Leaves and Squirrels: How nature reveals the nuances of preaching

by James Ellis III 

I am certain that some insightful thinker like Wendell Berry long ago penned a poetic reflection on how nature informs theology – particularly in the areas of gospel proclamation and the Christian commitment to lifelong spiritual transformation. Yet, I wish to offer a more personal introduction. The outdoors and I are not friends. I have zero inclination to camp, hike, plant perennials, or be on a first name basis with bugs and animals. Nature is not my thing. But, as often is the case in life, we find ourselves doing some things not because we want to, but because they must be done.  

We all can likely name a series of tasks we would rather avoid, that we still undertake because they are important. Last year, after nearly two decades of renting across a ton of states and then four years in Canada, my wife and I became first-time homeowners. Hallelujah! We acquired a 1946 bungalow with two modest bedrooms, tiny closets, and a one-car detached garage. After renovations that took too long and cost too much, we settled in. But to my chagrin, just before winter arrived in full force, a mouse decided to make an appearance in our kitchen. I did not have kind thoughts about the intrusion. Now, with the mantle of homeownership fully upon me, I was forced to engage with nature in a way I had long avoided—mowing the lawn, tending to the grass, and addressing various projects that bullied their way into the experience.  

As all this unfolded, I began to see some interesting parallels between scores of squirrels and leaves accumulating in the yard and what James E. Massey refers to as ‘the burdensome joy of preaching’ (1998)1, since preachers are ‘stewards of the story’ (2006)2, which he addressed in book titles of the same name. The complement of basic yet sacred duties began to emerge, and I was drawn to ponder how these acts – both in nature and in ministry – might be intertwined with the deeper work of gospel formation and proclamation. 

Monotony and maintenance

Having spent a lot of my childhood in military housing and then moving through apartments while serving in pastoral roles as an adult, I never gave much thought to what bushy-tailed rodents have going on as winter approaches. Why would I? Nor did I fully appreciate the potential nuisance that leaves can become. I learned that, with few exceptions, they must be blown away, mulched, or bagged every few weeks in the fall to prevent them from suffocating the lawn or in time creating unsightly patches, as they decompose. The sheer volume of leaves, multiplying with each passing wind gust, presents a never-ending, thankless task. The monotony of it all – week after week – felt like a prison sentence. I have found that the regularity of preaching often mirrors this ordinary but essential work. The familiar rhythms of the liturgical year – Easter and Christmas, the creation narrative in Genesis, Israel’s historic rebellion in the Old Testament, and the Gospel witness of figures like John, Mark, Peter, Martha and most centrally, Jesus becomes deeply ingrained over a lifetime of preaching.  

Even if one never becomes a subject matter expert, these themes nurture familiarity. But for even the most devout among us, preaching requires a combination of good, godly practices and a dependence on the Holy Spirit’s guidance in order to cultivate humility and learning. 

What happens in the pulpit on Sunday morning is inextricably linked to, though not solely determined by, the prayerful allocation of time and attention the other six days. Preaching demands maintenance – a focus that is intentional yet avoids becoming rote. Life often intervenes, and there are times when I could not get to my leaves right away, and it was not the end of the world, nor did it immediately harm my lawn’s health or my standing as a homeowner. But neglecting the overwhelming cascade of leaves for too long does catch up with you. And so, the old adage rings true in both preparing to preach and lawn care: ‘Don’t put off tomorrow what you can do today.’ In this sense, preachers share something with the Latin phrase carpe diem – seizing the moment for structured, diligent work in the present, knowing that the work today shapes the fruit we can access tomorrow. 

Squirrels

As I tended to the growing clumps of leaves in my yard, I noticed something else – something I had never appreciated before. Real-life squirrels, it turns out, are not like the adorable, lightly mischievous one-half of the star duo from The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle and Friends. These creatures are wackadoodle! As winter approaches, they prefer my property as a base of operations. They gather, bury nuts, squabble over them, and generally exhibit nutty behavior. They are loud, erratic, territorial, miniature tyrants. Squatters, if you ask me – after all, they don’t pay rent on the land that a piece of paper somewhere in city hall claims I own. Yet, despite their antics, they are also communal, highly proactive, constantly communicating and planning ahead. These are instructive traits for those in parish ministry. While preachers are set apart in certain ways, they must be experientially acquainted – rather than merely theoretically – with the struggles of those they serve.  

It is only right. If you imagine your life to be free of both big and small errors – whether internal or external – and mysterious hiccups, not only should you reconsider, but you should seek God in deep humility before stepping into any pulpit.  

Nature’s models

Ministry requires more than intellectual depth; you must be personable, genuine, self-reflective, and really immersed in the ‘whole wide world’ without adopting its values. True engagement involves building relationships with people you may have little in common with. The crux of ministry often lies in the long haul, fostering relationships not for the sake of argument, but to convey God’s love, partly through how we treat others. Preston Perry’s book Everyday Evangelism: Pursuing Hearts, Not Arguments (Lifeway Christian Resources, 2024) exemplifies the humility and attentiveness needed to earn relational capital and influence. It is a good sign when people will bicker and banter with you without abandoning the conversation when differences arise. In that sense, squirrels offer an odd but fitting model. They talk, persist, and create relationships – even when their motives are presumably driven by survival rather than love. As ministers, we too must endure in building relationships, even when the work feels taxing and cyclical. 

I have observed what can only be described as fierce, knock-down, drag-out confrontations in my yard. It has been like fight club for squirrels! Despite the commotion, however, I have also witnessed them working together, carrying nuts or larger items up to the safety of their trees. Their noise is incessant, but they are unapologetically in community with each other. I believe they care little for the activities of nearby raccoons, dogs, or groundhogs. They have their own efforts to attend to. They have a mission to accomplish, preparing for the changing seasons, and they do not mind if their persistence inconveniences me.  

It is a reminder that, sometimes, we must push through the noise and distractions of life with the same determination. This makes me think of the strange looks I sometimes receive when mentioning that I tend to plan my preaching calendar 4-6 months in advance. Colleagues and congregants alike respond with disbelief, even lamenting that such far-reaching plans seem excessive. But, I beg to differ. I strive to maintain a focus like the squirrels. Parish life is replete with unpredictable, invasive interruptions – death, funerals, counselling – which emerge at unpredictable times. Unless you work in a large, multi-staff setting, you cannot easily delegate these responsibilities. In this sense, wisdom dictates to be prepared for what is spontaneous. Planning allows us to create margin and flexibility, so we can respond to the frenzied situations that will come. It is about ‘doing ordinary things in extraordinary ways’, when life is fruitful and fretful.  

Making adjustments

Like anyone else, preachers who fail to plan often end up planning to fail. Of course, even with all my proactive planning, if anything life is about adjustments. The series I had carefully scheduled for the fall might be delayed by a few weeks, or something may be scrapped entirely or set aside for the distant future. Several years ago, I took an entire year to preach through Judges. It is a difficult book to address week in and week out, so I built in breaks, working around the Easter and Christmas seasons and scheduling time to incorporate other texts. And, I left room to accommodate emergencies. The Lectionary cycle, with its multiple preselected texts each Sunday, is a beautiful resource that helps to structure the year.  

I kid you not – one time I had a show down with a squirrel. Sometimes, they just do too much, and I hit my breaking point. I opened my front door, and there it was – this squirrel, climbing all over one of my porch lights, leaping onto the grass for a few erratic zoomies, and repeating the process with tireless energy. It seemed entirely oblivious to the fact that it was trespassing on my space. I gave it the ‘look’ but it was unfazed. The squirrel stared right back at me. With Kool Moe Dee’s 1987 song ‘Wild Wild West’ thumping in my mind – like a boxer walking down the tunnel into the ring – I thought, ‘This is it. I am about to fight a squirrel’. But flesh and fur decided to leave one another alone, and as the squirrel transitioned to digging up nuts.  

I realized something vital. Perhaps I should adopt a bit more of the dogged determination I had just been exposed to. Faithful preaching, much like the squirrel’s work, requires preparation in and out of season. It does not matter if you feel like it or not, or whether you are excited about the biblical passage before you, or even if it feels familiar. There are times when the task at hand, whether in life or in one’s pastoral calling, seems menial or fruitless. Yet, that is a lie. Just as raking leaves, mulching, or storing nuts for winter may be frustrating, they serve an essential purpose, so, too, do the postures concerning spiritual formation and the constant, vigilance of preparing something meaningful, accurate, and hopeful to share with God’s people. In the quiet, ordinary acts of study, we make ourselves ready to speak God’s Word in both predictable and unpredictable seasons. 

About the author 

Rev Dr James Ellis III is the Assistant Professor of Practical Theology at Winebrenner Theological Seminary and is a preacher, author (An Inward-Outboud Witness, Smyth & Helwys Publishing, 2022) and photographer. Learn more about James https://www.jamesellis3.com/