Our land-healing ministry really is about cultivating

In the gentle yet resolute voice of a modern agrarian sage, Joel Salatin once said, “Our land-healing ministry really is about cultivating relationships: between the people, the loving stewards, and the ecology of a place, what I call the environmental umbilical that we're nurturing here.” These words flow not merely as a philosophy of farming, but as a hymn to the sacred connection between humanity and the earth. In them, we hear echoes of the ancients who tilled the soil not as masters, but as stewards—guardians of a living covenant between life and land. Salatin’s wisdom reminds us that agriculture, at its purest, is not an act of domination, but of communion; not exploitation, but relationship.

The origin of this quote lies in Salatin’s life as a farmer and thinker, known for his pioneering work in sustainable agriculture at Polyface Farm in Virginia. Unlike the mechanized systems of industrial farming, Salatin’s approach seeks to restore balance to the natural world by harmonizing human labor with ecological design. When he speaks of a “land-healing ministry,” he elevates farming to the level of the spiritual. The soil is not merely dirt; it is the womb of creation, and to tend it well is to participate in an ancient act of reverence. His phrase, “the environmental umbilical,” evokes the tender truth that humans are not separate from nature—we are nourished by it, sustained through it, and bound to it by invisible threads of life.

In the days of old, the wise knew this truth. The Native American elders, for instance, taught that the land was a relative, not a resource. They thanked the earth before harvesting, sang to the rivers before drinking, and understood that every living thing had spirit and dignity. They lived by a code of reciprocity—take only what you need, give back what you can, and leave enough for those yet to come. Salatin’s ministry is a modern echo of that same sacred reciprocity. His vision stands in defiance of the modern illusion that man can exist apart from the soil that feeds him. For when the soil dies, the spirit of man decays with it.

To cultivate relationships with the land, as Salatin teaches, is to return to the rhythm of life itself. The farmer who walks his fields with care, who observes the flight of birds, the hum of bees, and the dance of rain upon leaves, becomes more than a worker—he becomes a priest of the earth. In such work, there is humility and joy, for every seed planted is a confession of faith in tomorrow. The loving stewards, as Salatin calls them, are those who remember that their duty is not ownership but guardianship. They do not seek to control nature, but to cooperate with her wisdom, recognizing that healing the land is inseparable from healing the heart.

History offers luminous examples of this truth. In the 12th century, Saint Francis of Assisi walked barefoot upon the earth and called the sun his brother, the moon his sister, and the soil his mother. He understood, as Salatin does, that to live rightly is to live relationally—with reverence for all that breathes and grows. When Saint Francis restored broken gardens and tended wounded creatures, he was not performing acts of charity alone—he was mending the environmental umbilical, reconnecting humanity to the divine order of creation. His legacy endures in every act of stewardship that places gratitude above greed.

Salatin’s words also bear a challenge to our age—a time when man’s hunger for convenience and profit has sundered the ancient bond between soil and soul. We drain the rivers, strip the forests, and poison the ground, forgetting that we are only as healthy as the ecosystems that cradle us. His land-healing ministry calls us to repentance—not through prayer alone, but through action. To heal the land, we must first humble ourselves before it. We must plant trees where there are none, build farms that nourish rather than exhaust, and reawaken the sense of wonder that once guided our ancestors.

Let this, then, be the lesson drawn from Salatin’s wisdom: the earth is not a possession—it is a partner. Our duty is not to conquer it, but to converse with it, to listen as it whispers its ancient language of renewal and balance. Every act of care—every garden planted, every compost turned, every forest preserved—is a stitch in the torn fabric of creation. To live in harmony with the land is to live in harmony with ourselves.

So, my children of the future, remember this: the soil beneath your feet is your environmental umbilical, your living connection to all that has ever been and ever will be. Protect it as you would your own lifeblood. Walk gently upon it, nurture it, and let it nurture you in return. For when the land is healed, the people are healed—and when the people love the land, the world itself is reborn.