Chapter 24
Reflections on Stillness, Soil and the Sacred in a Sweltering Season
With temperatures soaring well beyond 30 degrees Celsius, the cool of the garden this evening offers more than just relief from the heat. In moments like these, the rustle of leaves, the hum of bees and the scent of growing plants whisper of something ancient and holy. Here, The God of the Garden by Andrew Peterson feels less like a book and more like a conversation under the trees.
Trees Need to Be Still
‘Trees need to be still in order to grow. We need to be still to see that God’s work in and around us is often slow, quiet, patient and steady. It was in this stillness that I sat in the Chapter House, watching creation cycle through its changes through its windows…”
Peterson captures something we often resist: the deep spiritual work that only happens in stillness. Like trees, which remain rooted and wait through the changing seasons, we too are invited to enter the quiet places where change happens beneath the surface. His imagery reminds us that growth doesn’t always manifest as movement. Sometimes it looks like trust.
Gardening as Healing
‘I was literally on my knees with my daughter, planting a seed, because I knew that’s how new life comes. The only way for it to grow is to push it into the mud and wait for the rain…” This moment is more than poetic — it’s sacramental. Peterson’s spirituality, with its dirt under the fingernails, is both earthy and honest. The act of planting becomes a metaphor for suffering, waiting and resurrection. What begins in darkness can still bloom.
Nature & Mental Health
‘After being indoors for hours, the sun on my face and the nearness of growing things rejuvenates me like nothing else.’ There is now scientific evidence to support what our souls already know: we are meant to touch the earth. Peterson even highlights the role of soil microbes in increasing serotonin levels. But beyond that, there’s joy in simply being among growing things.
Redemption through Place and Culture
‘Seeing creation and culture working together feels to me like walking in the Lord’s way. It’s almost as if what is coming to us is not another place, but this place being made new. Made new.’ Here, Peterson echoes theologians such as N. T. Wright in reminding us that the biblical story does not end with escape, but renewal. Our neighbourhoods, our gardens, our pavements – these may one day be woven into the fabric of the new heaven and earth. This changes how we tend to them now.
Reflection on Isolation vs. Solitude:
‘Solitude is a choice. Isolation is inflicted… The pleasure of solitude is not loneliness, but the nearness of love.’ Peterson invites us to rediscover solitude as a presence, not an absence. Not as an escape, but as an encounter.
Final thoughts:
The God of the Garden is not just a book about nature. It is a meditation on what it means to be human: to be rooted in a place; to suffer and hope; to take deep root in God’s good earth. In these sweltering days, perhaps the garden is indeed the best place to encounter Him.
So go outside. Stand barefoot in the grass. Watch a tree. Wait.
He is already there.
Philemon