Pruning Toward Justice: Hydroponics, Holy Resistance, and Mutuality

For the past five years, I’ve been tending life in water. No dirt. No plot of land. Just roots suspended in nutrient-rich solution, light calibrated to mimic the sun, and the daily vigilance of care. Hydroponic gardening is science, yes—but for me, in a time when inflation turns every grocery trip into a mathematical conundrum, the ability to harvest kale, cucumbers, herbs, and tomatoes from my indoor garden is also faith work. It is spiritual practice. It is protest. It is resistance.

I grow leafy greens, compact fruits, and fragrant herbs—among them are kale, muir lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, basil, and thyme. Some plants flourish fast; others teach me patience. From seedling to harvest, each stage requires a certain presence, a fidelity to the slow, unseen work beneath the surface. When roots brown or leaves curl, I act. I investigate. I adjust. And sometimes, I cut.

Through hydroponic gardening, I’ve learned to view pruning and tending my garden as an act of hope, one that puts trust in the possibility of new life. I prune to give way for something healthier to grow where there is overgrowth, stunted growth, and withering decay. It’s a sacred act. A necessary one. And it’s in these practices that I’ve begun to see and draw parallels between gardening, governance, and my faith.

The Garden as Gospel

In Scripture, gardens mark the beginning and the end. Eden, lush and whole, is where creation begins in Genesis. Revelation concludes with the Tree of Life re-rooted in a restored earth, its leaves intended for the healing of the nations (Rev. 22:2). A city descends, not to destroy, but to heal. Between them, we find a Christ who likens himself to living water (John 4:14), who moves fluidly, not as a God of annihilation, but of incarnation. A throne occupied by a lamb, not by a tyrant. The Lamb does not conquer through force, but through faithfulness. He is the Bread of Life—like manna in the wilderness, like water surging from a stone—where before it seemed impossible, He brings sustenance to bodies and imaginations, feeding futures with plans of wellness, hope, and expected endings. This garden is the divine reversal of empires’ destructive power. A Kin’dom upside down. Where empire dominates, the Lamb communes. Where empire hoards, the Lamb shares. Where empire kills, the Lamb lives and commands life.

Today, our communal gardens—political, spiritual, ecological—are suffering. Overgrowth chokes the roots. Corruption clogs the system. Ideologies, like invasive weeds, drain life from the margins. We are told to cut, to slash, to “drain the swamp.” Yet much of what has been cut is not government overspend and corruption—it’s justice and compassion.

The Politics of Pruning

I’ve learned that pruning requires discernment. Cuts are brave and intentional. It asks: What harms the whole? What hoards the light? What must be removed or adjusted so that others might thrive?

Regardless of the political administration, revenge pruning and cuts made without justice-mindedness are intended not to cultivate life, but to consolidate power. Immigrants, LGBTQIA+ communities, educators, scientists, and truth-tellers—these are all retaliatory targets of the current presidential administration, political purges masquerading as reform.

And what’s left after Trump 2.0? Stunted policies and toxic governance without checks and balances. A withered democracy that aggressively shifts power from the margins back toward the center majority.

This week, the conservative majority of the Supreme Court voted to bow to Donald Trump and his party of conservatives; they voted to restrict the ability of federal judges to issue nationwide injunctions—a ruling with grave consequences for the most vulnerable among us. This decision fractures the legal landscape, leaving immigrants, LGBTQIA+ communities, educators, scientists, and truth-tellers to seek justice in a patchwork system where geography determines protection. We now face a nation where our rights depend on whether local courts are willing and resourced to resist unconstitutional policies. For immigrants, it means their children’s citizenship rights may now vary by state. For LGBTQIA+ students and inclusive educators, it opens the door to local court rulings that undermine public education and equality. Scientists and advocates can no longer rely on a unified federal court to swiftly halt unconstitutional executive actions. The burden to fight injustice has shifted, now requiring multiple lawsuits in different districts to challenge a single harmful policy.

Justice Sonia Sotomayor condemned the ruling as “a travesty for the rule of law,” warning that it empowers the executive to act unchecked unless stopped in each jurisdiction individually, adding that this ruling is not only a direct threat to policies and protections, but it also undermines the very foundations of our democracy. Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson echoed this alarm, calling it “an existential threat to our constitutional democracy.” Their words highlight the deeper cost: a democracy stripped of its checks, where those who already face systemic barriers must now navigate even greater hurdles to secure their rights. In this new judicial landscape, the pursuit of justice becomes slower, more expensive, and far less certain.

Where is the life in this?

Pruning done without care will kill a system and its subjects. It hollows out what is fruitful. It silences what is vibrant. It leaves only what is obedient to empire.

I know this for certain: true pruning is always about abundance. “I am the true vine,” says Jesus, “and my Father is the gardener. He prunes every branch that bears fruit, so it may bear more” (John 15:1-2). The goal is never destruction for its own sake, or fearful obedience to the powerful. It is flourishing.

Mutuality: The Hidden Network

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminded us that “we are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny.” I see this daily in my hydroponic system. One sick root can poison the whole. One shaded row affects them all. Health is collective.

So, too, in our democracy, harm to one community reverberates through every sector. Policies that assault trans rights or immigrant protections inevitably destabilize public health, education, and housing. Misinformation that targets one group leaves the rest more vulnerable. We are not islands. We are ecosystems.

The Church at the Crossroads

And concerning the ecosystem, it would be unfaithful of me not to critique the Church in this historical moment.

The American Church stands at a moral and political crossroads. Historically tasked with being a prophetic voice, it has instead too often become an echo of empire—amplifying the ambitions of power rather than the priorities of the Gospel. What we’re witnessing is not an isolated drift, but a deliberate transformation: Christian nationalism—a theology of dominance cloaked in patriotism—has moved from the margins to the mainstream. It has shaped public policies, hijacked pulpits, and framed political elections as cosmic spiritual battles. The presidency has been reimagined not as a civic office requiring competence and accountability, but as a divine anointing—its occupant ordained to defend the so-called "Christian nation," even at the expense of democracy itself.

For over a decade, political and religious leaders, joined in a ride-share of injustice, have used coded rhetoric to stir racial grievance and resurrect the myth of a threatened white Christian identity. They’ve baptized conspiracy theories in biblical prophecy, turned anti-government paranoia into sermons, and declared war on pluralism under the guise of religious freedom. Churches became campaign stages. Crosses were carried beside Confederate flags. Sermons replaced civic education, and misinformation was peddled as divine truth. The insidious effect of this merger is a widespread radicalization, where White supremacy, patriarchal politics, and Christian exceptionalism intersect to justify violence, demonize diversity, and dismantle democratic norms. And perhaps most alarmingly, this ideology has not remained confined to white suburban pews. It has seeped into BIPOC churches, where colonial theology and media-fueled fear have led many to oppose the very DEI initiatives that aim to liberate them. In this climate, the Church isn’t just silent—it is complicit. And unless it reclaims its prophetic mandate, it risks becoming the chaplain of empire rather than the conscience of one nation under God.

DEI as Sacred Mandate

The Apostle Paul’s words in Galatians 3:28 envision a community where divisions collapse: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” This isn’t a call to erase difference, but to reimagine belonging—a radical reordering where inequity is undone and dignity restored. Paul imagined a church where the power structures of the world didn’t simply replicate themselves under religious guise, but were dismantled in favor of mutuality and kinship. In that sense, the work of diversity, equity, and inclusion is not a cultural concession; it is a matter of discipleship. It is the living out of Kin’dom values in a world bent on exclusion.

And yet, in our current moment, DEI is under fire. From school boards to Senate floors, it is caricatured as a threat. But what it threatens is not justice—it’s hierarchy. It is the same hierarchy that Jesus dismantled when He knelt to wash the feet of disciples, when He dined with outcasts, when He affirmed women, when He touched the untouchable, when He stood in the center of power to challenge indifference in the hands of those eager to throw stones. DEI, rightly understood, is a practice of gospel formation—demanding that we reckon with power, repent of exclusion, and recover the beloved community.

This is precisely the kind of ecclesial crisis Jesus critiques in Revelation. The letters to the churches, written by a political agitator from a barren Roman penal colony called Patmos, describe fragile, flickering communities. They were complicit, exhausted, and many of them compromised, forgoing truth for power. And yet, Christ walked among them. Not as a distant observer but as a present, engaged witness. Because God does not meet us in the polished halls of power, but in the dusty places of dissent—in wilderness, exile, and resistance. Revelation reveals not just the violence of empire, but the seductive nature of empire’s logic within the Church itself. It reminds us that oppression is both an external force and an internal temptation. The temptation to preserve privilege rather than seek justice. To align with comfort over truth. To mirror empire instead of confronting it. And yet to each church, both then and now, Christ offers a promise: “To the one who overcomes…” A white stone. Hidden manna. A new name. These are not empty metaphors. They are assurances of divine sustenance and sacred identity, especially for those the world casts out. For BIPOC and queer people told we don’t belong, for immigrants threatened with removal, for disabled lives pushed to the margins, this promise is a reclamation. It is God’s insistence that worth is not bestowed by nation or church, but affirmed by heaven. Even when institutions fail, God’s provision does not. The faithful remnant, criminalized or cast aside, still receives the bread of life and the name that empire cannot erase.

I pray often for this hope to move progressive churches and movements from the shadows into a more pubic outcry, with tones of siblinghood and camaraderie. Not as condescending priests and communities perched among the powerful, but as those who write with the powerless, identifying not as above them but as accomplices beside and among them. That’s for a later post, however ;).

Toward the Tree of Life

I’ve come to believe we have a responsibility to tend the world as if it were the garden. The Tree of Life—rooted in Genesis, rising again in Revelation—is not escapism. It is an image of God's restoration on Earth. It is sacred interconnection. Saints like Bonaventure and Albert the Great saw Christ as the fruit of that tree, a Eucharistic source of healing, a nourishment that draws us back into communion not only with the Divine but also with one another.

Toward the cultivation of that garden oasis, the world does not need more shears in the hands of tyrants. It needs more garden laborers. Instead, it needs people who are committed to the daily, sustaining nourishment found in justice, humility, and shared responsibility. Reclaiming this vision means restoring our connection to the land, to our neighbors, and to the divine presence that calls us to tend, not dominate. It means we participate in building food systems that are sustainable, equitable, and rooted in justice. It proposes that we understand environmental justice as a form of racial justice and climate care as a manifestation of Christ-like compassion in action. It demands we take specific actions to nourish our communal gardens in the face of political challenges by showing up locally, consistently, and compassionately. This involves advocating for policies that protect the vulnerable, attending school board meetings to support inclusive curricula, voting in every election with a clear understanding of what is at stake, and challenging misinformation wherever it appears. Do the work. It means investing in mutual aid networks, community gardens, housing justice coalitions, and immigrant rights organizations. It means listening to marginalized voices, supporting Black and queer leadership, and standing with communities whose dignity is under siege without being overly eager to critique. Be present. In the presence, seeing is understanding the “other” more deeply. Tending the garden is never passive; it is a collective, embodied resistance to decay.

In a somewhat 360 view, hydroponic gardening has taught me that roots hidden from view require attention just as much as the visible leaves. Injustice often festers where few are looking—in policies, procedures, and hidden biases. So, in the words of Childish Gambino, “Stay Woke!” Don’t be caught unaware of sleeping. Like balancing pH or preventing root rot, justice work demands proactive and preventative care. We must build movements with intentional structures that sustain—not just excite—communities. And, like water and nutrient flow and fluidity in hydroponics, resources must circulate justly with adaptability where necessary: energy, money, care, and opportunity must move toward those who have been historically denied them.

Lastly, I believe discernment in political pruning begins with humility. It requires proximity to those impacted, historical awareness, and a refusal to confuse control with correction. We must ask: what balance will this cut restore? Does it increase equity? Does it center the margins? Pruning follows the pattern of the Gardener in John 15—who cuts not to punish, but to make room for fruitfulness. Yes—justice, like growth, is slow. But with care, it is sure.

Cultivating a Prophetic Garden

Pruning and garden care is hopeful labor, I know this. It requires patience, skill, and a heart attuned to what is possible beyond the present decay. In my indoor garden, I prune so that something stronger might grow. In our shared world, we must do the same—prune systemic racism, prune authoritarianism, prune apathy. Not out of wrath. But out of belief in what can still be when love is at the center.

This is the call of the moment: not merely to resist the rot, but to cultivate renewal by pruning with purpose, planting with compassion, and tending with vision—until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream (Amos 5:24).

Thank you for reading.