Whenever we plant seeds and harvest the fruit, whenever we break bread and share stories with our friends, whenever we are surprised by the impossible possibility of God, we practice resurrection. Maybe the Mad Farmer of Wendell Berry’s poem is just that, a person committed to the earth who has grown bewildered by the wildness of it all. Or maybe the Mad Farmer is the divine gardener who insists on sowing seeds of grace all over the place.Go with your love to the fields.Lie in the shade. Rest you headIn their lap. Swear allegianceTo what is nighest your thoughts.As soon as the generals and politicosCan predict the motions of your mind,Lose it. Leave it as a signTo mark the false trail, the wayYou didn’t go. Be like the foxWho makes more tracks than necessary,Some in the wrong direction.Practice resurrection.