The Heat Reveals

Walking with God When Comfort Fades

By Josh Singleton | Founder, The Neighborhood Garden Project

Most people don’t want to walk—they want to be carried. And for generations, religion has made room for that. We’ve built systems that prioritize comfort and attendance. Across denominations—Catholic, Baptist, Episcopal, Methodist, Pentecostal, Non-Denominational, and beyond—we’ve become skilled at managing belief but slow to walk with people.

But before you read any further, let me say this clearly: I’m not writing from superiority. I’m writing from surrender. I’ve seen too much. I’ve played the role.  I’ve worn the mask while feeling dry. I was born on the altar—fluent in the language, familiar with the performance. I’ve preached truth while avoiding transformation. I’ve led without listening. Looked the part while missing the point. I’ve experienced the pain of attending but never known. This isn’t criticism. This is confession. It’s the voice of someone who lived near sacred things without fully surrendering—and is now learning to walk differently, one step at a time.

But I’ve also seen something different. I’ve tasted the freedom of walking with God in the soil, not just worshiping Him from a distance. And I’ve seen others taste it too. This article isn’t here to tear anything down. It’s here to show what’s possible. That we can still walk with people in everyday places. That transformation can happen in gardens, in sweat, in silence, and in seasons. That presence is more powerful than pressure. And that the Kingdom isn’t something we build—it’s something we become and embody.

In the garden, we see it week after week. We don’t make anything grow—we just steward the space. And somehow, things begin to shift. People begin to soften. Relationships take root. Tears fall. Confessions are shared. Laughter breaks out. None of this is scripted. None of it is produced. It’s all grown.

And that’s the model Jesus showed us. He never rushed transformation. He never measured by crowds. He simply walked—and brought Heaven with Him. While many followed Him, He chose twelve to walk closely. And within those twelve, He drew even nearer to three—Peter, James, and John. It was with them that He revealed the deepest parts of His ministry: the mountaintop, the miracles, and even the agony of Gethsemane. Jesus modeled what many miss—transformation happens most powerfully in the few who are willing to walk closely. He didn’t split His time evenly. He poured deeply. He started with soil. He was baptized. Then led into the wilderness. Then He called a few to walk with Him—not to work for Him, not to perform, but to become. He taught through gardens and seeds, vines and branches, soil and storms. His parables weren’t polished lectures—they were field lessons. And the ones who stayed close learned not just how to believe, but how to become. And the garden today keeps teaching the same way.

Summer is one of our clearest filters. It doesn’t just test the soil—it reveals the soul. When the heat rises, it exposes motives and refines what’s real. It draws out the ones who are truly walking, not just watching. The fruit-hunters fade. The root-growers show up again. Even our inbox slows down. Not because people don’t care, but because comfort isn’t available. And without comfort, shallow interest evaporates.

That’s the beautiful, predictable science of the seasons. The sun rises. The temperature climbs. The soil shifts. Everything in creation responds without resistance. Over time, we’ve come to love and rely on that rhythm—not because it’s easy, but because it’s true. The same way we trust the sun will rise tomorrow, we’ve come to trust that summer will filter the faithful. The rhythms of creation don’t condemn. They reveal. And if we’re paying attention, we’ll see that God has built into nature a reliable pattern: heat reveals what’s real. Pressure produces roots. And transformation is not a surprise—it’s the result of walking in rhythm with what God has already set in motion.

In contrast, much of Christian religion has insulated itself from this kind of heat. The buildings are air-conditioned, the services are scheduled, and the struggle is often softened by structure. There’s no room for the elements to do their work. But in the garden, we welcome the heat, not because it’s easy, but because it reveals. And what’s left standing in the heat is gold. That’s where the Kingdom is revealed—not in excitement or noise, but in quiet hunger.

Last weekend, we harvested over 700 ears of corn, which were distributed, consumed, and enjoyed by many people across different communities. Every ear served its purpose. Now, the stalks had to come down. The harvest was over, and the soil needed rest. Today, drenched in sweat and smelling like the garden, I stepped into the church to visit. A parishioner saw me, smiled, and asked if we were harvesting again, noting she had seen my truck early that morning. She wondered if there would be another bounty, like the past two weeks. I told her gently, "No, today we’re pulling the stalks."

Her face dropped. Her countenance shifted. Disappointment was beneath the surface. And I had peace. Because I realized—she’s standing inside the church, less than 50 yards from the garden, but completely detached from its rhythm. She had tasted the fruit the previous few weeks but had never walked the plots. She’d seen the harvest but hadn’t watched the planting. She showed up expecting provision, unaware that the season had already shifted.

And that moment revealed a deeper truth: Proximity to the garden doesn’t mean participation in its process. You can stand near the soil and still miss the story it’s telling. You can live next to transformation and never be transformed. You can benefit from someone else’s obedience without ever entering your own. That’s what religion often produces—people who stand near sacred things without surrendering to the process that makes them sacred. Proximity feels holy and safe—but it’s not participation. And participation will always cost something—time, attention, presence, sweat, and surrender. This is why filters matter. Not to shame anyone. Not to create exclusivity. But to reveal reality. To make it clear who’s walking with—and who’s just walking by.

Here’s what we’re learning through moments like this: focusing only on provision can leave us without it. God doesn’t want us living off miracles alone—He invites us into the process. He gives seed, not finished fruit, assuming we’ll join Him in cultivating what will bear—through daily choices, consistent presence, and faithful labor. Just like in Genesis when He said, 'Be fruitful and multiply,' there’s a built-in expectation of our participation. If we only chase harvest, we miss the beauty of planting, pruning, and pulling weeds. Provision flows through process. It’s found in the field, not just in the prayer. And if we expect to receive without walking with, we’ll always feel like something’s missing—because what’s missing is us.

And while our gardens may look stationary, they are anything but still. Each garden is attached to a planet spinning at over 1,000 miles per hour, orbiting the sun at more than 66,000 miles per hour. We are part of a living, moving ecosystem that is constantly shifting—through heat, cold, rain, wind, drought, and flood. Seasons don’t ask how we feel about them. And neither does God. Our emotions may shift, but His discernment doesn’t. He’s not swayed by who’s enthusiastic in spring or discouraged in summer. He sees who keeps showing up. Who leans in when it’s uncomfortable. Who plants anyway. We’re not here for those hoping God will simply fix everything while they stay uninvolved. We’re here for the ones who are willing to press in—who know the heat only lasts a little while.

Jesus understood this. When the crowds left Him—when He stopped doing what they wanted—He turned to the few who remained and asked, "Will you leave too?" And when they didn’t fully understand the road ahead, He didn’t plead. He simply kept walking.

We’ve felt it in the garden. Days when no one shows up—just weeds. When the sun is relentless, the silence thick, and no one’s affirming what we’re doing. And yet, we remain. Not to prove a point, but because we’ve seen what happens when just one person keeps walking. One life changes. One heart softens. That’s enough. Because when one walks, others follow.

Jesus walked everything out for One—for His Father. And when we do the same, everything shifts. We stop performing. We stop enabling. We stop chasing people who don’t want to walk. We’re no longer fueled by praise or controlled by approval. Jesus wasn’t affirmed by man on the cross. He was betrayed by them. Still, He pressed on—not because of them, but because of the One who sent Him.

That’s the power of walking for One. It keeps us clear, obedient, and free. In the garden, we’re learning the same. We don’t chase fruit. We don’t chase people. We seek obedience. And in that obedience—whether with one person or many—we’ve seen it: Heaven moves.

And here’s the deeper correction that’s bringing us back into alignment: We’ve been operating under the belief that Jesus died for us. But Jesus didn’t die for us in the way we often assume. He died for His Father. "No one takes my life from me, but I lay it down… This charge I have received from my Father." (John 10:18) Yes, we benefit from the overflow of that obedience. But we were never the motivation.

And when we forget that, we start taking our cues from people. We overextend. We burn out. We play savior under the weight of a lie. But once we realize Jesus died for His Father, everything shifts. Now all our cues come from Him. Not from need. Not from guilt. Not even from potential. Just from the Father.

That’s what walking really means. And that’s why the garden doesn’t chase. It follows. It waits for who the Father sends. It plants where He points. It filters what He reveals. We’re not here to save people. We’re here to walk with the One who already has.

And here’s what’s no coincidence: The first two gardens we planted are on church properties. Not because we were looking for land. But because the Church, in these two places, was already hungry for something real. In fact, the Diocese recently awarded Emmanuel, our second garden site location, a Strategic Mission Grant, designed to support outposts for those who may never walk through traditional church doors. It’s not a grant rooted in metrics. It’s rooted in mission. And that support didn’t come with strings. It came with alignment. An acknowledgment that God often shows up outside the building. That His Spirit moves in gardens just as much as in sanctuaries. That the ground we walk on can become holy, not through ceremony, but through surrender.

Some people have asked: "Why Episcopal churches?" I didn’t always have a good answer. I had no affiliation. No family ties. No denominational agenda. The first location just happened to be two minutes from my house. We’d always had our eye on the land. It could’ve been Baptist. Methodist. Catholic. Pentecostal. Most churches in America have more than enough land. But this Diocese... it’s different. Over the past three years of walking with them, we’ve noticed something: There’s a hunger here that’s looking for a new way to be led. Not by programs or pressure, but by presence.

And we carry a tool—presence—that helps both parishioners and the local community recognize what God’s already cultivating. Because here’s the truth: we’re not bringing the Kingdom. We’re showing people how to see it. How to name what’s already been happening long before the project arrived. And how to steward it with care.

This partnership is proof that it’s possible. That denominations and church leaders can still choose to walk. That the Body of Christ can still recognize when Jesus is passing by in Spirit, even if He’s wearing muddy boots and pulling corn stalks. They aren’t just funding what they see. They’re joining the rhythm. Not to manage it. But to walk with it.

This is why we keep walking. Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s obvious. But because it’s faithful. Because the ground is groaning for something real. And because Jesus still walks in gardens.

So here’s what would take tremendous humility: For churches, leaders, and denominations of all kinds to admit—this next movement of God isn’t coming from the top down. It’s rising from the soil. From school gardens and backyard conversations. From tables and tears. From compost piles and Kingdom courage. From the slow work of walking with, not speaking at. It’s not about being seen. It’s about being present. To walk with someone means we might not control the story anymore. We might not be the expert. We might be the one who confesses first. And that’s where transformation begins. Because when our stories land in the middle of someone’s breaking point, they finally have permission to surrender too.

This is the deeper invitation—for every denomination, church, and leader still believing God is moving: walk. Not just talk about it. Not just strategize around it. But actually walk. We’re not here to renovate religion. We’re here to reveal the Kingdom. And the Kingdom walks. It weathers the heat. It embraces the slow. It filters for the faithful. And in that kind of soil—where things grow low, deep, and real—transformation is not just possible. It’s inevitable.