I was talking with a pastor friend earlier today about growing a young adults ministry.

It reminded me of one we inherited years ago.

At one point, the young adults ministry at our church had been huge. Hundreds of people. Vibrant. Exciting.

By the time Aimee and I were asked to help, most of that was gone.

What remained was maybe 10 or 15 people.

And honestly, they weren't necessarily the people someone would have picked if the goal was to rebuild something impressive.

But they were there.

So we started there.

There was a large room available to us, but we didn't use it.

Ten people spread across a big room somehow feels like failure.

Instead, we met in this little side prayer room. There were couches. We pulled some chairs around them. It felt more like somebody's living room than a church service.

And we started doing life together.

People came to our house. We ate together. Painted walls together. Talked. Prayed.

I used to say I wanted people to have refrigerator rights in our home.

As in: don't knock politely and wait to be served. Come in, open the fridge and grab something.

That kind of relationship.

Eventually those people started inviting other people.

Then the little room became too small.

So we moved into the bigger room.

And then more people came.

Looking back, I think I understand something now that I didn't have language for then.

We weren't trying to grow fruit.

We were growing roots.

And there's a difference.

We are obsessed with fruit.

How many people came?

How much did it grow?

How much did you sell?

How many people watched?

Did it work?

Where are the results?

And when the fruit doesn't appear quickly enough, the temptation is to manufacture some.

Staple an apple onto the branch.

Paint it red.

Stand back and say, “Look! Growth!”

And for a while, it might even look convincing.

Until somebody bites into it.

Or a storm comes.

I've done versions of this more times than I'd like to admit.

Trying to make something look like the thing I believe it could someday become.

But God doesn't seem nearly as embarrassed by seeds as I am.

A seed can become a redwood.

But I can't bribe it into becoming one tomorrow.

I can give it good soil.

I can water it.

I can protect it.

I can make sure it gets light.

But there are some parts of growth I simply cannot do.

And maybe that's the point.

When a seed first begins to grow, we don't put it in the middle of a field and yell:

“YOU'RE AN OAK TREE. ACT LIKE IT.”

We put it in a tiny cup.

Not because we've lowered our expectations for it.

Because we understand what it is.

That little cup isn't an insult to the oak.

It's protection.

There will come a day when the cup is much too small.

But today, it might be exactly what the tree needs.

I wonder how many times I've despised the little cup because I was comparing my seedling to somebody else's 50-year-old tree.

Their branches.

Their shade.

Their fruit.

Without seeing the decades of roots underneath it.

Jesus seemed remarkably comfortable with seeds.

Mustard seeds.

Wheat.

Vines.

Branches.

Fruit.

Things disappearing underground before anyone could see what was happening.

Maybe because the Kingdom has always been more comfortable with hidden growth than we are.

We keep asking:

Where's the fruit?

And maybe God is looking underground saying:

Look at those roots.

Because fruit has seasons.

Leaves have seasons.

There are moments when a healthy tree can look almost dead.

But winter isn't failure.

And spring can't be rushed.

The work is knowing what season you're in.

If it's planting season, plant.

If it's rooting season, protect the roots.

If it's pruning season, prune.

And when fruit finally comes, receive it.

But don't staple fruit onto a sapling because you're ashamed that it isn't an oak tree yet.

I've been thinking about this in more than ministry lately.

My work.

My family.

Already Loved.

Even my own life with God.

I'm beginning to wonder whether maturity looks less like becoming really good at producing outcomes...

and more like becoming comfortable tending what God has actually put in front of me.

This seed.

These people.

This little room.

This season.

And trusting that the One who put an oak inside an acorn knows how to get it out.

Maybe my job was never to make the tree grow.

Maybe my job is simply to tend the soil.

And let God be God.

See you next Friday