"Still other seed fell on fertile soil and produced a crop that was thirty, sixty, and even a hundred times as much as had been planted."
     Mark 4: 4 (The Open Bible, New Living translation, pub. Nelson)

In 1977 I photographed a miracle.

I did it for a friend who wrote an article about it; a miracle of gardens. Gardens that sprang up in the most unlikely places of the most unlikely place on earth. One of those gardens was planted between two burned out buildings. To get an overhead shot, I climbed up a fire escape and had made it almost to the top of one of the buildings, when something caught my eye. I looked up and there, the scowling face of a Hispanic kid looked down on me from about ten feet above; framed by a circling flock of pigeons.

He was angry and I couldn't see his hands, I didn't like that. Without knowing it, I was getting too close to his pigeon coop, and too close to his personal territory. All I could think to do was say, "I'm taking pictures of that garden. It's beautiful." His eyes diverted from me and down to the garden, the scowl changing imperceptibly. I took the cue and said, "You must be very proud of it. Did you help?" He looked back at me and said, "No. Not that one." "Can I take some pictures?" I asked. He smiled and brought his hands to his chin, "OK," he said. Before his arms came up, though, I heard two heavy thuds as the bricks he was holding hit the rooftop. "OK," I said, "thanks." I thanked God too.

This miracle of the South Bronx came at the height of its horrifying rise to becoming the cesspool of the world. In the pit of that human sewer, a most unlikely and strange event took place; one of such extraordinary proportion, that a few years later its aftereffects would irrevocably change entire sections of The South Bronx, returning them to the hands of saints. It began when a few people, no one knew exactly who, transformed half an abandoned city block in an area ringed with nothing but rubble from burned down buildings. A bulldozer filled in the dangerous open basements and razed half the block flat. Then, they covered the area with about two feet of good topsoil.

In the meantime, someone recruited a handful of old Southern Blacks from the surrounding streets, simply asking only for those who had experience with farming. At the same time, he recruited an equal number of young Black and Hispanic kids, asking only for the hopeless who preyed on the elderly for whatever they could get. After the topsoil was laid down, he turned to the very bewildered elderly recruits and said to them, motioning towards the kids, "Teach them to grow these." And he dragged a number of bags of seed corn (sweet white), sweet dried peas, and watermelon seeds out of the back of a van. He looked at them one more time for a few seconds, and begged them not to lose hope, that a miracle would happen. Then he got in the van, and disappeared; never to be seen again.

I've compressed much of the story, but Miss Edna Jackson was one of those first Blacks, in that first Block, that started the 'Greening of the South Bronx.' She said that when they all got together that first day, everyone milled about for a bit talking about what to do. It all still seemed less than real to them, and a few joked they were waiting for the hidden camera to come out from somewhere; but it never did. In the group of young kids, Miss Edna kept looking at one grimy face she recognized from only a week before, a young kid that had held her up at knifepoint and robbed her of five dollars. All the while wanting to curse him, or smack him; anything for what he'd done. He was just there, milling around, confused. But he didn't look like no Crack kid. Wasn't antsy, didn't have that constant ready-to-score or ready-to-scare look of an addict, he just looked lost.

"You speak English?" she said to him curtly. He looked up a little peeved, "Yeah!" She looked down at him for a moment, trying hard to hate him, "Do you remember me?" she demanded. "No," he said, then started to walk away. But as she watched the little boy walk away, she inexplicably thought about her childhood, and a memory overwhelmed her. "Boy. You ever taste sweet-pea off the vine?" her voice called out after him. He turned, "You talking to me?" he asked. "Yeah I'm talking to you boy! I said, did you ever eat sweet peas off a vine." He looked confused, but eventually answered "No," and waited. She said, "Hmm, shame. Well, I show you how to grow 'em if you want." After just looking at each other for a while, he shrugged in exasperation. "OK then, c'mon. Let's go," she said. He followed like a puppy. The two of them took some handfuls, of dried seeds, walked into the loamy soil ... and talked; as it turned out, for hours. And planted. And watered. And waited. And day-by-day they watched the miracle take place.

The old Black woman from Mississippi, who was brought to The Bronx by a husband that left her for another man's wife, and the young Puerto Rican kid whose mother left him for another woman's husband, found each other under the eyes of God. "That was enough of a miracle," Miss Edna thought out loud. "You know, when he saw them seedling come up, an' watch his plants grow, oh he was so proud. But when I opened a pod for him the first time and tasted one, then gave him one to try? Oh, Lord. His eyes open like big ol' pie plates and he and his friends tore into that bush like locust." She laughed out loud. "There wasn't one pea pod left on those vines, they cleaned 'em out in no time. It took a while to teach 'em to sit on they's hands and wait, and learn patience, so's they could bring in a crop."

She looked pensively and lovingly for a few seconds at the quiet young man that laid his head on her shoulder, the young man she called her 'Grandson,' the same young man who a few years before had held a knife to her and who that morning had been ready to bash my brains in. "It's funny how miracles work." she said, "But the hand of God sure scattered them seeds on good soil, didn't it?" Yes, it did. In fact, to this day, the miracle that began with those dreamless old Blacks and hopeless young kids is still taking back the streets of The South Bronx. It's still reclaiming souls from hell, one green seedling at a time; one hope at a time, one dream at a time, one life linked to one life within God's embrace.

Lord, help me find the fertile soil, and give me the strength to sow your word; that I may reap forgiveness for the times I've scattered your gifts among the footpaths, squandered them on shallow soil and rock, or thoughtlessly discarded them among the choking thorns. Amen

Contributed by Jose A.
Published Monday August 11, 2003
Week 37 of Liturgical Year B