Writing Theology With Dirt Under Your Fingernails

WHEN JEFF CHU left his New York City magazine job to enter seminary, he didn’t expect one of his academic assignments to be dismembering a chicken. But at Princeton Theological Seminary’s “Farminary” (read: part farm, part seminary), learning takes place in nontraditional ways.

With lines like: “the sunflowers were pure grace,” and “when the wind blows, the trees clap,” Chu’s spiritual insights sound akin to the wisdom of Wendell Berry or Mary Oliver — theology written by hands with dirt under the nails.

In his new memoir, Good Soil, Chu writes about raising chickens, rejuvenating soil, and searching for meaning. His storytelling brings to life the 21-acre farm where Chu and his classmates try to learn what it takes to follow the example of Jesus, once mistaken for a gardener himself (John 20:15).

Chu’s award-winning journalistic prose translates seamlessly to memoir as he shares his experience as a mid-life seminarian. He captures detail in a way that invites readers to practically smell the radishes rotting in the compost bin and easily imagine the playful cast of seminarian farmhands Chu learns beside.

In the early days of Farminary classes, the professors challenge the students to “expect love to grow” alongside the fruits and vegetables. Chu feels skeptical. “I have good friends. I don’t need new friends,” he writes. It is a joy to see Chu’s disillusionment transform into relationship and his skepticism blossom into wonder.

With lines like: “the sunflowers were pure grace,” and “when the wind blows, the trees clap,” Chu’s spiritual insights sound akin to the wisdom of Wendell Berry or Mary Oliver — theology written by hands with dirt under the nails.

Compost plays a significant role in Good Soil (both in the dirt and the book). And just as good compost needs a mix of nitrogen (death) and oxygen (life), Chu vulnerably shares both his highs and lows. He gently communicates tragedy as he shares his personal experiences with sexual assault, family estrangement, and the sudden death of his friend Rachel Held Evans. In Chu’s text, the weeds grow right beside the flowers and the sadness crops up alongside the joy.

And Chu isn’t afraid to laugh at himself. For example, before seminary, he watered a plastic plant for months before realizing his error: “As soon as my fingers brushed a petal, they drew back in horror and my whole body felt hot. I wanted the thing to die. Except it couldn’t. The orchid was fake,” he writes.

Chu also gives readers a taste of life as a Chinese American. He describes planting extra bok choy in the garden and shares that his comfort food will always be fried rice. Readers learn about the unique intimacy of a queer cross-cultural relationship through Chu’s stories about life with his husband, Texas-born Tristan. (The secret ingredient to Chu’s fried rice becomes Texas brisket.) Chu’s Chinese heritage also comes through in the book’s structure. As he writes in the introduction, the storytelling in Good Soil is cyclical and reminiscent of Eastern narrative traditions. Like the rhythm of the seasons, he falls in and out of misunderstanding and knowledge, friendship and solitude, doubt and faith.

The word “seminary” comes from the Latin root “seminarium,” which means plant nursery or seed plot. Etymologically, the word was meant to convey a fertile breeding ground for people to learn and develop. In Good Soil, Chu exposes the true meaning of seminary through his work on the land and reflections on theology, friendship, family, and most importantly, life and death. Resurrection is everywhere on the farm.