustine saw even weeds as part of God’s good creation, a paradoxical gift meant to discipline us. Charles Spurgeon, in an 1893 sermon, went further: weeds were God’s mercy. The Fall could have been worse. Rather than striking Adam, the curse glanced off and hit the ground. A metaphorical kindness.
Weeds, Spurgeon said, are not only in our gardens but everywhere: in social systems, in our families, in ourselves. They grow without our invitation. Even our best intentions can’t stop them. “All the prudence and care, ay, and all the prayer and faith… will not keep you clear of these thorns and thistles.”
The biblical imagery of weeds is rich and layered. In Micah, the wicked are likened to briers. In Ezekiel, rebellious people are thorns. Jesus compared false prophets to thistles. And when He explained the parable of the sower, He said thorns represent “the worries of this life and the deceitfulness of wealth.” Even the crown Christ bore was woven of thorns—a physical manifestation of sin’s curse placed on the Redeemer’s head.
But here’s a twist. While Scripture teaches us to see thorns as sin’s offspring, history—and horticulture—show us that sometimes, the thorny invader isn’t our fault. Or is it?
The idea of “invasive species” is newer than we think. The phrase may have appeared first in a British colonial journal in 1891. Yet long before that, explorers like Charles Darwin were encountering thickets of invasive thistle and artichoke in Argentina so dense “nothing else can now live.” These were seeds that crossed oceans without anyone’s blessing.
Today, Europe hosts over 7000 non-native species. Not all are evil. But when they start to disrupt ecosystems, spread wildly, or harm native life, we call them invasive. The line between “weed” and “wonder” is thin. A plant in the wrong place, even if beautiful, can be destructive.
What’s true in botany is true in theology?
Some modern voices, l, have weaponized the language of weeds and invasions, applying it to immigration and moral panic. The metaphor turned dangerous casting human beings, often fleeing hardship, as invaders.
But Scripture doesn’t play that game. God warns Cain about sin “crouching at your door”—not in someone else, but in his own heart. Jesus tells the Pharisees that evil comes not from outside but from within. Spurgeon urged his listeners to look for the thistles in their own hearts, not someone else’s backyard. Many of these species arrived through no evil intent. One came as packing material. Others were ornamental imports. No villainous gardener plotted their spread. But now, we fight them all the same.
Matthew Henry, a prominent 18th-century commentator, warned against exotic plants as signs of vanity. He saw Israel’s “imported vines” as spiritual compromise—a desire to be like other nations. To him, foreign flora mirrored foreign desires.
But not all theologians feared variety. Martin Luther, in contrast, requested “many different varieties” of seeds for his garden. The issue isn’t difference—it’s displacement. It’s not that foreign things are bad, but that in uprooting the good gifts we’ve been given, we often make a mess.
Botanist Jim Varick, stewarding 60 forested, puts it more gently. He and his wife have spent two decades battling garlic mustard and stilt grass. They aren’t trying to save the world. Just restore what God has entrusted to them. And when they cleared out bush honeysuckle, wildflowers bloomed again.
We pull weeds not because we expect a weed-free world, but because we were made to tend the garden. Christ’s parable reminds us that the weeds will be sorted later—our job, in the meantime, is to be wheat.
Invasive plants aren’t a foreign army at the gate. It’s a seed already in the soil. But even in a cursed ground, something beautiful can grow. That’s the hope of spring. That’s the promise of the gospel.
So this year, as you tug at thistles, remember: it’s not just gardening. It’s spiritual formation. And every weed pulled is one more reminder of the work still to be done—in the world, and in our hearts.
Philemon
Adapted from the original by Andy Olsen
