Let’s start with Name That Plant:
To a Lutheran, they’re Coral Bells; to a Catholic, Heuchera. Here’s my theory: botanical names are a snap for Catholics after all those dominos vobiscums. Latin lingers in the eustachian tubes, or is it fallopian tubes? After a Latin mass—botanical names hold no mystery.
Lutheran gardeners sing while gardening. I kid you not. Lutherans carry so many hymns around in their heads that they’re bound to slip out while weeding. If they aren’t mid-stanza in A Mighty Fortress Is Our God, they’re probably humming How Great Thou Art. I often hear my mother singing Holy, Holy, Holy when she weeds. So, if you’re driving by a garden and you see a bent gardener, rear end pointing heavenward and hear this devout ditty: “Beautiful savior, king of creation, son of God and son of man.” Lutheran gardener, for sure.
Guilt.
You can’t escape it, especially in the garden—home of original sin. (Have another apple, Adam.) Guilt is a close kin of remorse. And the garden equivalent of buyer’s remorse is planter’s remorse. The difference: Lutherans go on endlessly about should haves: “I should have planted more beans.” Catholics opine, “I should not have planted so much zucchini.” But the biggest difference is the length of the guilt. It’s short-lived for Catholics. One Hail Mary, and they’re absolved. Lutherans suffer longer, and so does everyone around them.
On authority.
While Lutheran gardeners seek guidance from authority, they question it. And the ultimate authority on their garden? Them. Got that? Catholic gardeners consult a higher authority—usually only one—and they accept that authority without so much as a “but,” a “what if,” or a “how about . . .?”
Not convinced?
Here’s an example. My Catholic friend, Mary, called the local county extension office about wilt on her eggplant. They told her to remove the wilted leaves and dispose of them, which she dutifully did. The eggplant died. All of it. Turns out her husband, who indulges in an extra Martini or two when Mary is away on business, left the hose on for three days. The poor eggplant roots were as saturated as he was. Now a Lutheran would have questioned, waited, and the problem would have cleared up, when the roots and the husband dried out.
On redemption.
Both religions believe the route to redemption is paved with acts of charity and good works, but mainly when they have too much zucchini. (Here’s an interfaith faith tip: it’s not an act of charity after the first two pounds of zucchini—O.K?)
Salvation.
For Lutheran gardeners, it’s unconditional. Salvation is trickier for Catholic gardeners, what with the all the confessions, the absolutions, and the penance.
A Catholic gardener that confesses he drowns chipmunks is looking for absolution. If he feels the need to do penance, suggest he come weed your acre. No need to feel guilty. After all, you’re just bringing him one step closer to the rapture. If he resists, just mention PURGATORY. It works on Catholics every time.
Lutherans don’t believe in purgatory; they believe in Lutefisk. Enough said.
And now a few words on transubstantiation—a word as long as this damn zucchini left at my front door. Lutherans don’t buy it, except symbolically. Catholics believe that the bread and wine were changed into the body and blood. Literally. To that I say: “Lord, please turn this zucchini into grilled eggplant and a little red wine.”
Life everlasting?
Yup, both faiths believe.
Which brings me to my Norwegian friend, Brigitta. She has the flexibility of her Viking ancestors. Those pagan plunderers had a slew of their own gods. They carried coins adorned with Odin entering Valhalla. But right next to those coins, they carried the cross. They figured why not hedge their bets.
I visited Brigitta last week in Minnesota, and as we toured her garden I noticed a little statue of St. Jude next to a replica of a Viking ruin stone.
“Hey, isn’t that the patron saint of hopeless causes?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“But you’re not even Catholic. Since when do you pray to saints?” I asked.
“It’s insurance, in case my green thumb fails,” she said.
And don’t get me started on Anglican gardeners. They disagree with anything, and they go off and form their own church.
A Note About My Credentials
I was raised a Lutheran, but went to Catholic colleges. If that doesn’t give me perspective, it gives me lots of raw material.
This interfaith background helps me spot the differences between Catholic and Lutheran gardeners. Stearns County, Minnesota, was my training ground. It’s easy there, with so many bathtubs cut in half, tipped on their sides to make a shrine over the Virgin Mary. A few wiseass Catholics have Mary in a shower stall.